I began to sing. I could almost see Marigold sitting cross-legged beside the sleeping squirrels, laughing at me “About time! I was starting to think you’d end up back in Jersey seething with frustration because you wimped out on me Now, do it. Sing it as a solo and do it for me. Record it so we’ll both be remembered. I’m proud of you. I’m glad you’re back where you belong.”
I blinked. The vision vanished. The rain had stopped. The squirrel I’d named Frankie was now awake and nodding as though he was enjoying my impromptu concert.
“Back where you belong.” Where had the phrase come from? Why was I projecting Marigold’s thoughts in her own distinctive voice?
I turned my attention back to the paper in my lap, scribbling notes as quickly as I could, not wanting to lose this melody. But I couldn’t shake the feeling human eyes were watching me. I shivered. I’d never been claustrophobic but now it seemed the trees were closing in. I was sweating as though I’d run a marathon.
I called out, “Anybody there?” Brave words. No answer. I chided myself. “Come on, Bebe, get your imagination back to the music and forget the phantoms in the Blue Hole.”
I began to fill in the spaces for a few quarter notes on the staff paper but a crackle stopped me. Frankie and Johnny instantly turned their little heads toward the sound, which was coming from right behind their tree stump. The baby birds started howling as well. Naptime had come to an abrupt halt and there was no snack waiting.
I inched out from under large umbrella, heading for the clump of oak trees where I’d heard the snap. I didn’t see a human soul anywhere. I stood up straight and walked back to the stump. I grabbed the sheets and the recorder, and jammed them inside my bag. It was past time to leave. The sounds were probably coming from some kids from town or campus stupidly out in the rain, but since I hadn’t heard voices I couldn’t be certain.
Another snap followed by rustling sounds. As though someone was pushing branches aside and running.
Arianna Prentice had been missing for two days. Ten years ago Marigold Blume and Clifford Black’s niece had also vanished. Any female who’d ever listened to a news story or watched a TV forensic drama featuring an abduction plot would be a fool not to grab her belongings and make tracks for civilization in the opposite direction, even if in this instance the female had dark auburn hair and was a foot taller than any of those blonde sopranos could have ever hoped to be. Whatever differences, this female would be smart and leave her belongings. Smarter, she’d keep her keys out and get ready to jam them into the car and haul it all the way back to New Brunswick, New Jersey.
So, what did this smart female do? Left the bag and the umbrella and ran directly toward the sound. I was angry and I was ready to take it out on whoever was being a jerk.
The branches were broken in places, which had obviously occurred through man-made means rather than nature. I followed the trail of trees and found more evidence leading to the realization someone had been here quite recently. Wildflowers growing along a makeshift path had been trampled. I continued jogging down what had quickly become a path of untamed growth. The trees were so tall they blocked what little sunlight had come creeping through in the last hour. Branches turned evil, reaching down to grab my hair, tearing strands from my head and keeping them. I decided to jog toward a small cemetery located nearer to the homes in this part of Georgetown.
The cemetery looked the same as I remembered from years ago. I briefly wondered if anyone ever bothered to clean around the graves, to bring flowers, to pay respects. Some of the headstones dated back to the mid-1800s. Perhaps everyone who’d ever cared had long since gone to their own graves. I shivered in the mix of sunshine and rain as I stopped to rest by a marker stating the deceased to be “Lt. Cyrus Jenkins. B.1837D.1864.” His epitaph read, “Blessed are the peacemakers for they shall be called children of God” which seemed like a sick, sarcastic comment directed at a soldier who must have died during the Civil War. Then I pushed thoughts of Lt. Jenkins away as I glanced down and saw signs of current human life. A scrap of denim, as though torn from a pair of jeans, lay on the ground.
I came to my senses. I was not on the trail of some stray dog, unless there was a puppy who liked wearing the latest from Old Navy or the Gap. I picked up the cloth and decided it was time to retrace whatever steps needed retracing to get me back to Junie’s truck. I turned toward the direction of the road then tripped over another headstone. A small one but lethal. I lay in the misty rain next to the Jenkins monument for a few moments trying to determine if I had a concussion. My head hurt like a jackhammer going nonstop but I was able to sit up without too much dizziness after about thirty seconds or so.
