Caroline imagined the worry lines in James’s forehead were probably twitching. “Sam thinks it might be a local hobo, a mysterious character who’s been around here for years. No one seems to know anything about his life before he got here. The townspeople just either ignore him or look out for him. Never caused any trouble before.”
“Do you think it could be the same person who was in your studio?”
“Only if Bo plays the piano.”
“This is beginning to sound like a made-for-television movie: a beautiful, single piano teacher stalked by a hobo who’s a former concert pianist.”
“Don’t worry, older brother. Sam’s looking out for me, and he asked the sheriff to keep his eye on the hobo. You’d better get to court. Oh, and make sure the jury finds him guilty.”
“In this case, they’re both guilty. A nasty divorce.”
“Oops, sorry. Didn’t mean to make light of something so serious. By the way, I kept my promise and told Sam. Now you keep your promise not to tell Mama and Dad. No use in worrying them.”
“I’ve not broken a promise to you yet, little sis.”
“Yeah, I know, except the ones you made with your fingers crossed behind your back. And don’t you dare tell Thomas. I mean it, James. Just don’t. Go . . . and goodbye.”
Caroline picked up the crystal vase from her desk and walked to the kitchen. She filled it with fresh water and arranged the iris and a sprig of maidenhair fern into a living still life. She understood that one iris was a sufficient thing of beauty.
“Again. The pickup is on the ‘and’ of the third beat, not the second beat.” Caroline tapped the beat on the piano stool. “Here’s the tempo. One and two and three and . . .”
Jay hesitated this time. Last time he’d been a beat early; now he was a beat late.
“Jay, if you’re going to play the piano, you must learn to count.”
“I know, Miss Caroline. I’m tryin’.”
Caroline agreed with the “trying” part. The more talented students always seemed to be more frustrating. Jay Johnson had a good ear and considerable talent, and once he learned a piece, no one in Moss Point could play it better. He was eleven and small for his age. His size kept him from playing sports, but he compensated with a zany sense of humor. He was quick-witted and quite capable of becoming a fine pianist.
“Stop. Jay, why do you want to learn to play the piano?” It was a question she asked her students on occasion, and this was a most appropriate time.
“Ummh, I just like to play it.”
“Why do you like to play it?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
“Jay, it’s important—no, it’s necessary—for you to know why you want to play the piano. And just liking to play it isn’t enough. It’s something you must figure out for yourself.”
Jay removed his hands from the keyboard. “You mean like right now I have to figure it out?”
“No. I think it’s better for you to think about it when your mother isn’t paying me by the minute to teach you how to play the piano. Did you do your theory lesson on the computer when you came in?”
His pause answered her question. Jay was actually one of her favorite students. After four years, Caroline was certain of two things: Jay would not lie to her, and he would likely try right now to distract her with his humor.
“Jay, I asked you a question.”
“I’m trying to think.”
“Trying to think of what? The answer seems very simple to me. It’s either yes or no. You either did or you didn’t, and it’s not been so long ago that you’d have a memory lapse.”
“That’s it—I had a brain freeze, like when you eat ice cream real fast.” Jay beamed with the pride of answering so cleverly.
Caroline raised her right eyebrow.
Jay knew the look, decided his time was up, and answered quickly, “No, ma’am.”
“Oh, so your brain freeze thawed out.”
His irresistible grin returned. “Hey, that’s good. I’ll have to remember that.”
The right eyebrow again.
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I know I should have, but when I sat down to the computer, it was like something just came over me and the computer, and all of a sudden a computer game appeared on the screen.”
“A computer game. You wouldn’t be talking about one of the computer games you get to play as a reward for an excellent lesson, would you?”
Jay’s eyes shifted.
“How would you like me to take the games off my computer and tell all my students that I did so because Jay Johnson would not play by the rules?”
“Oh, please, Miss Caroline, don’t do that. I promise I won’t do it again. I’ll follow the rules.”
“Do you know how much of your lesson time you have wasted this week? I think I’ll just tell your mother and have her take it out of your allowance.”
