Your Killin' Heart

by Peggy O'Neal Peden

  “Oh.” I let myself be mollified. I didn’t want to make an enemy of this man. I didn’t need any more enemies. This house had always seemed safe to me, a haven from the city madness. Now it didn’t seem so safe. Whoever was here hadn’t been inside, but I knew he could have gotten in if he’d wanted to badly enough. Someone had been here, had stood at my window, and he wanted me to be afraid. He had succeeded.

  “You know, you’ve been spending a lot of time messing around a murder scene,” Detective Davis said. “That does attract the attention of investigating officers, not to mention the murderer. What were you doing coming out of the back exit of Hazel Miller’s house?”

  “I was just curious, wandering around. I saw George Lewis and talked to him a few minutes.”

  “And at 328? What’s your connection with Jay Miller?”

  “I was out with friends. I like live music. Of course, I’m curious about this whole thing. Who wouldn’t be? I feel part of it.”

  “Somebody unpleasant seems to think you’re part of it, too.” He nodded toward the writing, red paint dripping like blood from the scrawled letters. “Unless there’s something else you’ve been meddling in. You’re lucky I’m the kind of guy who keeps an open mind, who doesn’t jump to conclusions. A more suspicious type would wonder about your interest in Jay Miller, wonder where and when you might have met him before, wonder what you have to talk to him about, especially if you knew your way around his grandmother’s house.”

  “I didn’t know my way around! I just, just wandered.” I took a deep breath. Don’t get defensive, I reminded myself. “But you’re not suspicious?”

  “Nope. Just—curious.” He went over to the blinking answering machine and raised an eyebrow at me. “May I?”

  “Sure.” What did I have to hide?

  “I’ve done some checking, of course. Haven’t found that you have any prior connection to any of the principals in this. Yet. Except Doug Elliott, of course.” He punched the Play button.

  I was coming into my anger as the tape rewound and stopped. A voice filled the room, distorted and even more alarming because the speaker had been yelling into the phone. “I’ve seen the paper. I told you this was none of your business. Now I’m warning you. Leave my family alone! All of us!”

  It was Jay Miller. His anger hung in the air and filled my house. Did it make sense for me to be the target of his anger? I hadn’t killed his grandmother. I realized he must have known about the article from a reporter who had contacted him or his mother for statements. How was it my fault? Was the writing on the window Jay’s?

  Detective Davis and I looked at each other. There was shock on my face. Detective Davis’s look said, See? I told you so.

  “Look, Ms. Hale, somebody went to a lot of trouble tonight to tell you they’re not happy with your curiosity. Take their advice; drop it. Your tax dollars underpay me to take that risk for you. You wouldn’t want the city to decide I’m unnecessary, would you? A single father, out of a job?”

  “Never thought of it that way.” I was trying to be light, but my voice was shaking.

  “There’s always another perspective. Now, let’s talk about your perspective. Something you’ve done, somebody you’ve talked to, some question you’ve asked has upset somebody, certainly Jay Miller, although it seems unlikely that he’d announce himself like that if he’d done this.” He waved an arm toward the window. “No reason to sneak around if he’s going to threaten you openly. Whoever did this didn’t want to be identified.” He sat down with the attitude of a man making himself comfortable for a long stay and pulled out a notebook and pen. “Tell me what you’ve been up to lately.”

  I tried to remember everyone I had talked to since the murder, tried to tell him everything I could remember talking about. Uniformed officers came in a few times, conferred with him briefly, and quietly went out again.

  “If Jay Miller believes you’re responsible for something in the Tennessean story, somebody else could, too,” Davis suggested.

  I was almost finished when Doug walked in, looking professional and, even in khakis and a knit polo shirt, managing to suggest a three-piece suit.

  “Hello. I’m Doug Elliott. I represent Ms. Hale.”

  “Mr. Elliott.” Detective Davis shook Doug’s hand and looked sideways at me. “Sam Davis. How convenient. Did I remember to read Ms. Hale her rights?”

  “Is Ms. Hale a suspect?”

