Cold Tears

by AR Simmons

  Richard dropped Jill off to browse the shops and restaurants downtown while he drove up the steep winding street to the show places along the highway. Peele’s Old Time Opry was an auditorium housed in a large frame building with a false front reminiscent of buildings facing “Front Street” in cinematic versions of the old west. It was an odd mixture of down-home quaint and theme park, having little in common with the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville that most people called “The Grand Ole Opry.” Ramps herded paying customers efficiently to the turnstiles.

  No one was in sight when he arrived, and he wondered how he would get in. Feeling like a fool for not having thought of that difficulty earlier, he tried the door. To his surprise, it was unlocked. In the deserted lobby were displays of hillbilly kitsch memorabilia, which he imagined were made in the hills—the hills of China. He hung a right past the vacant cash register and met a girl coming out of the auditorium.

  “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m looking for Jerry and Doris Chandler.”

  “Back that way,” she said without slowing.

  He went into the auditorium. The lights were up, but the place was empty save for a man in his early thirties sitting on the edge of the stage with a bundle of wires and coaxial cables lying tangled in his lap. He threw Richard a quick glance before returning his attention to the cables.

  “Excuse me,” said Richard. “The girl outside said that Doris and Jerry Chandler were in here?”

  “Back there,” he said, gesturing with a pair of needle-nose pliers toward a door to the left of the stage.

  The door was labeled “Employees Only.”

  His tentative knock was answered by a man in denim overalls and red flannel shirt with a blue bandana knotted loosely about his neck like an off-center bib. The music show motley clashed with Jerry Chandler’s elaborately styled hair.

  “I see you made it, Mister … I’m sorry,” he said. “All I remember is that you’re Molly’s friend.”

  “Richard Carter. Sorry to bother you, but I’d like to talk with you if you’re not too busy.”

  He expected the man to beg off.

  “Not at all,” said Chandler with surprising compliance. “We just finished rehearsing a new number. I don’t have anything to do until five. That’s when we start getting it together for the first show. Are you staying?”

  “I don’t know if we’ll have time. It’s a long way back, and my wife has to work in the morning.”

  “I’m not sure what I can tell you, but fire away.”

  •••

  Jerry Chandler claimed not to know any of Katie Nash’s acquaintances, but he left the distinct impression that he didn’t approve of Molly. Doris Chandler came out while they were talking, and proved more expansive, if not more enlightening.

  “My sister didn’t have any enemies,” she said. “I don’t think it was anyone who knew her that did … those awful things to her. It had to be some stranger who broke in.”

  It was the first Richard had heard of the house being broken into.

  “I don’t suppose you could give me a list of her friends, clients, or anyone else who she might have associated with?”

  “So you do think it was someone who knew her?”

  “It almost always is, ma’am,” he said. “In any event, that’s where we have to start.”

  She frowned as if something had just occurred to her. “You’re working for Molly, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “That means you think that whoever killed Katie …” her voice threatened to crack, but she composed herself. “You think it had something to do with the baby?”

  “We don’t know.”

  “You do think so. You’re wrong, Mr. Carter. Katie didn’t know who took the baby. If she had seen anyone or anything suspicious, she would have told the police. She was very protective of children, but especially of Mancie.”

  “I’m not at the point of even considering a theory,” he said. “I’m just gathering information, like who her acquaintances were.”

  “There aren’t many. I gave them to the policeman.” she hesitated. “I suppose giving them to a private investigator won’t hurt anything. Besides, if you’re looking for whoever took the baby, you might find something that will help the police catch the man who killed my sister.”

  Richard didn’t correct her mistaken assumption.

  “They took her address book—the police, I mean,” she said. “Katie was a meticulous person. Everyone she knew was in it, along with birthdays and anniversaries. She always sent cards.”

  “To family and friends?”

  “And her clients too, the children and the elderly.”

  Adams wouldn’t let him see the address book.

  “That could be evidence, so I won’t have access to it any time soon,” he said, taking a small pad from his shirt pocket. “So if you would, maybe you could write down the ones you remember.”

  “I only know the names of a few clients, the ones she talked about.”

  Doris was writing when a tall, once thin man wearing an expensively tailored suit and professionally smoothed face came into the room.

  “Signing autographs, Doris?” he asked, his voice light, but with a hint of censure.

  “Oh, no Mr. Peele. This man is an investigator. He came to ask me about Katie.”

  “Terrible tragedy,” said Peele, turning penetrating eyes to Richard’s face. “I hope you find whoever did that terrible thing.”

  “I hope the police do,” said Richard. “I’m actually working for one of Katie Nash’s former clients. Her baby is missing. Mrs. Chandler is giving me a list of names to help with my investigation.”

  “You’re a private investigator then?”

  “Yes sir.”

  Peele seemed either satisfied with Richard’s explanation or disinterested. He turned his attention back to the Chandlers.

  “That number had a few rough spots. Get the others together and run through it again. It’s not ready for the show yet.”

  “Okay, Mr. Peele,” said Jerry.