“Oh, please don’t do that either. I owe Craig Weaver some money, and if I don’t pay him back, he may crush my fingers or do something worse so that I couldn’t ever come back to piano lessons.”
“Is that so?” Caroline tried not to grin. “Well, then, let’s start this piece again and you play it so that I’ll not have a reason for Craig to break your fingers. Or better yet, that I don’t break them myself.” Jay was Caroline’s only student to whom she would speak in this manner. Somehow, his impishness summoned her own playful streak. “Once more, one and two and three and . . .”
He missed it again.
“Move over, Jay. Look at the music and count and listen.” Caroline started the piece and played the first section. “Now you play it.”
Jay played the first section flawlessly, just as she had.
The next several days were a return to normal. No more signs of the intruder. Caroline prepared for the spring recital. She knew some of the students counted the days in anticipation of a new dress and loads of attention, but others numbered the days in dread of sweaty palms and upset stomachs. She busied herself with sending personal invitations, printing programs, and talking to her mother about plans for her upcoming visit. She had placed a call to Delia Mullins, the Moss Point Messenger’s society editor, to give her the date and the time. Delia would fill up a whole page with pictures and more information about composers and compositions than most Moss Point folks wanted to know.
Recital activities were welcome distractions. With the fence repaired and no further sign of an intruder, Caroline’s evenings became more relaxed, and her comfort in playing the piano at two in the morning returned. Life was daily again.
“Mr. Sam. Mr. Sam,” Ned hollered as he banged on the back door. “Mr. Sam.”
“I’m coming, Ned. Hang on to your John Deere cap. I’m coming,” Sam said as Angel followed him step for step through the kitchen to the back-porch door.
“What in the world, Ned?” Angel asked. “Are you okay? Is anyone bleeding?”
Sam noticed Ned was close to breathlessness and Fred’s face was as white as an Easter lily on Resurrection morning.
“Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am, Miss Angel. But I need to talk to Mr. Sam.”
“Okay, Ned. You’re not bleeding, and I haven’t heard the town siren, so what’s this emergency?”
“Mr. Sam, the fence is tore up ag’in. Somebody’s done come back. It’s in a differ’nt place this time, not where we fixed it before. He’s back, Mr. Sam. He’s back.”
“He’s back,” Fred repeated in his rarely used monotone voice.
“Okay, would you gentlemen secure the fence? I’ll be down in a minute. I need to make a phone call.”
The twins left, and Sam walked back into his study. He sat, thinking for a few minutes. He didn’t like this.
He knew Caleb had been watching Bo. Bo’s daylight activities were predictable. Dressed in worn-out khakis and a blue flannel shirt with hands stuffed deep in his pockets, Bo probably walked ten or twelve miles a day. Everyone in town recognized his stooped silhouette and his gait and knew how Bo spent h
is days, but no one was certain of where he spent his nights. As a judge, Sam had held at least a dozen come-to-Jesus meetings with teenagers who taunted and teased Bo and made a game of following him late in the day to find where he would spend the night. Their stories of huts in the woods, old barns, vacant houses, caves, and the riverbank floated through the air around Moss Point just like the chimes from the Methodist church steeple.
Sam picked up the phone and called Caleb.
“Hello, Caleb, this is Sam. Any news on Bo?”
“Nothing except I think we’re wasting our time watching him. His comings and goings haven’t raised any of the few suspicious hairs left on my head.”
“So, you’ve seen nothing?”
“Not a thing. He did come one night a few days ago. It was that night of thunderstorms that took Henry Carter’s barn down. You know I leave the jail open so he can spend the night here when the weather’s bad.”
“Did you get a look at his hands?”
“Yep, and I don’t know as I’d call ’em piano-playing hands, Sam.”
“Well, just keep watching, and have your deputy drive by in the evenings. Our intruder has returned. Later, Caleb.”
