Return of the Song

by Phyllis Clark Nichols

  Still, she had an internal sense about time—too many years with a metronome ticking. So she whispered an “Amen” and went inside to dress for church. That done, she put on her smile. She would hide all that was bothering her and try her best to concentrate and worship.

  Caroline finished the postlude. She gathered her music and reached for her bag as the pastor came through the sanctuary. Reverend Andrew Bixley had pastored the Moss Point Methodist Church for three years as a young minister two decades ago and then moved on as ministers do. His children grew up, his hair disappeared, but his fondness for Moss Point never waned. Although it was highly unusual for the bishop to permit such a thing, he’d allowed Reverend Bixley to come back to Moss Point thirteen years ago. As Brother Andy liked to say, “I’m here till the Glory Train picks me up,” and the whole community was pleased about it.

  “Your offertory was like salve to my soul this morning, Caroline.” Reverend Bixley picked up his Bible from the pulpit and headed toward his office. “And I heard several other folks say something similar on their way out of church. Just can’t figure what we did to deserve you.”

  “You’re too kind, and I thank you, Brother Andy. I wish I could say the same of your sermon, but it made me squirm a bit this morning. I’m quite fond of my creature comforts.”

  “I’m sorry, but squirming is only good if it gets you off your . . . uhum . . . seat.”

  “I’ll confess that expressing my gratitude for my creature comforts hasn’t kept up with my growing attachment to them. My dad always said that ingratitude was a prideful laziness. You said basically the same thing, only in different words this morning.”

  “Oh, how I wish I were as quotable as your father. I hope to goodness my own children don’t quote me.”

  “I think your son probably used your words in his sermon this morning and was grateful he had a father who gave him something worthwhile to say. Goodbye, Brother Andy.”

  Caroline closed the church door and headed to lunch at Sam and Angel’s. She planned not to spoil the meal by telling them her secret. Instead, she would return after Sam’s nap and fulfill the promise she’d made to her brother.

  Sam and Angel hurried out of church. The fourth-Sunday-of-the-month pot roast was nearly done, and Angel’s yeast rolls were begging to be baked. Over the years, Sunday lunches became tradition. Caroline and Angel alternated the cooking, but Angel had made it a point to prepare everything this Sunday. She knew Sam wanted to talk to Caroline.

  “We could eat at the Café on the Square today, you know,” Sam said as he opened the car door for Angel.

  “Why in the world would I want to do that when I have a roast in the oven and you need to talk to Caroline? Of course, we’re early enough today to beat the church crowd.”

  Sam loosened his tie and pulled out of the church parking lot. “Yep, most church folks rarely get to taste Mabel’s coconut cake. Only the first twenty to arrive get cake. The rest of them are out of luck and get banana pudding. But it’s good banana pudding.”

  Angel fanned herself with the church bulletin. “You’d think she’d make more than one cake.”

  “Those poor folks from that New Life Bible Church don’t even try the Café anymore because Mabel’s cleaning up the kitchen by the time they get out of church.”

  “Guess we should be more grateful for Brother Andy.”

  Sam pulled into the driveway. “Maybe he likes coconut cake.”

  Angel giggled. “Sam Meadows, sixty years, and you still make me laugh. Well, I think Brother Andy’s wise. He knows our minds cannot comprehend more than our fannies can endure.”

  She fumbled with her seat belt, got out of the car, and went straight to the kitchen to take the roast out of the oven, replacing it with her homemade yeast rolls. The dishes were stacked for serving, and the meal was just about ready. She took advantage of every April opportunity to have meals on the back porch. The need to impress anyone with fine bone china, white linens, and a mahogany dining table had long gone.

  Angel heard Caroline coming in through the back-porch door and invited her to join the assembly line of empty plates and over-laden platters on the kitchen counter. Soon talk of the week’s changes in the stock market, the upcoming school board election, and Caroline’s trip to Ferngrove ricocheted around the table as they ate. They saved room for Angel’s peach cobbler with cream.