  “I didn’t think so. Of course, everyone’s a suspect until the case is closed. You should know that, Counselor. But I’m glad you’re here. I’d like to ask you a few questions, too. This is cozier.”

  I stood up. I had to get out of there. “Well, if we’re all going to get cozy, I’m going to make coffee.” As I left the room, I noticed that Doug was not amused.

  When I brought the tray in, Doug was wearing his mulish look. Maybe passive aggressive is a more precise term than mulish, but mulish was how he looked.

  Doug took his coffee with cream and three sugars, an extravagant indulgence I’d always thought didn’t fit his otherwise disciplined personality. Detective Davis, of course, drank his coffee black and hot without waiting for it to cool. He looked just as intractable but more patient than Doug.

  Doug, who had been trying to avoid the whole Hazel Miller situation, had less to tell than I did. And he, not having had threats scrawled on his windows, was not frightened into cooperation as I had been.

  When Detective Davis went out to talk to the uniformed officer, Doug started reminding me he’d told me so. I didn’t tell him about the voice mail from Jay Miller. I’d have been far more annoyed if he hadn’t raced across town in the middle of the night and if he weren’t, even as he fumed, checking the locks on all my windows and doors.

  “You realize,” I interjected, trying for humor, “that now your fingerprints are on every lock in my house. Think what trouble that could get you into the next time I have police out here dusting the place.”

  Doug stopped, looked at me, and said, “What makes you think I haven’t thought of that? Now, when I murder you out of sheer frustration, I’ll have a police homicide detective as witness that there’s an innocent reason why my fingerprints are everywhere.”

  I don’t know what it was: too much caffeine late at night, delayed reaction, a sudden realization that this situation wasn’t a joke? I burst into tears, wet, noisy, unquenchable tears, then hiccups, too, just as Detective Davis returned. Doug looked stricken and far guiltier than he deserved. I felt foolish and embarrassed, and that made me cry more.

  Doug hovered, unsure if touching me would make it stop or trigger a new explosion.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Detective Davis angrily asked.

  I took off for the bathroom. I washed my face in cold water, but every time I looked in the mirror, I started crying again. Finally, Doug knocked tentatively at the half-open door. “Are you okay?”

  I slowed to an occasional sob between hiccups, but I didn’t answer.

  “Detective Davis said for you to drink some water. Either that or I should slap your face. I thought I’d suggest water.”

  I splashed my face one more time and wiped it with a towel hanging beside the sink.

  “I’m sorry,” Doug apologized. “I shouldn’t have said that. About murdering you. Not after all this.”

  I shook my head, my face still buried in the towel. Wouldn’t you know it? We’re finally having an intimate moment, and I have a swollen, blotchy face, standing in my bathroom, a bra on the floor and mildew on the shower curtain I’d been meaning to bleach. It was enough to make me want to start crying all over again.

  “It’s not your fault. It’s not you,” I said. “I don’t know. It just hit me, I guess.”

  Doug looked relieved if unconvinced. “I think the detective has a few more questions if you’re okay.”

  “I’m okay. I’m fine.”

  “But you don’t have to tell him anything.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you w
ant me to check the windows back here?” He was unusually cautious, still afraid of another emotional outburst.

  “Please. Yes. Thank you.”

  He headed for my bedroom, while I headed to the living room. Detective Davis held a glass of ice water and looked as hesitant if not as unprepared as Doug.

  I took the water and sat down. “Thank you.” I drank the water and held the cool glass to my face.

  “You okay?” That was the question.

  “Sure. I’m sorry. I don’t know why that hit me just then.” I took a deep breath. “Doug said you wanted to ask me more questions.”

  “Just a few.” He looked uncertain. “Is, uh, Mr. Elliott going to stay here tonight?”

  I blinked. The rest of the night. I hadn’t thought that far. I knew my friend MaryNell would come in a second if I asked and never care that it was three thirty in the morning, but I didn’t want to admit I was afraid. That would make it more real.

  “I don’t think so. We don’t … I mean, he doesn’t…” Talk about nobody’s business. “Look, I’m really tired. Is there anything else?”

