Murder Ballad Blues Read online

  “Well, you didn’t really know him when he was a full-fledged forger, did you? Maybe this is a different side of him.”

  “But even back in the day, he was known as a gentleman. Always polite to everyone, including the cops. This just isn’t like him. And he knows how much I need his help at the store, so I’d expect at least a phone message from the road.” She started biting her nails. “Something’s terribly wrong. I just know it.”

  Chapter 23: Abit

  I was surprised when I looked out my shop window and saw Wallis’ truck pulling up the drive. Shiloh was out there sanding a sideboard, and I heard him greet Wallis like an old friend. I stepped outside.

  “OYSTER SHUCKER, young Abit! You’re right about one thing—that Kona murder a few weeks ago was the spitting image of one more than a century ago.”

  Shiloh tsk-tsked us, making some comment about striving for peace before heading back inside the shop.

  “That’s just SHINOLA, Shiloh,” Wallis hollered at him. “We all want peace—not to mention peace of mind by doing something about these GOLLDAD murders!”

  I hadn’t ever seen Wallis so worked up, but he was speaking my mind for me. This was no time for looking the other way. “Wallis, thanks for coming by,” I said. His face was so red, I added, “Could I get you some iced tea?”

  “Might be a good idea,” he said, unbuttoning the top button on his shirt. He followed me into the kitchen, where Mollie was sleeping. Until she saw Wallis. She greeted him on her back legs with front paws on his chest. I was trying to shoo her away, but Wallis was chuckling. “That’s a fine dog you’ve got there,” he said. He gently lowered her and rubbed her behind her ears. She even trilled for him, something not many strangers got to hear.

  “Let’s go into the living room, and maybe she’ll settle down.”

  “I like her just fine,” he said as she trotted next to him, ready for the second act. Which was getting up on the sofa next to him. He stroked her in a way that told me he missed having a dog of his own. Eventually, she curled up with a sigh. He took a sip of his iced tea and gave out a sigh of his own. “I’ll have to tell Shiloh I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t bother yourself with that. He’s used to me calling him on his high-and-mighty ways. How do you two know each other?”

  “His sister used to date Keaton. I bet you didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t even know Shiloh had a sister. She musta been older.”

  “Yeah, big sister. She’d bring that young’un along on their dates because their family was just a bunch of no counts. He was a shy, sad little fella ....” He paused before adding, “and I reckon he still is.”

  We sat with that a while before I broke the silence. “Speaking of Keaton, where’s he been away at?”

  Wallis seemed to be off thinking about something from a different time. I cleared my throat the way you do in that kinda situation. “What?” he asked, then my words musta registered. “Oh, just off doing his thing. Which reminds me of your thing—you asked me to check out that Kona murder, and I finally did. Not that I needed much reminding, given how famous it is. I can’t believe you didn’t recognize the Frankie Silver ballad. That’s the one set in Kona.”

  Of course. Frankie Silver’d killed her husband because of jealousy since he was two-timing her, though others said he’d physically abused her. Either of those things could send someone over the edge, which is where she musta gone when she axed him, the same way that fellow died a few weeks ago. To save face, I said, “It was all the talk about Kona this and Kona that that confused me, and we don’t do a lot of murder ballads because our boy Conor plays fiddle with us most times.”

  Wallis took a long drink and finished his tea. I got up to get him more, but he waved me back down. “I asked round about you. Seems you’ve done good for yourself. People said your boy plays and sings almost as good as his mama. And I get it that you don’t want to sing them lyrics. Some of the more obscure ballads would turn your red hair white. There’s a reason why ballads like ‘River Bottom’ ain’t played much. GOB-BLASTED gruesome images and hateful words. And then there’s ...”

  Wallis was heading off track, and I needed to pull him back. “Do you suppose we could be looking for a woman killer, seeing as how the last victim was a man?” I asked.

  “Nah, and not because I don’t think a woman could do it. I’ve known some real hellcats who woulda taken an axe to me.” A smile creased his stubbly face, and he seemed lost in thought again.

  “Wallis?”