I checked for any ankle or knee injuries, discovered some sore spots I was certain would be displaying a rainbow of bruise colors in a day but didn’t find any permanent injuries so I stood, brushed dead leaves from my clothes and glanced up just as the skies opened. The light rain, which had halted for the last hour, morphed into a storm complete with lightning, thunder and sheets of blinding rain.
Terrific.
Sweat poured down my face along with the rain. I admit it. I was scared. Nah. Too mild a word. I was now in a panic. Between the water dripping into my eyes by my own perspiration and the storm I could barely see three feet in front of me and couldn’t seem to remember how to get out of the cemetery or where exactly I’d parked the truck. For twenty minutes I stumbled around graves and headstones, praying for some graveyard deity or new ghost to take pity and lead me out and back to the Blue Hole. And perhaps, while the particular deity was on a roll, dispose of the person who’d been spying on me. I had no desire to run into a serial killer in the middle of a dark cemetery near a river now risen deep enough in which to drown. I only wished this sensible thought had occurred to me earlier, like before I’d started my Daniel Boone parody through the wilds of Texas.
A squirrel jumped down from a tree overlooking a fat angel statue. I couldn’t tell if it was my buddy Frankie who’d so enjoyed my singing, but since he seemed to have the innate sense of where to go to get out of the storm and appeared to have a better sense of direction than I, I figured “why not?” If I ended up in a squirrel’s nest somewhere maybe he’d share a cache of nuts. At least I was positive he wasn’t going to murder me.
I confidently followed him out of the cemetery, back to the dirt road, to the Blue Hole and right to the spot where the clump of oak trees had provided some shelter when I’d been writing earlier. I saluted Frankie and said, “Thanks.” He nodded before scampering off to rejoin his family.
My bag was still sitting on the ground by the stump and the beach umbrella, which had kept it relatively dry. I blessed whichever spirit had guided me back in the being of a furry rodent, leaned down and picked up the carryall.
I sank onto the ground and tried to stop the waves of dizziness I knew were caused by fear.
Hundreds of sunflower seeds were arranged in two words alongside my bag. The words spelled out, “Go Home.” It was a message. Or a threat.
Chapter 20
I drove Junie’s truck to the nearest convenience store where I bought a super-sized iced tea and asked for the key to the ladies’ restroom so I could spend a few minutes trying to wash dirt off my face. I sat alone in the car long enough to drink the tea while attempting to get my breathing to return to a rate approaching normal before I headed down I-35, then into the lot at the Round Rock studio where I found a parking space directly in front of Manny’s Mixes. I’d decided the moment I left Blue Hole Park not to make a detour at Junie’s house to change clothes. I was already ridiculously late for the session, plus I hadn’t wanted to explain to Junie why I resembled a refugee from Woodstock circa 1969, complete with flowers stuck in my wet, tangled hair and globs of mud drying in decorative patterns on my jeans. Junie would have been sympathetic, poured brandy down my throat and kept me for another hour, which would have infuriated the boys in the band who didn’t need additional fury. I considered calling the studi
o but the cell wasn’t getting any signal so I figured I’d just drive and take the heat once I arrived.
“Phew and Holy Stinkbomb! Damn, Bebe. What’d you do? Spend the afternoon in an Austin bordello auditioning for a job? You smell like you just wandered in from the old La Grange ‘chicken ranch’ so beautifully demonstrated in Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. You’d make a great Miss Mona. No costume or accessories necessary.”
The borrowed truck had been filled with orchids, jasmine and gardenias. Apparently I had inherited the scent. “Thank you, Saffron, for your kind observation. In case you’ve forgotten your first grade reading skills, the lettering on this vehicle reads Blume’s Blooms. You figure it out.”
Saffron chortled. “Like I care? So, do you mind waltzing your fragrant self inside and get to singing before I’m too old to harmonize? Then again, I could always do these puppies solo. Jeez! You’re also extremely wet and muddy! I wonder if there’s a large garden hose in the back somewhere?”