  “Get it right,” he warned. “I’ll be in the audience tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Peele left without further word, having swooped down from on high to set things right, he now departed to affairs not the ken of his minions.

  “Impressed?” asked Jerry Chandler.

  “Jerry!” said Doris, looking fearfully at the door through with Peele had disappeared.

  “It was an innocent question, dear. I’d like to know what kind of impression our legendary boss made on Mr. Carter.”

  “He seems … on top of things,” said Richard.

  “He’s a control freak,” said Jerry Chandler, bringing another wince from his wife.

  She looked fearfully at the door again.

  “He’s a good boss, though,” said Jerry. “I mean he pays well. He’s just a perfectionist, especially with his flagship business. He built the Opry back when he and his family were still performing. How old do you think he is?”

  “Sixty?”

  Richard was guessing on the high side. Peele had obviously undergone a facelift.

  “Add ten years,” said Chandler with a laugh. “He opened this place when Branson was just an annex of Silver Dollar City. Later, he built another theater over there on the strip and began buying up land along the highway leading out to the City. The guy anticipated everybody, made a fortune, and he’s still got every penny.”

  “Sounds like a sharp guy.”

  “Yeah. The only person to ever get the best of him is my brother.”

  “Jerry!” warned his wife again.

  “Everybody knows about Lyla, Doris.”

  Chandler turned to Richard.

  “You see my brother had big ideas about being an agent. He had this girl who was a fair singer, but had no stage presence. He brings her down here for an audition. The old man does all that personally. Well, she was up here on the stage, and she was a looker and nailed all the notes, but there’
s no personality in her voice—plus she’s got no volume. So I figure the old man will give her a ‘thanks-but-no-thanks,’ which he did—at least as far as the show was concerned.”

  Jerry Chandler paused a moment to set up the conclusion to his story.

  “Now she owns half of everything he’s got,” he finished with a grin.

  “He married her?”

  “Two years of bliss. They’re in the middle of a divorce right now. Only time the old man ever got burned, but she’s gonna torch him good unless his lawyers can find a way out. She stayed with him just long enough to catch a real break.”

  Richard wasn’t really interested in the soap opera, but Chandler was intent on finishing. Perhaps it was his way of striking back at an overbearing boss.

  “The old man sold a bunch of his land and reinvested the profit. She’s claiming half of it—which is a big chunk, because he supposedly made the money while they were married. He’s got about a handful of other ex’s he’s retired and put out to pasture, but Lyla’s holding out for the golden parachute.”

  “Did you have anything to do with her getting the audition?” asked Richard.

  Chandler grinned wryly. “I helped set it up as a favor to my brother. When they got married, I was the fair-haired boy. Now I’m not sure what my standing is.”

  “He catches you talking about him, you’ll get us fired,” said Doris in irritation.

  “He won’t fire us,” he assured her, before turning back to Richard again.

  “The boss never lets personal matters influence his business decisions.”

  “Except for marrying his last wife,” said Richard.

  “But he never let his ‘Honeybunch’ get onstage which is probably the reason she’s divorcing him. She’s not a gold-digger.”

  “Of course she is,” objected Doris.

  “I don’t think so,” insisted Jerry. “She married him hoping to jumpstart a career. But the old man protects the show like it’s his virgin daughter. No way was he going to let that airy-voiced amateur take the stage. Say what you want to about Mr. Peele; with him, the show comes first.”

  “As they say,” said Chandler raising his voice in a nasal twang, “Dance with the one what brung ya.”

  “Mr. Peele is very professional,” said Doris. “Have you ever seen the show, Mr. Carter?”

  “This is my first visit to Eureka Springs.”

  “You should see it tonight.”

  “I’d like to, but my wife and I have to get back to James Mill.”

  “I’d give y’all complimentary tickets except the old man frowns on reducing the gate,” said Jerry Chandler.

  •••

  Richard found Jill at the restaurant where they had agreed to meet. He waved away a waitress hovering near.

  “Ready to go back?” asked Jill.

  “Unless you want to stick around for the show. The Chandlers speak highly of it.”

  “No thanks,” said Jill, pulling a face. “I have no taste for hillbilly exploitation, even if it is native exploitation.”

  “A little premature in your judgment there, aren’t you, little lady,” came a mild, baritone voice from the next booth.

  Richard closed his eyes in embarrassment as he recognized it. The man got up and came around the divider, smiling tolerantly. “That remark of yours is what I get for eavesdropping,” said the man. “I’ve already met your husband. Let me introduce myself. I’m Rennie Peele.”

  Jill looked at Richard in puzzlement. “Of the … music show?” she stuttered.

  “This is my wife, Jill, Mr. Peele,” said Richard awkwardly.

  “I’m sorry to be so rude as to intrude upon your privacy Mrs. Carter,” said Peele, nodding politely. “I often do … I guess you would call it, informal research like this. I like to know what people think of the show.”

  “I’m sorry if I said something to upset you,” said Jill pointedly. “I thought I was speaking only to my husband.”

  “Of course,” said Peele. “You haven’t actually seen the show, have you?”

  “We haven’t had the pleasure.”