  “Oh yeah, er, no, if your theory holds up—and I’m not saying it does, yet—them other killings like ‘Knoxville Girl’ and ‘Omie Wise’ don’t seem like a lady’s doing.”

  I wanted to keep him talking so I brought up “Barbara Allen” again. I was sorry I did.

  “Like I told you before, that ‘Barbry Allen’ don’t fit the pattern at all. It was one of them broadside ballads, passed down and preserved through the oral tradition. That makes it hard to find an exact source—more than likely something from the Old Country some four centuries ago and then reworked and set in our land. So the fact that it ain’t a murder ballad, and there are so many versions, well, son, I hate to tell you, but that part of your theory is just SAND IN A SANDWICH.”

  Chapter 24: Abit

  “Show me where,” Conor shouted as he and Mollie ran round and round the campsite. Fiona had a rare weekend off, and we’d packed up our tent and supplies and headed over to Lake Meacham in Watauga County.

  For a couple of weeks, Fiona and I’d been talking about taking Conor somewhere nice after all that mess with Johnny Ray Meeks, not to mention our whispered talk about murders. We both knew he’d found a way to hear, and the lad just hadn’t been himself lately. With the murder threat waning, Fiona felt safe enough to spend some time in nature.

  We’d chosen to camp in the same place we’d spent our honeymoon. Conor always loved it there and never seemed to tire of the story about our wedding and our long weekend by the lake.

  I couldn’t imagine asking my parents about their honeymoon. Since they’d both passed, I’d never know if they’d even allowed themselves one. I doubted it. But we’d worked hard to give Conor a different life from how we both were raised. I knew he’d change over time, grow up, and have his own experiences with love and heartache, but at that moment, I just wanted to drink in his precious innocence.

  That evening, we played our music round the campfire, and folks nearby came over and asked if it was okay to join in. “That’d be grand,” Fiona said. “Music is for everyone.”

  She got up and gave her chair to an old woman. Conor scooted over on the log he was sitting on and got Mollie to behave herself. She settled next to the old woman, who stroked her while we played and sang.

  Around ten o’clock, I watched as everyone headed off to their own camps, happy after an evening of music. I shook my head, thinking how at first I’d thought they were coming over to tell us to pipe down and stop making such a racket.

  We woke early, like you do on a camping trip, and I made pancakes over the fire—smaller ones for Conor and even smaller for Mollie. We probably ate too many, but we had such a good time together. We slowly packed up (no one was ready to head home) and talked about what a good idea it was to get away.

  The next Saturday evening we had a gig that took us over to Wilkes County—a good ways east of Boone but west of Wilkesboro. Somebody had turned an old barn (were there any other kind round here?) into a music venue, and I was eager to hear how the acoustics sounded with all that weathered wood.

  When we pulled up, Marshall was standing next to a little boy who looked scared.

  “Got us a new band member?” I asked, as I unloaded our instruments.

  “Nah, just my boy, Vernon,” Marshall said. “His babysitter had to cancel.”

  That was the first we’d heard about a boy, but then Marshall kept to himself. Of course, I did too, so I just nodded and said, “Welcome, Vernon. Meet my boy, Conor.”

>   I saw Vernon’s little shoulders ease down and the beginnings of a smile when Conor went over and showed him his fiddle. Poor little fella. Musta been hard to be thrust into all the grownups and lights and general carrying on at a concert. “Conor, why don’t you show Vernon where the rest of the band is, and we’ll meet you over there in a minute.” I turned to tell Marshall that Vernon was welcome anytime, but he’d already gone off.

  Some other band played first, not so much as our warm-up act, though we liked to think of them thataway. When they broke into “Pretty Polly” (anothern of those murder ballads with a lively tune and awful lyrics), they played so good, I felt envy spike through me. I hoped Conor and Vernon weren’t catching the words, but I wasn’t too worried. They looked real happy hamboning it. The banjo player strummed a fine break before the whole band joined him for a big finish.

  We were all clapping and hollering for more. Except Marshall. “Hey, what’s the big deal?” he grumbled when they’d finished. “That wasn’t so great.”