  After eating, Sam went into the library and made himself comfortable in his lounge chair while the ladies finished the kitchen duties. Angel stopped Caroline on her way out the kitchen door. “Don’t go yet, Caroline. I think Sam wanted to talk to you about something.”

  “You mean now? I thought he was already napping.”

  “No, I think he’s been waiting on us to finish the dishes.” Angel knew Sam had never been one to put off a difficult assignment. She watched him always tackle the toughest jobs first, but he had postponed this bad job since last Thursday.

  They walked into the library where Sam was waiting and took their seats. Caroline realized something of a serious nature was up. Is Sam ill? Or is it Angel? She didn’t like the feel of things.

  Sam assumed his judge role. “Caroline, I’ve been waiting to tell you something until you got back from Ferngrove. I’ve already told Angel, and now it’s time to tell you. Before I say anything, I don’t want you to worry, because everything’s going to be just fine. But there’s no way to tell you this except to just tell you.”

  Caroline could almost hear her pulse, and she felt that uncomfortable swirling in her stomach that made her mouth sweat.

  “You know last Thursday when Ned and Fred were here to repair the fence?” Sam asked.

  “Yes.”

  “When you were over at the church meeting with Tandy Yarbrough, Ned and Fred showed me where the bottom boards of about a three-foot section of the fence had been removed. Looked like the boards had been knocked loose and then someone had broken them off. Limbs from the rosebushes had also been broken off.”

  Caroline’s thoughts were far ahead of Sam now, but oh, how she did not want her incident and what Sam was describing to be related. “Do you suppose it could have been a large dog? You know the Sheffields down the street have three huge dogs, and they’re always getting loose.”

  “No, Caroline. What we saw was the work of human hands. There was a well-worn path behind the tea olives there next to the studio too. Someone gathered up some straw and made himself a comfortable place to sit right next to the studio window.”

  Caroline was certain her heartbeat was visible through her white blouse. The possibility of coincidence flew out the window. She would let Sam finish before she revealed her secret.

  Sam continued as Angel sat without saying a word. “It appears someone’s been slipping in through the fence and watching you through the bay window. And from the looks of things, it could have been going on for a while.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I do, and I know this must frighten you, but I’ve been thinking about this since Thursday. I really don’t think whoever it is means you harm. Oh, seems like every town has a Peeping Tom on occasion, and I think that’s what this is.”

  “A Peeping Tom? In Moss Point?”

  “Well, I’ve sent a few of them to jail over the years, but not a one of them ever harmed anyone. And we’re going to catch this one. But until then I want you to be extra careful.”

  Caroline interrupted. “Sam, do any of your Peeping Toms play the piano?”

  “Play the piano? Now, that’s a bizarre question,” Angel interjected.

  “This whole thing is bizarre.” Caroline went on to reveal Thursday morning’s events.

  “Why in the world didn’t you tell me about this?” Sam asked.

  “Probably for the same reason you didn’t tell me. I didn’t see any need in worrying you until I knew more. I told James when I was at home, and he made me promise to tell you as soon as I got back. I was planning to tell you later this afternoon.”

&nbs
p; Sam got up from his chair, walked over to the fireplace, and propped his elbow on the mantel. He looked directly at Caroline. “Oh, this puts a whole new spin on the situation. Peeping is one thing, but breaking and entering is another.” Sam began to twist his wedding ring.

  “But playing the piano as you described? There’s no one I know in this town capable of that. You’re right, Caroline. This is bizarre.” Angel looked at Sam. “Well, this blows your theory to where it’s too hot for polar bears, Sam Meadows.”

  Sam rubbed his forehead. “I thought our Peeping Tom just might be Bo Blossom.”

  “Bo Blossom?” Caroline could not entertain that idea. Bo had been a character around town since he jumped off a train passing through Moss Point about twenty years ago. No one knew his real name, but everyone called him Bo, which was short for “hobo.” They gave him his last name from the Orange Blossom Special, the train he was riding when he decided to make Moss Point his home. No one knew where or how he lived.