  “Well, it may not be quite what you imagine. It’s a wholesome mixture of gospel and blue grass music, folklore, homespun humor, and patriotism—it’s family oriented … and I don’t think it’s all that exploitive.”

  Peele pulled a thin, oblong wallet from inside his jacket and took out two tickets.

  “It would be a favor to me if the two of you could attend tonight. Please accept these in token of apology for my rudeness. Oh, those are good for the entire season if you can’t make it tonight.”

  Jill took the extended tickets. “That’s very gracious. I’m sure we can find time to attend, but probably not tonight.”

  “Well, like I said, they’re good for all season. If not tonight, December might be a good time. We have a Christmas special starting the tenth.”

  As Peele left, Richard leaned over.

  “Don’t I feel like wallpaper?” he said softly.

  “What?” asked Jill.

  “He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”

  “He was just being polite.”

  “Yeah. So far he’s been polite to half a dozen ex-wives.”

  “I don’t intend to be anyone’s ex-wife.”

  He laid enough money on the table to cover the tab plus a moderate tip.

  “Let’s stay for the show,” said Jill when they got to the car.

  “It’ll put us back awfully late,” he said. “Are you sure?”

  “I’ll sleep on the trip back.”

  •••

  The show was a blend of songs and comedy skits, which, as advertised, ran the gamut from gospel, to blue grass, to patriotic, including a rendition of the national anthem. The audience, predominantly Midwestern working class, and uniformly white, enjoyed the slightly hokey, but polished two-hour extravaganza.

  “So what did you think,” asked Richard on the way out of town.

  “It was better than I expected. The performers were talented, and it definitely was family oriented and patriotic.”

  “The comedy was kind of crude though.”

  “I would say ‘simple’ instead of crude,” said Jill. “But remember there were children in the audience. The silliness was for their benefit, I think. Thank you for staying. I enjoyed it.”

  “Well, it wasn’t a rock concert, but it did have its charm.”

  “You need to tell Mr. Peele how much we appreciated the show and thank him again for the complimentary tickets.”

  Richard wondered why he hadn’t been given the tickets at the theater. Then he remembered that Jill hadn’t been with him.

  The old man still has an eye for women.

  •••

  September 13

  Ira McVey, an elderly semi-invalid for whom Katie had done once-a-week housecleaning, was sensibly leery of admitting a stranger into his home. He listened skeptically from behind the screen door as Richard explained about the missing baby. At the mention of Mancie’s disappearance, the old man unlatched the door to let him in. McVey seemed sharp, but could tell him little. Katie had come to clean for him on Wednesday as scheduled, just four days before her death. He noticed nothing unusual in her behavior.

  Back at the car, Richard read the addresses of the remaining two names Doris Chandler had given him. One was out in the county. It could wait.

  No one turning from Main onto Cedar could miss the daycare center. Multicolored plastic constructions littered a pea gravel playground surrounded by a sturdy six-foot high chain-link fence. The house, a white vinyl-sided ranch, sported an eight-by-eight gaily painted sign proclaiming “Tots-N-Friends.”“Daycare,” proclaimed the subtitle in case one missed the obvious. He parked on a new concrete slab added to the parking lot, and went to the door, trying not to limp on his stiff ankle.

  A woman with loose strands of hair and a questioning expression met him at the door. She carried an inquisitive blue-eyed baby with intelligent eyes and a profusely
running nose.

  “We aren’t taking any more children just yet,” she said apologetically. “I can give you the names of two other places that are pretty good.”

  “I don’t have any children,” said Richard.

  “Oh?”

  “I’m sorry. It looks pretty hectic. My name is Richard Carter. I just came to ask if you could tell me about Katie Nash.”

  A child’s cry pulled her attention away. “Marla,” she called. “Johnny needs your attention.”

  A muffled reply seemed to satisfy her, and she returned her attention to Richard.

  “I’m sorry. It is kind of hectic today, but it’s always hectic.” she bent to grab a Kleenex from a table by the door and gently mopped the flinching child’s nose.

  “You were asking about Katie?”

  “Yes. She worked here sometimes?”

  “Whenever I had sick little ones that couldn’t stay with momma or family—like today. I could sure use her. She was really good in the sick room. There’s something going around right now. I don’t know who I’m going to get to help. No one like her—that’s for sure.”

  “That’s a good boy, Joshua,” she said as she finished with the baby. “Pardon me if I don’t shake hands. It’s standard procedure not to touch another person when you’re working with a sick little one. I’m Carol Oats. And you’re with the police?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m just asking about Katie because I’m trying to help a … friend of mine, Molly Randolph, find out what happened to her baby. You remember the little girl that disappeared?”

  “I see,” she said, suddenly on guard. “Could you show me some identification?”

  “I told you I wasn’t with the police.”

  “I still need to know who you are. By the way, there’s a surveillance camera that gets all license plates in our lot. And we have surveillance in here too.”

  Richard took out his wallet and showed her his driver’s license. “That little girl never stayed here,” she said, looking up with a frown. “Why are you asking about Katie?”

  “We don’t think she had anything to do with the disappearance.”