  “Man, were you listening to the same band as me?” Owen asked. “I’d love to add ‘Pretty Polly’ to our repertoire. I really liked the sound of that one.”

  “It wasn’t only the playing that bothered me,” Marshall said. “The guy on vocals was just singing words. You need to sing it like you mean it.”

  I figured, like me, he was having a jealous fit. I’d known my share of envy, not only about music but earlier at school and later over girls. But I’d also come to see that just like there were lots of pretty girls—no one was really the prettiest or needed to be—there were lots of good bands. It didn’t feel right to pick on others. I walked away and grabbed my mandolin. “Honestly,” I said out loud, “band members are worse than kids on the playground.”

  “Who’re you talking to?” Fiona said, walking up, smiling. When I told her about the band and all, she said, “Oh, Rabbit, be fair. Marshall is the only one who always brings everything he’s got to his music.”

  Man, that pissed me off. Like I just toyed with my music. I hated it when she got like that. I blamed it on those psychology courses, making her all sensible, when sometimes, especially when you were all wound up, you just needed to spit it out to get it out of your system.

  I heard the emcee call out “... the Rollin’ Ramblers,” and tried to shake it off. Didn’t work. I hopped up on stage mad at everybody and everything.

  Funny thing, though. I played better than I had in weeks, that anger breathing fire into my hands. And when Fiona sang “Too Late to Cry,” I had to admit Marshall played the prettiest raindrops behind her.

  Chapter 25: Della

  I was in the newsroom when the call came in. Two-alarm fire. I said a prayer for the safety of our volunteer fire department. Those well-trained men and women were a lifeline for folks in rural communities like Laurel Falls.

  Jessie was throwing her notebook and recorder into her purse when she asked if I could drive her to the fire; she’d left her car for maintenance at Bill Davis’ garage. She added an apology for dragging me into this.

  You’ve got to be kidding, I wanted to say. I drove like a demon.

  When we got past Hanging Dog, heading toward Beaverdam, I could see the smoke rising in a cove to our right. I parked in a meadow just below the circle of fire trucks and rescue vehicles; we grabbed our notebooks and ran toward them. At the top of the hill, an old shack was mostly burned out, smoke and stink filling the air. The shack was so remote, they hadn’t bothered to cordon off the scene, so Jessie and I could walk right up.

  Jessie went off to do her reporterly thing, and I nosed around. I could see inside the shack where some charred ropes dangled from what remained of a chair. Not much else inside except three or four pieces of rusted-out—and now burned-out—farm equipment.

  After a while, the smell was getting to me, so I motioned to Jessie that I’d be in the Jeep. As I turned away, something apricot-colored caught my eye just outside the smoldering shack. I’m certain my heart stopped for a few beats. I stepped closer and clearly identified two distinct buttons. That and the general tailoring told me it had once been a waistcoat.

  Then I heard a loud, mournful sob. It wasn’t until Jessie asked if I were okay that I realized it had come from somewhere deep inside me. Just a few months ago that waistcoat announced Nigel’s arrival; now it might be signaling his death.

  Jessie put her arm around me when I asked if the firefighters had found any bodies in the shack. “No, honey, they didn’t,” she said in a comforting way. “Just a bunch of abandoned junk like they do around here. Can’t throw anything away in case it might be needed some day.”

  But that didn’t make me feel any better. Nigel was in trouble—or worse—and I didn’t know how to help.

  Chapter 26: Della

  When Jessie and I left the fire scene and drove back to the newsroom, I didn’t want to talk about Nigel, but I did confess about pulling her research from the trashcan and reading it. I waited for her to ream me out, but she said she was glad to have someone believe in her story after E.J. had shut her down. When I filled her in on the machinations of Johnny Ray Meeks and his gang, we bonded. Not quite Woodward and Bernstein, but a good team. No question in our minds that shack was one of the derelict properties involved in laundering lots of money.

