Murder Ballad Blues Page 2
Chapter 2: Della
My day started deceptively like every other—coffee, shower, breakfast before heading down the steps to my store, Coburn’s General Store.
I’d gotten a reputation for complaining about the store, but really, that was no more than the usual grumblings about any workaday job. I was actually quite fond of the old place (established 1910, or so the sign over the door said).
When I’d bought it in 1984 from Abit Bradshaw’s father, the store and apartment above it were in shambles. All these years later, I still marveled at the transformation. Everything I’d ever learned, crafted, or enjoyed doing showed up somewhere in the renovated spaces. I had the kitchen I’d always wanted with a window framing an ocean of mountain peaks stretching toward the distant horizon. The sunsets still dazzled me.
And I still got a kick out of ordering new items for the store shelves. Some sold well, others were losers, but even the worst-case scenario wasn’t bad—I got to eat my mistakes, literally. Over the years, I’d had to find new suppliers when they quit, gave up, or moved on. Even a year later, customers still complained about missing the preserves and pickles from my old friend Cleva Hall.
At 88, Cleva was long retired from being a school principal and recently retired from the hard work of putting food by. “Why would I go to all that trouble anymore?” she’d asked the last time I tried to order jams and piccalilli, her mood uncharacteristically dark that day.
For the most part, though, she was the happy, true friend I’d valued for more than twenty years. I didn’t see her as much since she’d moved to Boone to live with her favorite niece, but we made a point of having lunch together a couple of times a month. And I enjoyed getting over to the “big city” of Boone.
I closed my apartment door and headed downstairs, trying not to spill my coffee. As I reached the bottom step, I saw something in my Jeep that wasn’t there the evening before. Through the windshield I could see a man asleep in the backseat. We didn’t lock up much in Laurel Falls. Oh sure, I secured the store every evening, but cars and homes seemed safe enough without the encumbrance of keys.
It was way too early for a confrontation of any kind. I figured whoever it was would wake up and leave of his own accord once the sun turned the Jeep into a sauna. When I turned toward the front door, though, something caught my eye. An apricot-colored waistcoat, which at that moment began rising to a sitting position.
“Hello, hello, hello,” said Nigel Steadman, rubbing his eyes like a toddler. “I didn’t want to disturb you when I got in so late last night. You know how those trains and buses to Timbuktu are.”
“Yes, I do know all about that. What I don’t know is why you were on one. And wait a minute. There aren’t any buses to Laurel Falls that time of night.”
“I did have to resort to a bit of hitchhiking,” Nigel said, faking a chuckle. He looked forlorn as he brushed imaginary lint off his shirt in a vain effort to neaten his appearance.
“Well, I’m glad you got here safely, but why were you sleeping in my car? You should have come up and stretched out on the couch. You know I leave the door unlocked—and you’re always welcome.”
Nigel and I went way back to my crime reporter days in D.C. A British subject, he came to America to ply his trade—forgery, something he was extremely good at. I’d interviewed him when I was working on a story about the shady dealings of some other criminals, and he’d provided invaluable, hard-to-find background. I earned kudos for that series, and I’d been grateful to Nigel ever since. In the process, something clicked between us, and we’d stayed in touch.
“I’m sure you’re right, my dear, but I didn’t want to be a bother.” As he extricated himself from the Jeep, he tugged on his waistcoat and tried to press the wrinkles out of his suit. He ran his fingers through his silvery hair, but he still looked bedraggled.
“Never mind all that,” I said as I grabbed him into a hug. “Good to see you, for whatever reason.”
When he broke the embrace, we both stood there, self-consciously at a loss for words. I was still in shock. I’d never seen Nigel quite so nonplussed—and unkempt. He had the beginnings of a beard, and he’d lost his usual sartorial splendor somewhere en route. “Now I know how you got here, but that doesn’t explain why you’re here.”
Before I finished that thought, I knew. Nigel, who’d turned over a new leaf when the feds offered him the choice of jail or working for the Treasury Department, had turned that leaf over again.
