Pick up the Pieces

by Flo Fitzpatrick

  I looked down into her brilliant blue eyes. “Making nice? What’s up, Ms. Baker?”

  She shrugged. “I have my moments. Honest, though, you should have seen them. It’s been Panic City for the last hour. They’re too proud and too scared to admit they were about to send out a search party for you. They’re crazy but they’re not idiots. They’re also very aware you’re more than capable of popping in and singing the fool out of any song you choose. With or without warming up.”

  I sighed as I felt my anger dissipate. “They’re such . . . guys. Total dunces. Every one of them.” I paused then lowered my volume, unsure of why I was trusting her but feeling the need to voice my fears aloud to someone a bit more objectiveand provide a warning to another female as well. “Saffron, will you promise not to say anything if I tell you something in confidence?”

  “Well, sure, but why me?”

  “I have no idea. I’ll try and analyze my desire for sudden trust another day. But meantime, want to hear this? Actually, it could concern you as well. Even more than me.”

  She appeared surprised but willing to listen. “Well, duh, yeah. Of course. Give.”

  I told her about my afternoon adventure at the Blue Hole, finishing with the discovery of the sunflower seeds.

  Saffron stared at me. “I was riding the train with you until the last part. I mean, what’s the big deal with a pile of seeds? Why should they freak you out so much?”

  I took a deep breath. “Remember? Marigold was seed crazy. Pumpkin, sesame, poppy . . . but especially sunflower. She honestly thought chewing poppy seeds would have the same effect as distilling the juice.” I managed a wan smile. “The hallucinogenic idea didn’t work but she instilled in me a life-long love of poppy-seed and lemon cake. She was always nagging Mickey to whip some up when I was at the house and we’d be practicing.”

  Saffron snickered. “I remember her eating those cakes when we knew each other in junior high because she’d heard you could get high on poppy seeds. We’d trade desserts at lunch since she liked my mom’s sweet potato pie and I didn’t. She was always pissed because the poppy-seed cake only made her chubby.”

  My stomach involuntarily growled. I hadn’t eaten since lunch. All this talk of cake and pie was gnawing at my insides. “So, you understand. We all equated seeds with Marigold. When I saw seeds in the woods, I knew someone was taunting me. Someone who knew Marigold. Who knows me. And wanted me to know . . .” I choked, “to know they could get at me anytime.”

  Saffron turned pale. “Bebe, you need to tell the band about this. This could get scary. Shoot, it’s already scary.”

  We stared at each other. I shook my head. “Saffron, I can’t. There’s more. Pieces was like Marigold’s family. Everyone in the band from manager on down knew her, knew her habits, her eccentricities. What she loved to drink. What she loved to eat. I can’t tell them. I can’t even mention seeing those seeds, much less how frightened I was this afternoon. Because one of them may be the person who left them.”

  Chapter 21

  Saffron and I continued to stare at one another in total silence. Finally, Saffron spoke. “So, you’re calling a member of the band a murderer based on a bunch of seeds? Aren’t you going off on weird tangents? Couldn’t they have been left by your buddy Frankie?”

  I shook my head. “Not unless Frankie has an account at Ozzie’s Organics in downtown Austin and knows how to spell.”

  “Say what?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hang on. I wasn’t quite there yet. I found a cozy little message alongside the pile. The exact words were ‘Go Home.’ Can someone tell me why or how Frankie learned his alphabet? Plus the seeds were piled on top of the bag with Ozzie’s logo. The bag was soaked solid.

  “Who’s Frankie? And why is he leaving bags to get soaked?”

  I jumped. Saffron jumped. We turned in unison, both of us looking as guilty as a preacher leaving thatexotic-smelling bordello Saffron had mentioned when she sawor smelledme upon my arrival at the studio.

  Nic stood right outside the entrance to Manny’s Mixes. I gulped, while inwardly debating whether or not to tell him about the seeds. I wanted so badly to trust him but I couldn’t afford to . . . not yet. I’d been late but a good forty minutes of late had been after I found those seeds and I had no idea when they’d been left during my flight through the cemetery. Plenty of time for any one of the guys to dump them and high tail it back to Manny’s. I opted to lie. “Frankie is, uh, Junie’s latest pool man. He keeps leaving his lunch bags around the pool, in the pool, in the drains of the pool and in trails leading away from the pool.”