  The arson inspector found accelerant along the foundation of the now-collapsed building. As part of the investigation, Sheriff Horne made impressions of two sets of footprints at the scene. I called Abit and asked him to bring a pair of shoes from Nigel’s abandoned belongings; Jessie and I delivered them to Horne. They matched one of the casts. I filled Horne in about Johnny Ray Meeks hounding Nigel (though I skirted his involvement best I could). Horne nodded with what felt like genuine interest as we explained about the money-laundering scheme Jessie had uncovered. I believed Horne had come to trust my judgment, especially after we’d worked on a case together a few years ago.

  I struggled with the reality that Nigel—a dear old man who had always been kind and gentlemanly with me and the oldest friend I had after Alex—was gone, either dead or in hiding. I recalled my talk with Myrtle Ledford about everything going swimmingly and felt even sadder. No wonder people were superstitious!

  Abit called every day to see if I’d heard from Nigel, and Alex came down from D.C. He planned to take a longer break than usual after filing several big stories about half of Congress trying to steal the people’s Social Security. He needed to get away from all that as much as I needed a break from real estate and fire. And, of course, he was worried about Nigel too.

  We took advantage of my day off—sunny for a change—and went for a long walk along the falls trail. As we hiked silently through the forest—even the birds were quiet, except for a pesky brace of crows—the natural calm settled our jangled nerves. Later, over coffee at a small café nearby, Alex tried to cheer me up with pleasant scenarios like Nigel was in the Caymans enjoying himself and his bounty. Or back in D.C. at Churchill Arms, hoisting a few with his mates. But Alex hadn’t seen the charred waistcoat.

  Late that afternoon, while Alex worked on his famed Tagliatelle Bolognese (though I didn’t have much of an appetite, even for something I usually begged him to make), I went downstairs to pick up the day’s mail. When I saw the unmistakable British scrawl on an envelope with no return address, my heart hammered while I struggled to open it. I turned the envelope over to make sure the postmark was after the fire and sat down on Abit’s bench outside the store to read.

  Dear Della,

  I’m deeply sorry to have worried you so—and spoiled our lovely time together. You and Abit are like family to me. Of course I love those with my bloodline, but the other kind—the family of choice—has an ineffable quality to it.

  I’m heading home—my real home in Blighty. Not the clever plan I’d hoped for, but it’s a good time to go back and see old friends. My grandson, Jason, who’s studying at Georgetown, will be living in my D.C. apartment, so all’s well there.

&nbs
p; Please extend my deepest apologies to Abit and his family. Jason has agreed to head down soon to clean out the room at Abit’s. I left enough of a mess, I don’t want to leave one at the guestroom they so generously shared with me.

  I’m sure you’re wondering what transpired at that dilapidated building and how I got there—and more importantly how I got out. I was kidnapped by that blighter, Johnny Ray Meeks, and oene of his mates. They’d tricked me into thinking we were going out to dinner to celebrate a successful swindle. I thought it was the end of my association with them, which is why I’d dressed up; it felt lovely to wear my suit and waistcoat again! But as the evening played out, it became apparent that in their minds we’d just begun.

  When I refused to continue (and I meant it this time!), they dragged me out to that miserable shack and tied me to a chair. As the flames began to lick at the walls, I figured I was a gonner. I started to cry as I thought of the wonderful people I’d never see again. With an instinctual gesture, I reached up to wipe my eyes and realized I wasn’t tied tightly. I prefer to think Meeks was just sending a message, trying to scare me. (He did!) I got the ropes off in the nick of time, took off my suit coat and waistcoat and used the latter to bat at the flames and make my escape. Needless to say, I have already called my tailor in London for replacements.

  Good news on the RICO front. I heard they caught the thug who’d hired me for that ill-fated forgery. (Aren’t they all, I now ask myself.) That means after things cool off a bit, I can make my return to D.C. (He won’t reveal my connection because that would just add another charge to what is already a sizable list.) Perhaps you will forgive an old fool and have a cuppa with me (or something stronger) when you come to visit Alex. I should be back in D.C. after Jason’s term ends next year.

  I miss all of you, but I’m sure you’ve had quite enough of me.