“Honestly, officer, we were going to call 911 as soon as the show was over,” said the young woman.
“We didn’t want the guests becoming alarmed,” said the man.
“The band was already playing. It was so loud.”
“Or rather, their drummer found him beforehand—”
“They were just starting. But whoever killed him must have been long gone by then.”
“I’m glad you were called. Enforcers. We weren’t sure what to do.”
“The body’s safe, we put it upstairs.”
“Truly sad this keeps happening at shows.”
The police officers stared down the young promoters, whose imploring silhouettes in the doorway of their punk house gave the impression more of middle-aged parents defending a vandal child than a hip marketing team trying to save their first big show.
“Body?” asked one of the cops. “We got a call about some stolen pumpkins.”
“Oh. Well yes, whoever did it took the band’s pumpkins too.” The girl must have noted the officer’s skeptical look, because she added, “It was their merch. Was it their drummer who called you? He saw the body. I think he was pretty spooked.”
The second officer responded, “Yeah, he said he was a drummer. I remember because I was thinking, ‘Why would I care that you’re a drummer?’”
“The show’s over,” the first officer told the couple. “Get the names of everyone here. Don’t let the band leave yet. I want to see them, about their … pumpkins. And this death.”
The young woman grumbled something at the order to shut down the party, but disappeared into the living room. The policewoman took their names from the young man and asked what he knew about the incident, which wasn’t much. He showed them the table where the body had been found, explained how they’d immediately carried it upstairs out of the way, and endured a brief and too-late lecture about tampering with a crime scene. The other officer pulled out a walkie-talkie and said some things into it about starting a murder investigation and so on.
“OK,” said the first officer. “Take us to the body.”
The man led them to the staircase, just as another couple skidded down it and tumbled out the door, their faces blank with terror.
“So, it appears they found it.” He gave a sheepish shrug. “But in our defence, it’s not great etiquette to hook up in random people’s rooms at a house concert, just saying …” The cops adjusted their expressions to a higher grade of Unimpressed and followed him upstairs.
The promoter found Jaymie wrapping the cord of his sustain pedal, effortlessly engaged in conversations with three different audience members at once.
“That’s our newest song, glad you liked it … Yes, that really is my last name … No, I don’t consider myself a nihilist—cool helmet, by the way …”
“Jaymie? Sorry, but the police want to talk to you. About the stolen pumpkins.” Seeing his expression at the word ‘police,’ she added, “I know, right?”
“Uh oh, cops! I believe it’s time to bail,” said Jaymie, misunderstanding most of the situation. He hastily fitted his synth into its case, then remembered an important detail. “Did we make anything at the door?”
“Over three hundred!” she trilled. “Thank you so much for playing. We’ll e-transfer you. The security answer will be ‘Bukowski.’ Sorry someone died at your show!”
“Such are the risks of living and of leaving the house,” said Jaymie, with an appropriate amount of noble wistfulness. “I’m sorry as well. Thank you for hosting.” He winked at her, and she blushed and moved away to clear out the guests.
Aaron was disassembling his drumkit and watching him in disbelief. Jaymie braced himself.
“Are you fucking crazy?” Aaron hissed. “There’s a dead body in the house, and you want to make a run for it? We just stole a shit-ton of pumpkins!”
“Stole? Our pumpkins are covered in Bukowski logos. They look nothing like the ones that poor man lost!”
“Jaymie!”
“Plus, our pumpkins have conveniently walked off. It sure bites to be at karma’s receiving end—I have new empathy for Garrett’s loss—”
“Jaymie, I swear to god—”
“OK, you’re right, it might look suspicious,” Jaymie conceded. “Well, I’ve talked my way out of tighter situations than this. I once had to convince a gorilla-like bouncer I was good friends with Burton Cummings, even though the age difference between us is significant—”
“Yes, and you met the whole fucking Guess Who—you told me fifty fucking times, Jay, so will you just fucking go and—”
“Hey! Guys!” Anika broke in. She’d been standing beside the PA for who knows how long. “Good show, as always. Did you rob Garrett? He says you robbed him. He called the cops.”
“Shit, he’s here? That’s just fucking perfect. Jaymie, you said he had a show!” Aaron was getting worked up again, and Jaymie sensed that it would be best for him and everyone in his vicinity if he were off the premises as soon as possible.
“Hey, Rex! Can you and Aar finish loading? I have to talk to some cops real quick.”
Rex and their friends had formed an animated bubble of after-show euphoria, which they dutifully steered back toward the stage. Rex directed Maggie and Red Toque in teamwork-maneuvering the bass amp through the living room door. Anika picked up Aaron’s cymbal bag and followed them out, muttering to Jaymie, “Good luck.”
With the performance complete, Jo had promptly packed up her Jaguar and gone to find the free drinks their host had mentioned. The “artful beverages” turned out to be a few mixed cases of craft beer on the floor of the back porch. Pleased, she bent to select one, then rose and gave a small start—a tall, broad-shouldered man had come in behind her. He immediately offered his hand.
“Great set! Sorry to startle you. You’re very skilled.”
“Thanks. Thank you.” She braced herself for the familiar tension of post-show encounters; she felt slow and scattered after playing, the hour of output having so depleted her social energy that only time or alcohol could replenish it. She twisted the cap off her beer.
“Did you used to play with the Ballet Llama? Eight or ten years ago?” the man asked, and Jo laughed in surprise.