  The furrow in Sam’s brow deepened. “Well, this doesn’t sound like Bo. He’s never broken into anyone’s house. I know once in a while he steals a lawn mower or a yard tool from somebody’s garage. But he just walks down the street a block or two, rings the doorbell, and sells it to the owner’s neighbor. Most of us have played that game with Bo.”

  “Moss Point folks just take care of him like we did when he stole my gazing ball out of the butterfly garden. He took it to Herman down at the Emporium. Herman gave him five dollars and called me,” Angel said.

  Sam returned to his chair. “He’s never done harm to anyone’s property, and it seemed to me a logical conclusion. But this piano-playing business? Now, that’s a real mystery.”

  “We know next to nothing about Bo. For all we do know, he was a concert pianist.”

  “Now, Angel, why in the world would a concert pianist give up a career to steal lawn mowers?” Sam asked.

  Angel reached for a tissue on the table beside her chair. “Who knows? I was just trying to make some sense out of this.”

  “Well, Bo being a concert pianist certainly does not fit into the category of making sense.”

  Caroline had listened to this volley long enough. “None of this does. Sam, do you have another theory?”

  “No, I don’t at the present time. But the fence has been repaired. And my guess is that our mystery man will know he’s been found out, and he probably won’t come back sneaking around here. Just in case, I think I’ll ask Caleb to keep his eye on Bo for a few days.”

  Caroline knew that Caleb Mullins, the town sheriff, would do whatever Sam asked of him. He had come to Caleb’s rescue too many times for him to ever refuse Sam. “Do you think Caleb will keep this to himself? I’d hate for the word to get out around town.”

  “Of course he will. No need in the town knowing about this. We want to catch this fellow.”

  Caroline rose from her chair. “Thanks, Sam. I feel better now that you know.”

  Angel walked Caroline to the back door. “Don’t you worry, sweetie. Sam and Caleb will take care of this. You’re safe.” Angel hugged her.

  “You’re right, and I’ll just stop worrying right this minute. Can’t worry and nap at the same time. You and Sam rest.”

  She smiled, squeezed Angel’s hand, and started her walk to the studio. Along the way she took the time to study the familiar lane. The path wasn’t straight. She knew its every curve like her hands knew the piano keyboard. The flagstones veered around the daylilies and back around the bed of caladiums and through the shade garden. Her walk would have been quite different if the path had been straight.

  She had been walking a straight, dull path the last six years, living on level ground in a valley of monotony void of mountain peaks. She had found comfort in the simmering state of her daily days; but from somewhere deep inside herself, a place she could not describe or explain, came the unsettling sense her path was about to take a turn.

  A Living Still Life

   Good morning, my name is Caroline Carlyle, and I’m calling from Moss Point. I’m trying to reach Mr. Patrick Verran.”

  “Could you hold, please?”

  “Yes, I’ll hold.” She’d always wanted to say no to that question.

  “Good morning, Ms. Carlyle. I’m Patrick Verran. How may I help you?”

  “Well, I’m not sure. I’m mainly calling for information. I’m a piano teacher down in Moss Point, and I’m trying to locate a particular piano that you purchased from a Ms. Kelly Whitman a year or so ago.”

  He hesitated. “Kelly Whitman . . . I think I recall that name.”

  “I think you’d more likely remember the piano she sold you. It was a 1902 Hazelton Brothers grand.”

  “Oh, yes, how right you are! That was one very fine instrument, and in mint condition. You know they just don’t make pianos like that one anymore.”

  “I agree. Would you happen to still have the piano?” Caroline almost feared the answer. If he said yes, at least she would know where her piano was even if she could not afford it. If he said no, she would be bound to continue the search. Either way the piano was out of her reach.

  “Let me think. No, I had a buyer for that piano right away. Yes, I remember it well now. A man from Kentucky, looking for a piano of that period, wanted a Victorian. Yep, he saw it posted on the internet, flew down here, and bought it on the spot. Paid forty-two thousand dollars for that piano. We shipped it to him the very next week.”