Sam didn’t know if Caleb’s report was good news or bad news. He’d hoped the interloper was Bo, because he thought Bo harmless. And days without a recurrence of the unseen watcher had been welcomed. But fresh thoughts of a stranger chilled Sam.
He walked through the house and grabbed his cane. “Angel, I’m headed out to check the fence.”
“Wait a minute. I’m coming too.”
Sam and Angel made their way to where Ned and Fred were working. “All right, all right, gentlemen. I’m here. Ned, is Caroline at home?” Sam asked.
“Her car’s gone, and we ain’t heard no piano playing this morning, so I think she’s gone, Mr. Sam.”
“Good. Let’s see what’s going on before we tell her.”
Fred led them to the spot where once again the old boards were pulled away. Sam’s years as an attorney had given him an acute sense of details and summations. He surmised the intruder was using crude tools and deliberately choosing weak areas in the fence. A fresh path was worn through the shrubs lining the fence. He checked the path behind the tea olives and found fresh tracks made by athletic shoes. The tracks led straight to the studio window just as before.
Sam, Angel, Ned, and Fred made their observations in silence, each quiet with individual concerns. Sam was appalled with thoughts of an intruder’s violating the security and sanctity of Twin Oaks. He broke the silence. “Ned, you think you can get this repaired today?”
Ned looked at Fred, and Fred nodded. “Yes, sir, Mr. Sam, we’ll git the stuff we need and git right to work.”
Sam and Angel started back up the path home. They stopped at the pond. Caroline’s favorite coffee cup sat on the arm of the garden bench. Caroline’s sacred place.
Next to the waterfall in the boggy area, Sam saw one lone purple iris—the last iris of spring.
That’s What Heroes Do
Caroline sat at another meeting with Tandy Yarbrough. She knew she’d do good to make minimum wage for this wedding if she considered her time.
The plans were set. The wedding would be in Tandy’s backyard. A string quartet would play on the patio, and Caroline would play a piano under a white tent about thirty yards away. Tandy had put Caroline in charge and dismissed Gertie—a plan that Caroline did not like. Gertie, the organist at the Methodist church for forty-three years, knew everyone in town and could untangle the vines in all the family trees even when they turned to bushes. Caroline had been grateful for Gertie’s guidance through many ticklish weddings and awkward funerals.
As professional musicians, Caroline and Gertie had come to an agreement four years ago on a fee structure for weddings. They’d decided if the mechanics down at Snake’s Garage made good livings, then it was time they should be compensated fairly too. No more linen handkerchiefs and brass picture frames. However, they had not factored Tandy Yarbrough into their calculations.
Caroline rushed home after the meeting to find a sawhorse in front of her garage door and the Pendergrass brothers’ pea-green truck in the driveway. She parked along the street.
“Howdy there, Miss Caroline.” Ned met her in the driveway.
“Good morning, Ned. I see you parked your horse in the driveway.”
“Yes, ma’am. Another job for Mr. Sam. We tryin’ to finish today, so that ol’ sawhorse’ll be outta your way before long.”
“It’s really not a problem. I guess Mr. Sam is getting things all spiffed up for our recital next weekend.”
“Well, you might say that.” He shuffled a moment. “We’ll be finished before long. I gotta git back to work, Miss Caroline.”
Inside, Caroline was welcomed with the answering machine’s beep. Three calls. She stood at her desk, punched the message button, and picked up a pencil to take down the numbers. As she listened, her fingers traced the velvety petals of the iris on her desk. Only a few more irises this year and she would put her grandmother’s cut-glass vase back in the curio.
First message: Megan was ill and would not be at her 4:30 piano lesson. Delete button. Second message: her mother had new ideas about a color scheme, which would mean a change in the punch ingredients for the recital. Delete button. Third message: an unfamiliar voice introducing himself as Roderick Adair.
Listening now more intently, she picked up her pencil once again.
“I apologize for the delay in getting back to you. I’ve been out of the country. Patrick Verran gave me your message. You may reach me at . . . .”