“Yeah, when I was, like, eighteen. Wow, someone actually remembers that band?”
He grinned. “You guys were the best! My friends and I used to mosh at your shows. I barely remember it, honestly, but I know we had fun. Guess we were pretty drunk at the time.”
“Us too,” said Jo, trying not to sound too nostalgic.
“Yeah, I know. One show I remember, your bass player’s strap came off, and he was too messed up to get it back on—he ended up cross-legged on his amp like he was meditating!”
“Yup, sounds like Jake. He fell off near the end, right?”
“Yes! His leg fell asleep, I think. Played the last however many songs lying on his back on the floor!”
“Those were the days,” Jo deadpanned. She moved aside to let a costumed attendee leave through the back door.
“Nice suit—Daft Punk, right?” Lucas waved him out, then lowered his voice. “Whatever happened to that band? Dramatic breakup or something, right?”
If it was bait, Jo didn’t rise. “We’re in touch. Thought they might come tonight, actually,” she mused. “But yeah, drifted apart. Our singer, Michaud, got a government arts job—”
“Seriously? So much for ‘damn the man.’ That guy was wild—glad to hear he lived past twenty!”
“Yeah, he cleaned up. Most of them still play, but in more chill bands. Jake’s becoming a doctor or something. Got it out of his system, I guess.”
“But not you?”
“I think my thrashing days are done, at least.”
“This band suits you. You’d be wasted in punk.”
Jo examined the man. He had a nice face and a neat goatee. He wore smart-looking black-rimmed glasses and an unpretentious button-down shirt. He was taller than her, which she found appealing, though she reminded herself that height is no indicator of character, and it’s what’s on the inside etc. etc.
He must have noticed her checking him out, because he too looked down in consideration of himself, and then cleared his throat and gave an awkward laugh. Jo was used to awkwardness, since she herself, like many musicians, was frequently awkward. Musicians have a particular skill: whether conscious of it or not (and Jo was not) they are able to make any non-musician they engage with feel as though the awkwardness is somehow their own fault—that it is they and not the musician who is gracelessly floundering.
“Nothing wrong with power chords, of course!” said the man, recovering from being subjected to the full brunt of this phenomenon. “… I’m Lucas.”
“Jo. Do you play too?”
“No! No, I wish. Always wanted to be in a band, but I never had any rhythm. Actually, I write about live shows! I’d like to tell my readers about you guys, if that’s OK. All six of them.” He laughed. “They aren’t critical reviews, it’s all positive—not that I’d have anything negative to say! It’s about promoting the scene. We need more people out at shows these days.”
“Cool,” said Jo. “Get your six readers out here.”
“Maybe a few more than six.”
“The more the merrier.”
“Shows are more dangerous now, obviously. I guess this is the—what, the fourth or fifth death? I mean, of course you know that. But a lot of people want to keep coming. We want the music to keep happening.”
“We’ll keep the music happening, Lucas.”
“Good. It was nice talking to you, Jo.”
Jaymie was psyching himself up for a conversation with the police when Jo returned from the porch. She’d caught only the tail end of his and Anika’s conversation, and she pointed at the ceiling and raised her eyebrows.
“Yeah, cops’re up there.”
“I’ll come with you,” she said, probably guessing her more imposing presence would be a comfort in a confrontation, and likely forgetting about the little ears and little whiskers tempering that presence.
“Thank you,” said Jaymie.
“It’s about the pumpkins?” asked Rex, who lingered in the doorway, teetering between following their friends outside and staying to provide Jaymie with support/supervision.
He realized with some relief that Aaron hadn’t told Rex about the murder after all, and he decided to let them enjoy their performance high. “Yep, the pumpkins,” he confirmed. “Don’t even worry about it.”
Rex nodded and looked around the room. “Sure cleared out fast in here.”
The organizer had successfully dispersed the audience by telling them that Noble Pirogue, an illustrious and beloved local band, were playing a surprise show at a bar on Portage Avenue. By the time someone discredited the rumour, the party attendees would have spent fifteen minutes retrieving their footwear from the shoe-eating vortex of the front entrance and would likely go find somewhere else to drink.
Jaymie and Jo climbed the stairs, then hesitated in the hallway a few paces behind the police officers, unsure whether to announce themselves or wait to be called upon. Ahead of them, the promoter led the cops to the bedroom, stepped inside, and turned on a dim lamp on a bookcase, revealing the contents of the room.
The body had disappeared. Or rather, it had transformed. Surrounding the mattress in a neat semi-circle, the twenty-four pumpkins that remained intact stood keeping vigil. The other twelve had been eviscerated, their exoskeletons broken and reduced to blunt shards. The remains had been formed into the shape of a man, his body built from curved pumpkin slices, his lacerated vegetable flesh glinting in the low light. Barely contained within the fragments were the disgorged innards of the pumpkins, like fresh entrails leaking from countless wounds. The carcass rested on a bedsheet shiny with seed-laden juices, its faceless pumpkin head propped on the wet pillow, leaking stringy orange brains.
Jo stood transfixed in horror, while Jaymie backed away. As he retreated, he bumped into Garrett and yelped in surprise. Garrett, who had followed them upstairs to officially accuse them of the theft, took one look at the grisly scene and fled wordlessly back down the staircase.
“We have definitely not seen these pumpkins before,” said Jaymie. “Never in our lives.”
Bukowski's broken family band 
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