And he knew I knew. He looked anywhere but at me—at his dusty wingtips, the missing button on his waistcoat, even the mailbox out front of the store. Eventually I cleared my throat and plowed ahead. “Come on, Nigel, I don’t think it was my winning personality that made you hop on a train to Laurel Falls.”
As his hands scoured his stubbly face, he looked so unsettled, I changed my tack. “Hold on. Let’s go upstairs and get you some breakfast and a shower. When you’re ready, come down to the store, and we’ll talk.” He nodded and started for the steps. “Wait a minute. Where’s your suitcase?”
“Er, I didn’t have time to pack.”
Chapter 3: Abit
“Rabbit, there’s a man coming up the drive.”
Fiona was funny about strangers arriving unannounced at our farm. She was as friendly a person as I’d ever met, but she was a protective mama bear when it came to her family, especially when Conor was home. I swear if the postman came up to the house every day, instead of leaving our mail in our box down at the road, she’d still call out, “Rabbit, there’s a man coming up the drive.”
I wasn’t worried. This guy looked old and kinda stooped over. We had our share of folks coming round, needing a place to settle for an evening or two. I’d’ve let them stay in our guestroom, the one I’d built at the west end of our barn; sometimes Fiona and Conor and I went out there just for fun, like we were on vacation. But Fiona said she didn’t want the drifters to get too comfortable. Instead, I’d found an old bed frame left in the barn by the last owners and put an inexpensive but new mattress on it. That plus a few blankets and a pillow served them better than most.
When I was growing up, our barn had what was called hobo signs marked on it, the way they did when Daddy was a boy, letting fellow travelers know if it was a good place or a mean one. Kinda like AAA does now for motels. It was my hope we’d get good signs, if travelers still did that kinda thing.
We were seeing more drifters. It’d always been tough making a living in these parts, but now folks all over the country were feeling the pinch of hard times. I had trouble understanding that, given how rich our country was, but that seemed to be the way of the world. All these so-called Christians talking about pulling themselves up by their bootstraps, when they knew good and well they’d had plenty of help along the way. I had to wonder what they were daydreaming about every Sunday when the preacher read from the Bible how Jesus wanted us to help those in need. Mama made me go to her church, and while I never took to their notions of no dancing, no music, no being different, now and again something would strike me deep down and stick with me.
I figured Christianity was a fine plan, if only people would practice it. Like trying to look out for one anothern, especially the little children and those who didn’t have much. I worked at living thataway, though I failed plenty of times, like when I’d get pissed at somebody for nothing that really mattered or forget to do what I’d promised Conor. But my life was better for trying.
I went to greet the old man, and Conor came running outta the house to follow me. I watched over my shoulder for Fiona. She’d’ve called him back in if she’d seen us, but I figured the boy needed to be round different kinds of people. Besides, we’d never had a lick of trouble from the drifters. Maybe because of an evening Fiona always packed an aluminum pie tin full of chicken and beans and cornbread and sent me out with it.
“Can I help you?” I asked, Conor hanging on to my overalls.
“Anywhere a man could bed down?” he asked, his voice
gravely and tired.
“We do, for a night or two. Let me show you.” We went to the back of the barn, and he seemed pleased at the humble setup.
“Hi,” Conor said, looking round my leg.
The man’s face broke into a big smile, and he wiggled his fingers at Conor, who wiggled his back. I realized then the man was younger than I’d thought from a distance. I mentioned we’d rustle up some supper for him, and I swear his bloodshot eyes got wet. We excused ourselves ‘til suppertime.
He ended up staying two nights. On the third morning, I headed out before breakfast to ask him to move on, but he was already gone, the bedding folded neatly. I noticed something atop the pile of blankets. A harmonica. At first I thought he’d accidentally left it behind, but then I knew it was for Conor. His way of saying thanks.