  “Yeah.” He held up a plastic bag with a paint tube inside. The tube had held red paint. “This yours?”

  “No.”

  “I’m guessing this is our medium. Acrylic artist’s paint. It’s a step up from our normal graffiti vandal. They tend to lean toward spray paint from Kmart. At least it’s water-based. Oil-based paint is forever.”

  Doug came back into the room. “Everything seems secure. What’s that?” He spotted the empty paint tube.

  “Seems to be something Ms. Hale’s guest left behind. Does it mean anything to either of you?”

  I shook my head. Doug’s face gave nothing away, one reason why he’s such a good lawyer.

  Detective Davis nodded. “We’ll have some patrolmen keep an eye on the place.”

  “Thanks.”

  Detective Davis gave me another of his cards. “Keep this one handy. My beeper number’s on it and my home number. Cell, too. Call me. Stay out of this. And be careful.”

  Doug waited until the detective closed the door, checking that it was locked. “Do you want me to stay? I could sleep on the couch.”

  I smiled. I knew he didn’t want to do that. “No. But thanks. I’ll be fine. Really. Who would try anything now? Besides, whoever was here just wanted to scare me, and he’s done that.”

  “You’re sure?” Relieved. I could tell.

  “I’m sure. Thank you.”

  I bolted the dead bolt behind him, washed my face again, pulled on a big sweatshirt, and went to bed. I was shivering but determined to return to normal. Light was already filtering around the shades before I fell asleep.

  * * *

  When the phone rang at seven I jolted awake.

  “You okay?” It was Detective Davis, middle-aged hero of the threatened, and why did everyone keep asking me that?

  “Don’t you ever sleep?” I’m not usually that rude to people who are, after all, trying to help me stay alive. It must have been the sleep deprivation.

  “Not when there are citizens who need protecting. We may have a fairly decent tire print, but if you don’t mind, don’t spread that around.”

  “Okay.”

  “And the paint? It’s an artist’s paint, all right, but in addition to art-supply stores and most of the college bookstores in the city, it’s available at every craft store and Walmart in town. Probably a few other places we haven’t thought of checking. So I don’t think it’ll be too helpful. No more noises last night?”

  “No. Nothing. Okay if I clean the windows?”

  “I think so. I think we’ve found out all we’re going to from the windows. Look, Ms. Hale. Be smart. Don’t go poking around, asking questions. You’ve upset somebody out there, and I don’t like what happens when he’s upset.”

  * * *

  I had set my alarm for seven thirty so I could attend church, but when I got up, I felt a too-little-sleep headache coming on. I had a grapefruit-juice-and-aspirin breakfast and went back to bed. I slept easier with the sun up.

  When I finally awoke again, I started laundry and turned Trisha Yearwood up loud. Doug called at about noon to check in. Nice. Nice he was thinking about me. I boiled an egg and made some coffee. I got my camera and took a picture for myself of the writing. It wasn’t likely that it would tell me anything, but I wanted to record it. Detective Davis’s men had photographed it, of course, but I wanted my own record. The detective had said I could clean up, so I took Windex and cleaned it off. When I came back inside and looked out, there were still red smears.

  The mockingbirds were singing. Copying first one bird’s song, then another, trying out new sounds. “Where were you guys last night?” I demanded. “Huh? Why didn’t you get territorial then?” They ignored me and went on with their rehearsals.

  I’m normally not that obsessive, but I wanted to erase the whole experience, so I got vinegar and newspaper and went back out and scrubbed again. I scrubbed until I couldn’t see any trace. If the mockingbirds thought I was crazy they never said a word.

  Rain moved in, and the sky went gray. I wondered if Detective Davis was out looking for my vandal.

  Chapter Eleven

  On a day like today, if I was sixteen,

  I’d be drivin’ my Chevy just to be seen.

  —Jake Miller, “I Just Want to Be Here with You”

  The next day I got to work early. It was busy, as Mondays usually are. I still wanted to check with Kenneth Elliott about that museum in St. Louis for my group trip, but I couldn’t reach him and left another message. I called the museum and ordered several sets of cards with reproductions of paintings from their collections, so I could send them to the people who had reserved space for the trip.