  Saffron’s eyebrows rose into her scalp. She leaned forward and whispered out of the side of her mouth, “Haven’t seen tap dancing that good since the touring company of Bring in da Noise, Bring in da Funk came to Austin.”

  I kept a non-committal expression on my face and hoped Saffron hadn’t been overheard. I was still angry at the attitude shown me, no matter how concerned the guys had been. “So, Nic. You out for some air? Or in search of a new alto?”

  Saffron began whistling. She casually turned and headed inside the studio to join the rest of the band.

  Nic stayed. He turned red. He strode over to Junie’s truck, pulled me away from the vehicle with one hand and placed the other on my shoulder and leaned down and kissed me, leaving me craving more. Just as suddenly, Nic pulled away, then looked me straight in the eyes. “We were acting like spoiled brats. All of us. And we’re sorry. Pieces has one alto. You. Always and only. We’re lost without your voice. I personally am lost without you, but we’ll discuss my non-music-related feelings at a more private time.”

  Saffron returned with Cam, Dusty, Glen and Stone. I first suspected she’d brought them out to interfere with what could have been a clear-the-air moment with Nic but had to give her the benefit of the doubt in case the guys themselves had decided it was time to say, “I’m sorry” as a group. I wanted to scream, Skip the apologies, go away and let Nic get on with the important things in life . . .maybe we can finally work through the miscommunications and truths and lies and figure out exactly what went wrong ten years ago.

  Nic added, as though he hadn’t noticed my hair and toes curling from his lips on mine, “To be honest, this business of Arianna is the only thing everyone is focused on. All the guys here were involved in another search party at different times today. When you didn’t show up on time tonight . . . Bebe the Ever Punctual, well, we went berserk. We were terrified. So what did we do when you did arrive? Instead of hugging you and telling you how much we care, we ended up acting like a bunch of first-rate idiots. Insensitive, moronic jerks.”

  Nic released his hold on me but stayed solidly in front of me. I peeked around and had to laugh at the sight of the other guys standing in a clump in front of the studio. All eyes were trained on the ground in shame, like first-graders caught playing with matches on a wooden merry-go-round during recess.

  A chorus of “Sorry, Bebe, we were just so worried,” rang out from the clump. In harmony.

  I held up a hand. “Guys. Enough. Cease. Desist. Stop with the mea culpas and the hangdog expressions. Y’all remind me of my puppy Clyde after he’s spent the night gorging on the neighbor’s spilled trash and realized he’s been a bad doggie only after he’s been sick all over the carpet. Except he’s far cuter.”

  Cam and Dusty were first to break ranks. “Are we forgiven?”

  Glenn added, “I told them you can handle yourself and you’d probably been caught in the usual horrendous I-35 traffic and to quit the smother, mother hen routine, but you’re the pet. We can’t do without you.”

  Cam nudged Glenn. “We had good reason to freak. And while Bebe may be a tough Jerseyite, there’s someone tougher out there. Puh-leeze, woman, don’t scare us again.”

  Although the thought of someone tougher sobered me up, I was starting to like all the care and concern. But it was time to get back to work. “Fine. Fine. Will y’all be happier if I keep my phone attached to
my head at all times and call if I’m stopped too long at a red light?”

  To a man, five heads bobbed “yes” simultaneously. The sixth, belonging to the only other female, gazed up at the evening sky with extreme nonchalance, then howled with laughter, “Idiots! Are y’all through with the love fest yet? Can we get on with this practice before I hit nursing home status? I have things to do with my life even if you cretins don’t.”

  In silent agreement, Pieces reentered the studio. Saffron walked directly ahead of me She turned and winked just before we crossed the threshold.

  The band worked solidly for the next hour and a half and even settled on what we needed to do for the recording. Then Saffron announced, “Adios, amigos. I’m gone. Tomorrow at the Palace, right?”

  She flounced out the door without waiting for a response. I grinned at Cam, who stood, mouth open, staring at the entrance with a look of amazement mixed with amusement.

  Cam mused, “Where do you imagine she goes or what she does once she’s there? I doubt it’s legal. Saffron Baker is one strange chick. Of course, she may be doing something totally innocent. Her laundry. Roaming through the cosmetics counters at the mall. Washing and waxing her car.”