I didn’t show it to Fiona ‘til I’d scrubbed it good. She’d’ve had me soak it in bleach or boiling water. (Not really—she was a fine musician and wouldn’t do that to an instrument.) When she came in asking me what I was doing, I held up the harmonica and told her about the man leaving it for Conor. She smiled. I knew she was thinking the same as me, that someone with practically nothing had given our boy a gift, a kindness not to be overlooked.
By the time I finally got over to my woodshop, the morning was shot. I started banging round, trying to hurry things. Deadlines always made me nervous, at least when they got close.
“Chill, man.”
That would be Shiloh, aka Bob Greene, a man (more like a growed-up boy) who helped me three days a week in the shop. We’d met at The Hicks, where he learned to make the finest dovetail joints and finish furniture with a patience I didn’t have. More recently, he’d perfected three-way miter joints that made our furniture prettier than ever.
We’d worked together five or six year, and he had this uncanny way of knowing what was going through my head—though at that moment I hoped he couldn’t pick up on me thinking what a jerk he could be sometimes. All ashram this and guru that. Over the years, I’d come to realize he was Mr. Enlightenment as long as it had nothing to do with his life.
I carried on like that, railing in my head about everything I could think of that wasn’t going right: Shiloh, money, and murder at the top of the list. Then I saw Mollie in the corner of my eye. She liked to hang out with me in my shop and somehow never got underfoot, though she did catch her share of sawdust. Late in the day, when we’d head for the house, she’d comb her wiry black-and-white fur—that shaking all over dogs do—and a cloud of dust would rise up and blow away in the breeze. Just looking at our calm, trusting dog made all my petty thoughts fly off, not unlike that sawdust.
Besides, I felt lucky I’d found a way to earn a living I loved, and Shiloh helped make that happen. Money was tight sometimes, but we managed. Not sure why he got under my skin so that day, except maybe his patchouli was on extra thick. Or maybe it was all the commotion about that murder. Whatever, I had a case of the grumps, and Shiloh was right. I did need to chill.
A little later, when we were talking over how best to inset a piece of marquetry in a sideboard, the phone rang. For oncet it was good news.
Chapter 4: Della
I called Abit to tell him his old buddy was back in town. Then I brought out the percolator and sat down in a rocker across from Nigel. We drank our coffee in silence, until he felt ready to explain what was going on. “I believe I told you the Treasury Department made me retire a few months ago,” he offered as an opener.
“Yeah, you did, and I figured it was about time. I knew lots of folks who had to retire well before the age you are now.”
“Ah, yes, don’t remind me. I am well past mandated retirement, but they’d kept me on because, well, I’m so good at what I do.” He paused, then added, “Now don’t give me that raised-eyebrow look. I’m not bragging, it’s true.”
“I know it’s true—but it’s also true those talents got you in a load of trouble in the past. What’s the story this time?”
“I’m getting to that.” Nigel got up, brushing crumbs from his rumpled suit, though he’d managed to iron it upstairs and look somewhat presentable after a hot shower and close shave. He walked to the back and helped himself to more coffee. He drank tea in the afternoons, but for his elevenses he preferred coffee. When he sat back down, he continued. “Some bureaucrat declared I was too old to work there. As if crime—and outsmarting it—knows time.”
“Okay, but I haven’t heard anything that would necessitate your skipping town in the middle of the night.”
“It wasn’t the middle of the night. You know that train schedule better than I. I got here, Timbuktu, in the middle of the night.” I nodded, conceding that volley, then gestured for him to go on. “So back to D.C. You know me. I’m not used to sitting around doing nothing, and I was feeling, well, all sixes and sevens.”
“That has a financial ring to it.”
He managed a wan smile. “Yes, I felt restless, and of course that led to itchy fingers. That’s the only reason. I don’t need the money. I was just bored.”
“Oh, Nigel. What have you gotten yourself into?” Years ago I’d made a vow to stop sticking my nose in other people’s business. I’d had varying degrees of success with that, but in this case, Nigel had dumped this unholy mess in my lap.