  I was still a little scared by what had transpired on Saturday night. I retold the story to Lee and Martha and Anna at work. Then Caroline from the Realtor’s office upstairs came in, and I had to tell it again, then Allison, a designer from the florist next door. With each telling, Saturday night’s events seemed less frightening, less out of control. I was beginning to laugh about it: Doug and Detective Davis bristling at each other like territorial dogs, me tearing off after the vandal in hot pursuit, Mr. Morgan trying to find his bullets.

  “What were you going to do if you caught him?” they asked.

  Yeah, well, I still didn’t have an answer for that one.

  Despite the calming of my fear, my curiosity remained. Driving home, I cut through Curtiswood Lane, past the governor’s mansion, past the house where Sarah Cannon, the Opry’s Minnie Pearl, had lived across the street from Rosie Layne’s mansion. Rosie Layne’s mansion. As the crow flies, I couldn’t be that far from Hazel Miller’s house. I slowed down, thinking, trying to visualize the area from above, to see where Rosie Layne’s house was in relationship to Hazel Miller’s back entrance.

  A horn honked, and I realized I was stopped in the middle of the road, blocking traffic. A tour bus. I was holding up country-music fans intent on getting to Hank Williams’s house next. I moved on. It probably didn’t mean anything, Rosie’s living relatively near Jake and Hazel. Nashville wasn’t that big of a city.

  As soon as I got home, walking fast in the early dusk to the safety of the light I’d left on at the front door, I ducked inside. I had left lights on in almost every room because I didn’t want to walk into a dark house tonight. Inside, I turned on my computer in the guest room and clicked on a mapping program.

  I clicked my way to a map of Davidson County, focusing in on Hazel’s neighborhood. Sure enough, the streets made some odd curves, and Rosie Layne’s backyard was just a couple hundred yards or so from Hazel Miller’s back entrance. The connection was so obvious, but I hadn’t suspected it. I printed out a hard copy of the map.

  In the living room, I rooted through my old videotapes for a recording of an Austin City Limits with country-music legends, glad I hadn’t gotten rid of them after all. Rosie Layne had been in the Opry f
or a long time, and I remembered her being featured in the program. I probably passed it over twice, but I finally found the tape and put it in the one VCR left in the house, fast-forwarding until Rosie appeared on the screen. She talked about the early days of the Opry, the camaraderie, the long road trips before there were luxurious tour buses.

  There were black-and-white clips of her early career, including one of her singing behind Jake Miller. Seeing her young and in black and white, where faces seemed to dominate without the distracting competition of brightly colored clothes, the resemblance to Jacqueline was striking. The nose, the cheekbones, but especially the smile. Hazel surely would have known whose child she had adopted and raised. Young Jay’s genes might be a throwback to his grandfather, but Jacqueline was her mother’s child.

  Rosie Layne. Ruth B. Laine.

  I typed “Rosie Layne” in my phone’s search window.

  Five thousand, four hundred eighty-three results.

  I clicked on a country magazine site. A feature on Rosie. “Rosie Layne was born Ruth Laine, third of six children, all with Biblical names.…”

  Ruth Laine; the petition for child support from Jake. It was a wonder there hadn’t been a lot of talk about this before. Age was Rosie’s best disguise. You had to compare Rosie’s old tapes and the mature Jacqueline to see the resemblance clearly. If Rosie Layne were Jacqueline’s mother, had she been the girl singer waiting for Jake after that gig in Louisville? Was she with Jake when he died? Did it matter after all these decades? Did it have anything to do with Hazel’s death—other than to give Rosie a possible motive to want Hazel out of the way, giving her birth daughter control of Jake Miller’s estate? Maybe Jacqueline knew or suspected who her mother was, and that’s why she had avoided the music-industry scene.

  I cleaned my window again, scrubbing away imaginary traces of the vandal’s warning. I was nervous being outside in the reaching shadows, and that made me mad. I was letting this jerk take away the peace I could usually count on at home. I scrubbed harder.