  Dusty was putting a cover over the piano. He turned around, “I wish she’d take a hose to Illusions. Jeez, Cam are you ever going to clean the durn thing? It used to at least have a bit of color peeking through but now all I see is brown Texas mud. It rained for a solid hour this afternoon and it’s still filthy.

  Stone quickly said, “I’ll deal with it. Needs a tune up too, and an oil change and the tires should be rotated. I told Cam I’d get it done tomorrow before the dance if he’ll bring it down to the shop. You guys don’t need to be messing with car stuff before a performance.”

  Sweet of him. I felt rotten for how nasty I’d been earlier. “Thanks, Stone. And by the way, all you guys? I realize I said ‘enough’ with apologies but I want to throw a last one into the mix. I was not at my best tonight and I’m truly sorry.”

  I was being hugged and patted and murmurs of “No problem, Bebe, we love you,” were coming from all directions. I found it very nice.

  Glenn broke away from the snuggle huddle. “I was going to ask this earlier before all the sturm and drang. What’s this about new songs, Bebe? A rumor or do you actually something solid?”

  “Fact. I am in possession of threecount ‘em—threesongs we can use for the album. Marigold wrote the lyrics years ago. I’ve been working on the music practically since I hit Texas.”

  Nic smiled. “And being very mysterious about them. Perhaps because you haven’t the vaguest notion of what you’re going to do with them yet? And what’s the one weird song called? Pit and the Pendulum or something?”

  I threw the headphones at him (they were broken anyway). He ducked in time to escape minor injuries.

  “Chasm.”

  “Say what?” asked Dusty.

  “Chasm is the name Marigold gave it. It’s . . . different. The lyrics are almost manic. There’s one I named Windy Highway. Marigold wrote the title for that one in her illegible scribble but it looks like Block my Heart. It’s good, but the lyrics don’t make any major departures from usual topics. Angst, horror, despair, ride like the wind itself down the roads of angst, horror and despair.” I pursed my lips and thought. “Let me simplify. Imagine a classic true country n’ western gone rock. But Chasm? I swear it’s truly in a class by itself. There’s a haunting quality to it. Kind of medieval Celtic. I know I’m not describing this well.” I grinned. “I’m the musical notes put-er-in-er; not the lyricist, remember? This poetry stuff and branding of musical genre is beyond my pay grade.” I glanced at Cam, who’d gone pale and seemed on the verge of being sick. “Cam? You okay?”

  “She was going to sing Chasm at the dance. She didn’t want anyone to see the lyrics. I remember her telling me the title but nothing else.”

  I winced. “I thought Chasm might have been the one she planned to perform but she never told me the title.”

  “Did Marigold actually provide a melody?” Stone asked.

  “If she did, she didn’t write it down anywhere, which isn’t unusual since I’d always been the music composer. Anyway, I’ve seen lyrics only and I’m lucky to have found one last copy. It was buried in her closet underneath about five tons of British Eighties rockers including Wham and Boy George. Welltheir musicnot them.” I laughed.

  Stone tried to smile. “I’m sure Marigold would have loved anything you’ve composed. You were always marvelous with melodies.”

  Nic quickly interjected, “So you did create something brilliant to fit this lyrical masterpiece before the heavens rained down?”

  “Yes.”

  He applauded. “Cool. When do we get the first listen?”

  I stated casually, “At the dance.”

  No one spoke.

  “Don’t sweat it, guys. Honest. There’s nothing for y’all to do. No percussion. No electric guitar. I’ll play chords myself on acoustic guitar.”

  Nic eyed me less than happily. “Back-up isn’t the issue.”

  I stood and tossed my damp carry all bag over my shoulder. “True, but I was avoiding getting into anything heavy. I’m not trying to pull a Marigold and be all secretive and sneaky. The only reason I said the dance is I’m not finished and I’m so tired I don’t want to push it and ruin it so I doubt anyone will have a chance to hear it before Saturday night. But I promise you this I will do my absolute best to provide a melody to match the poetic genius of Marigold Blume.”