Before I had a chance to think of an appropriate response, Nic, Cam and Stone came charging out of the studio. Nic was first up on the list of attackers. “Bebe! Are you okay? Where have you been? You’re more than an hour late.”
Cam joined him, “And no offense, but you kind of look and smell like a reject from a mud-wrestling contest.”
“Hello to you, too, gentlemen.” I bit my lip. “I’m well aware I’m an hour late. I was composing songs in the woods for the peace and tranquility and I ended up fighting the thunderstorm. I also tripped over a tree root and was lost.” I did not mention my panicked flight through the cemetery or the discovery of the message written in seeds near the truck.
Dusty stepped outside and joined the guys in the general disapproval. “In the woods? Where in the woods? Are you nuts? Dammit. Girls are missing. Wanna be next? Did you leave your brain up north? As well as your watch and cell phone?”
I glared at him. “And thank you, Dusty, for your kind words. No, I am not nuts. I was at Blue Hole Park where I assumed kids from various neighborhoods would be swimming. I didn’t check any weather apps on my phone and was not aware the heavens were fixin’ to open up and drown me. Remember? It’s where Marigold and I used to go when we needed a place to compose without being hassled. And, if anyone’s interested, my brain did begin to work quite well musically and I actually came up with some decent melodies before Hades ‘done broke loose’ from the heavens skies above. Which is probably a paradox or an oxymoron or something but I don’t care.”
Stone, sounding irritated, added his own two cents to the complaints. “Did you actually accomplish something Pieces can use? Or were you just doodling on stuff for your upcoming Jersey cabaret act and got too busy playing with old show tunes to be on time for the session? ”
I was wet, muddy and getting more and more miffed by the second. “What the hell is yourproblem, Stone? When did you get elected manager for the band or my boss?” I took a deep breath and tried to remain calm. Or, rather, to become calm since I couldn’t remain something I wasn’t. “To answer your question, yes, there are songs I’m sure Pieces can not only use but might even make this record a top seller. So, can we all go inside and can you stand to let me take one crummy minute to find a restroom and clean up? I promise I’ll sing and be sweet to everyone for as long as you want. Again, I’m sorry to be late and yes, I do understand we pay for time even when not recording.”
Saffron followed me as I pushed open the studio door. She sniffed again. “You need more than a splash of water from a restroom sink, girl. You need a pool size tub and a lot of soap.”
I ignored her, stomped toward the back of the studio and the large ladies’ room, took off my shirt and splashed water over as many exposed parts of my body as I could. I wrung my shirt out then tied my hair back into a ponytail. I wasn’t going to win the contest for Miss Most Pulled Together but what the hell. My mood wasn’t netting me Miss Congeniality either.
All the members of Pieces were in place behind their various instrumentswaiting. As usual, Saffron had co-opted the better music stand and the microphone that didn’t crash over unless one held on to it. I closed my eyes for a second and thought, Fine. So be it. Let me get this over with. Sing, do the dance, finish the bloody record, and then heed the message to ‘go home’. Preferably all the way back to Jersey where stalkers won’t threaten me and memories won’t drown me.
Cam nodded. “Saffron, let’s start with Heartbreaker and give Bebe a chance to breathe before doing one of her leads. I don’t want to start singing‘til she’s ready.” He smiled as he said this but it wasn’t making me feel better especially since I wasn’t sure if the smile was directed at me in sympathy or at Saffron in pacification. I was late due to storms, mishaps, and mayhem in the forest. They’d had time to run every stinking number at least twice with Saffron, including Heartbreaker.
I growled, “I’m fine. We can launch into my songs any time. I warmed up in the truck on my way here.”
Nic tapped a cymbal behind me. I turned as he said in what I suppose he thought was a soothing tone, “Bebe, there’s no need to dive right in. We’d rather you not hurt your voice.”
I was not soothed. I glared at him. “I said I’m warmed up. Will you let me go ahead and sing? As noted, I’m already late, which means everyone is late and I’m quite capable of recording without having to do twenty takes for every song, which doesn’t matter until we actually record wheneverso let’s do it!”