His face flushed. “A bit of bother, I’m afraid. Seems the man I was doing forgery for wasn’t some hapless bloke, but rather a gangster of what I’ve only recently learned is considerable ill repute. RICO, if you catch my drift. And to make matters worse, the feds think I’m the man RICO paid me to forge the signatures of. Oh, it’s all very complicated, and quite unforeseeable, but needless to say, I couldn’t stay in D.C. And I had nowhere else to go. My daughter and her children moved to New York recently, but that turned into a blessing. Thank heavens they’re not close by in case RICO or the feds come looking and ...”
“Oh great,” I interrupted. “So instead they follow you down here to us!”
“Now, now, of course not, my dear. The feds aren’t looking for Nigel Steadman—they don’t realize it’s a forgery because I did such a good job signing for Rodney Highsmith.” He looked so pleased with his abilities, I felt like growling at him. He hurried ahead with a somewhat plausible explanation. “They’re looking for Highsmith, and no one—RICO, Highsmith, the feds—have any idea where I am. This is the last place any of them would look. And I’m good about covering my tracks. I forged a few documents so this boyo I know could take a long trip to Mexico—as Highsmith. It’s just a red herring, but it will throw them off track for some precious weeks. He’s still down there on a beach somewhere with enough money to travel before returning home to his real life as Michael Monahan.”
I wasn’t consoled. “One crime begets three or four. Isn’t this how you got caught before?”
“Let’s not get into all that past history.”
“What other kind is there?”
He looked flummoxed. “I’m sorry, my dear. What is your question?” He turned his hand flamboyantly like Pavarotti singing La donna è mobile.
“There’s only one kind of history, Nigel. Past. Which is what your penchant for forgery should have been. Quit stalling—and don’t you dare wave your hand at me again, dismissing me as though I were just being silly. I wish I were.”
Just then the bell over the door rang.
Chapter 5: Nigel
Luckily, some customers came in and saved me from Della’s grilling. She let it go, at least for a time, and introduced me as her friend from Washington, D.C. We all nodded and smiled at each other in that polite, if somewhat awkward, social custom in the States. Rather a sweet gesture on Della’s part, as though I were a visiting dignitary from the nation’s capital. Unfortunately, I knew there wasn’t a speck of dignity about what brought me to Laurel Falls.
An older woman grabbed my arm rather brusquely and walked me over to the cheese counter. “What is your favorite English cheese, Mr. Steadman?” she asked. I quickly determined that De
lla didn’t stock Stilton, and since I didn’t want to diminish her offerings, I lied and said Wensleydale, which sat foremost in the case. It’s a fine cheese, just not my personal favorite. But that woman wasn’t really cheese shopping, was she?
Within minutes another customer butted in to ask me about tea and scones and everything British with the urgency of someone expecting the Queen to arrive any minute for tea. I’d lived in America almost as long as ole Blighty, but I played along. Anything to avoid Della’s probing, reporterly questions.
A third woman (Della later informed me she was one of the posh second-home customers) cornered me about England, inquiring where she should visit on her trip later that summer. She actually drew herself so close to me, I worried she might lay a hit and miss*on me.
After that flurry of customers, I managed to avoid telling Della anything more about my troubles for the rest of the day. I assumed it would all come out in the days ahead.
It did. Just not the way anyone wanted.
* Cockney rhyming slang for kiss. See glossary in the back for more words and definitions.
Chapter 6: Abit
We had anothern.
This killing came a coupla months after the first one, only this time the victim was a man, killed with an ax. I dreaded Fiona finding out where it happened—only thirty mile west of here in Kona, N.C. She’d say it was a dark cloud of menace drifting dangerously close to our home.
And sure enough, she was beside herself after a long drive home from the hospital, no doubt fear riding shotgun the whole way. Not that Fiona was a flibbertigibbet. Far from it. But like I’d said, she was a mama bear about her family, and our well-being moved her deeper than most.