  Chapter 22

  I left the guys still gathering their gear and climbed back into the flower truck. I wanted to get home, bathe, get rid of the scent of flowers and mud, curl up in bed, and sleep. I had no desire to get into a possible fight regarding singing Chasm at the dance. Peace had been restored to Pieces. It would be nice if it remained calm for more than an hour. I rolled down the window of Junie’s truck, cranked up a country station and sang as I traversed the highway from Round Rock toward Junie’s place just outside of Taylor. After a few miles I grew annoyed consistently listening to “my dog died, my girl left me and the truck’s been towed” so I clicked off the radio and began singing Chasm, using the melody I’d come up with this afternoon. I had the right feel and the right style. I knew it.

  “Pleased with yourself? Well, you should be. Talk about one wild, emotional, wacked-out session. But more than that, Bebethis tune? It’s the best.”

  Marigold’s voice. Clear in the night air. I couldn’t stop myself from glancing over at the passenger seat. Empty.

  Where was this coming from?

  Memories. Solid ones.

  Marigold and I had driven down this road on a May night like this ten years ago after leaving Manny’s Mixes in surprisingly similar circumstances. Marigold and I had spent the afternoon at Blue Hole Park writing the last few lines of a new song. It had been raining then too. We’d gotten soaked and had been forced to run to Junie’s truck. Surprisingly, we’d made it to the studio on time. But, we’d been so dirty and wet, not to mention giddy with our composing success, the guys had been furious because we couldn’t seem to settle down.

  Then we’d showed them Hell’s Belles, a song about a group of Southern women from the Civil War Era who were fighting back after an attack by the Yankees, which was a totally weird topic for a band who primarily sang retro rock. Marigold and I had spent many hours trying to match the right modern tune to lyrics talking about events in the 1860s. The males in the band had wasted no time and no breath proclaiming we’d lost what little sense we’d been born with. Then Marigold and I sang the song. Every one of the guys had fallen in love with it. Even Glenn, who was always dealing with business and contracts and not quite in tune with the whole artsy side of recording, had wiped tears from his eyes. The others had been similarly stricken.

  The only semi-negative comment had come from Nic who stated, “I love this song. I love the lyrics and the melody. But dang, can’t
we change the title before we put this on the new album? Sounds like what you’d name female roller derby team. This song is not wild and crazy. It’s beautiful.”

  I couldn’t recall now what we’d changed it to. There’d been no chance to record it. Maybe Saffron and I could sing it this time around.

  After the session, Marigold and I had climbed back into the truck and driven off into the night. No Cam. No Nic. Strictly girls’ night out. Marigold had rolled the windows all the way down, then stuck her head out and let the wind blow through her blonde curls. She’d finally yelled over the noise of the radio and the truck on the highway, “Pleased with yourself, Bebe? Well, you should be. Hell’s Belles was the best. Your melody was brilliant. Now I humbly admit I wrote some damned fine lyrics but your tune is what makes it gorgeous. I’m proud of you, little girl.”

  Marigold had often acted like an irresponsible child but she had also been supportive of my compositions and I thrived on her praise. She’d critique if needed but she did so nicely, and usually she loved what I did.

  I now forced myself to focus totally on the highway even as tears streamed down my face. There was no Marigold next to me. I was alone.

  Not quite true. A flash in the rear-view mirror caught my eye. I’d reached the road leading to the Blume estate about five miles away. It was normally deserted. I wasn’t alone after all. Someone was close behind me. Too close.

  I slowed. The other car slowed. I sped up. The car sped up. The headlights changed from normal night mode to high beams and nearly blinded me.

  Maybe an impatient driver wanted to get around? I moved as far to the shoulder as I could in an effort to allow the car to pass. It moved and swerved right until it was directly behind me, tapping the bumper of the truck twice. I was now officially in panic mode. I sped up again and managed to ease my phone out of my bag, intending to call 9-1-1, but then I remembered it had reached the end of its battery for the day hours ago. I quickly debated whether it would be wiser to turn the truck around, get back on the main highway and head for Georgetown and the nearest police station. The other option would be to drive like a maniac until I reached Junie’s house. I could pull into the driveway and honk loud and long and hope Jorge the butler, Sven the chauffeur, Mickey the cook, and Frankie the fictitious pool boy, would all come tearing out of the house with loaded shotguns. Junie’s mansion was cozy and warm and had rooms to spare but I had never realized until now how truly isolated it was.