Cam scowled at me. “Are you slapping down anyone in particular?”
Cam had a rep for blowing guitar solos in studio sessions. He was the opposite of many musicians who are calm during taping but lose it during live performances. We’d always been able to joke about it in the past.
“Cam! I didn’t mean anything about anybody. You always get the right sound after . . . oh nuts. Look, people, I only wanted to save everyone some time tonight. There was no irony or put down intended.”
Cam bit his lip. “Thanks so much for the sarcastic ‘always get the sound after . . .’ I’m well aware I hold everyone up because of my less than stellar skills in a studio but you don’t need to get snotty and superior.”
I stared at him and exclaimed, “I was not trying to be snotty. Nor superior. What the hell is wrong with everyone?”
Dusty barked, “Nothing. Not a blessed thing. We love starting late. We love wondering if it’s in your busy schedule to show up. We love having you show up and tell us you were out roaming though the woods communing with nature. Which is all
lovely. Personally, I thought we were here to work. But gee, we’re so grateful for the Bebe Becerra classically trained presence, deigning to join the peasants.”
“Shee it! I told you I was ready. You’re the ones stalling now. If you’re so bound and determined to go over the same lousy songs from last night’s rehearsal, then great. Up to you. Personally I don’t know why we’re stalling on recording and spending way too much practicing. And I’ve said I’m sorry for being late. More than once. Enough already, dammit. Couldn’t be helped. Comprendez?” I was terrified I’d burst into tears if this continued. I wasn’t over the scare in the woods and couldn’t stop wondering if any of these guys had arranged those seeds and left the creepy message. There’d been plenty of time to do that and get to the studio before I arrived. “Let’s do this. Now.”
Dusty hit a loud, sour sounding chord on the keyboards, then turned his back on me and began to rapidly and noisily tap the top of the piano.
Stone rose from a chair in the corner of the studio. “Bebe, I think they’re right. Why don’t you go ahead and let Saffron sing? The guys just don’t want you to lose your voice before the dance or the first recording session.”
Nic and Cam nodded in assent.
I slowly let my gaze hit every one of the band members and just as slowly let my words eke out after taking a very deep breath. “Screw. This. I’ve had it with all of you. I came in ready to work. I apologized for being late. Something
you all are aware has never, ever happened before. I do believe a major thunderstorm is a decent enough reason. Would you like for me to crawl on my hands and knees and kiss the feet of everyone in the room? If you will think back to years ago, I was never late. Making me the only person in this band who could claim the titles of prompt and responsible. Now, instead of cutting me some slack, you’re acting imbecilic and using up what little time we have left tonight.” I paused then shook my head. “Actually? Take all the freakin’ time you want. Take another damned ten years. Find another classically trained mezzo who’ll put up with you. Or let Saffron sing every lousy number, including the male solos. I’m sure she can find a way to hit the low notes if she consumes enough bourbon or snorts a few lines of coke. Hell, it always worked for Marigold.”
I grabbed my bag and stomped out of the studio, heading straight back to the truck, trying not to cry in front of anyone as I made my grand exit. The last two days had been emotional torture, starting with the news of a missing girl, jumping into high gear with Nic hinting he cared but not giving me any reassurance about his past dalliances with Marigold or current relationship with Saffron. I’d been stalked by a non-existent seed eater in the wood and was now being harassed by a bunch of guys who probably couldn’t even spell “responsible” since most of them hadn’t had a clue what it meant. The only good part of my day had been singing for an appreciative squirrel with great navigational skills.
A hand stopped me before I could open the door to Junie’s truck. “Bebe. Hold up there, girl. Slow down and chill.”
I whirled around, ready to sock whoever was attempting to keep me there.
Saffron quickly said, “Listen, they love you. You should have seen these clowns before you arrived. They’re extremely aware you’re never late which is why they’ve gone sailing off rails. They’re all still worried about the sorority girl going missing and they were terrified you’d been abducted too. They care. But they’re too bloody stupid to express it correctly.”
Pick up the Pieces Page 12