  “An astute buyer. He knew what he wanted.” Caroline made a note of the price.

  “For sure, and he didn’t question the cost. But I must say the piano was worth every penny of what he paid for it.”

  “He must be a really fine pianist.”

  “Now, that was the oddest thing. Said he didn’t play the piano at all. No one in his family plays anymore. He’d just always wanted a grand piano like this one and said he’d pay someone to come and play it for him.”

  “To think of having that piano and be unable to play it! Would it be possible for you to give me the buyer’s name and contact information?”

  He paused. “Ma’am, I don’t think that I can do that. We have a reputation for integrity and professionalism, and that also goes for maintaining our clients’ privacy.”

  “Oh, how insensitive of me. I understand, and I certainly appreciate that, Mr. Verran.”

  He must have heard the disappointment in her voice. “If it’s a fine piano you’re looking for, Ms. Carlyle, I assure you we can provide one,” he said in his most accommodating sales voice.

  “I have no doubts about that, but it’s this particular piano that has my interest at the moment.”

  “I hope I’m not being too nosy, but why this particular piano?”

  “It may sound a bit strange to you, but the piano belonged to me when I was a young girl. My parents sold it when I went away to college. I’ve played many fine instruments since that time, but never one like this one. I’d just like to see it and play it one more time.”

  “Now I understand. Perhaps there is one thing that I could do to help you.”

  She wanted to jump up and down. “Oh, I’d be so appreciative, Mr. Verran. But I certainly don’t want to be a bother.”

  “This would bring me great joy, Ms. Carlyle. We do keep records on our clients, especially those who buy such fine instruments. I’d be happy to give this gentleman a call, tell him your story, and give him your contact information. And maybe, if the stars are lined up just right, he might contact you and invite you to come and play your piano again.”

  “That would really be very kind of you. I’d be happy to pay you for your time and trouble.”

  “Just making your wish come true would be more than enough payment, Ms. Carlyle.”

  Caroline gave him her phone number and address and expressed her gratitude again before saying goodbye.

  Irises were forsythia’s strongest competitor as heralds of spring, and they were Caroline’s favorite. She always began watching in mid-
March for green shoots pushing through the mulch, searching for sunshine. Years of observing this phenomenon never dulled her amazement at how something so fragile could demonstrate such strength.

  The green blades appeared first, and long slender foliage could be measured daily. She watched for the first signs of the iris’s bud. The birth was like a butterfly emerging from its cocoon, the struggle giving its delicate wings strength to fly. During the short season, she would cut a few flawless blossoms to fill a special vase in the studio, always leaving blooms to enjoy from her favorite garden bench.

  Caroline walked in the door with her garden shears and one iris stem. The phone rang. Probably Sam checking on her.

  She was wrong. It was James. “Good morning, older brother.”

  “Morning, sis. Guess you made it back to Moss Point without incident?”

  “Yes, without incident or accident. Everything here was just as I had left it.”

  “Good.” James, true to his personality and his profession, went straight to the point. “I’m calling to see if you did what you promised.”

  “Oh, let me think. Was that to drive the speed limit, not to pick up any hitchhikers, or not to pass go and collect my two hundred dollars?”

  “No time for folly this morning. I’m due in court in fifteen minutes. Did you talk to Sam?”

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a lawyer.” Caroline attempted to lighten this conversation. “Yes, I told Sam and Angel yesterday at lunch.”

  “What’d he think?”

  “Well, it seems I wasn’t the only one keeping a secret. Sam had one too. He was waiting until I got back from Ferngrove to tell me what the gardeners found: someone had cut a hole in the fence and through a century-old climbing rosebush.”

  “Does Sam think this is related to your intruder?”

  “Yes. Especially since they found a path through the shrubs and a bed of pine needles where someone’s been sitting next to the window out of sight.”

  “This plot’s getting thicker.”