She listened to the message three times, making certain she wrote down the correct numbers. The edgy baritone voice with the southern-gentleman-from-Kentucky accent ignited her imagination. Was he a singer? Would he allow her to see her piano? What had Patrick Verran told him exactly? There was only one way to find out.
She picked up the receiver and punched each number very intently, thinking of what she might say if he answered the phone.
“Hello, this is Mr. Adair’s office,” said a strong-voiced female.
“Ah, yes. This is Caroline Carlyle calling from Moss Point, Georgia. I am calling for Mr. Adair. That is, I’m returning his call. No, actually, his call to me was in response to a message left by Patrick Verran on my behalf.” This nervous jabbering was unlike her. “This must sound strange, Miss . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
“You’re correct, this does sound strange, and you didn’t get my name because I did not give it to you.”
Caroline was certain she had not made a good first impression. “Well, again, my name is Caroline Carlyle, and I’d like to speak to Mr. Adair if it is convenient.”
“Is he expecting your call?”
“I think so. He just called and left a message about half an hour ago.”
“Will Mr. Adair know the purpose of this call?” the woman asked, demonstrating her skill in interrogating solicitous callers.
“Yes, I think he will.”
There was a long pause. Perhaps she was connecting Mr. Adair. The woman finally broke the silence. “Would you like to tell me what this call is about?”
Caroline realized she might never get through this brick wall without revealing the nature of her interest. “Yes, I’m calling about the grand piano.”
“The piano is not for sale.”
“Oh, I would just like to speak with Mr. Adair about the piano. I’m not trying to buy it.” Caroline twirled several strands of her hair around her finger. A nervous habit left over from childhood.
“One moment.”
Another long pause.
“Good morning, Miss Carlyle.”
Caroline released the strands of her hair. “Good morning, Mr. Adair, and thank you so very much for taking my call.”
“You’re most welcome. I’m sorry it took me so long to contact you. My business took me out of the country for several weeks, and I’m now catchin
g up on my correspondence. How might I help you?”
“Well, I don’t know how much Patrick Verran told you, but I have interest in the grand piano you purchased from him.”
“Yes, Patrick told me this fine instrument may have belonged to your family at one point.”
“It did. My father purchased it for me when I was eight years old. When I went away to college, my parents sold it to a family in my hometown. It may seem a bit strange to you that I would have such an attachment to this instrument. Most people assume all pianos are the same.”
“One has only to look at this piano to know that it’s not just any piano.”
“Do you play, Mr. Adair?”
“Ah, no.” He cleared his throat. “And please call me Roderick. I purchased the piano to fulfill my childhood dream.”
“I hope your dream includes learning to play. It would be a shame for this piano not to be played. Oh, forgive me. I seem to be out of line here. After all, it is yours.”
“I understand perfectly, Miss Carlyle—”
“Oh, please call me Caroline.”
“Thank you . . . Caroline. As I was saying, I do understand. Having this piano sit in the music room without someone to play it is like having a Rolls-Royce in the garage and no one around to drive it.”
“I think that is a perfect analogy, Mr. A—I mean, Roderick. It pleases me you would classify this instrument in the same league as a Rolls-Royce.”
“I take that to mean that you would have taken offense had I said Volkswagen.”
“Well, maybe not ‘offense,’ but it certainly would have indicated you’re unaware of what you possess.”
“I’ve been accused of that before. Now, I understand from Mr. Verran that you would be interested in playing the piano again. How would you like to pay a visit to Kentucky?”
“Oh, my . . . . But I didn’t expect to be invited. I mean, I am a perfect stranger. You know nothing about me.”
“Quite the contrary, Miss Carlyle.”
Caroline began to twirl her hair again. So now, it was back to “Miss Carlyle.”
“I would never have made the call without knowing something about you. Perhaps I should get to the point. I understand you are a teacher and recitalist, and I’d like you to come and perform for a few of my friends. We’ll call it a parlor concert. Does that interest you, Miss Carlyle?”
Return of the Song Page 7