Just You Wait

by Jane Tesh

  “We’ll get through this one, too,” Kary said.

  I found myself wondering what our wedding would be like. Kary would look like an angel, of course, and I’d be so pathetically grateful, my tongue would probably be hanging out all the way down the aisle. Her first wedding, my third. Third time’s the charm? That’s how the saying goes. I’d be content to sit out here with her forever. But only with her. Not with a baby. I’d have to find some way around that particular little snag.

  Kary tucked her hair behind one ear. “Ellin knows Cam wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. Besides, we won’t always be here. Rufus and Angie are looking for a place of their own. Fred is getting very old.”

  “But you’ll stay, won’t you?” I hoped I didn’t sound too desperate.

  She rubbed the kitten’s head. “I don’t know. It depends on where I find a teaching position.”

  A second kitten, white with a black ear and a black nose, edged its way over the top step and stood for a while, pleased by its accomplishment. It turned and mewed encouragement to the third kitten, panting and heaving its striped belly up and over. The second immediately pounced and they rolled close to the edge. Kary snatched them before they fell.

  “Silly things!” All three settled in her lap, purring like miniature outboard motors. “Where’s the other one?”

  “He’s a mama’s boy. Always hanging around Cindy.”

  Camden came back from the park in time to help locate the missing kitten, a rogue red one with a crooked tail.

  “How’s Fred?” Kary asked, as he handed her the squirming kitten.

  “He’s okay. He’s arguing with Oscar again about the space program.”

  Oscar’s another old coot. He is certain the entire space program was a Hollywood production. Fred, who must harbor a secret desire to be an astronaut, would argue with him for days.

  “Then he must be okay. And how are you?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. You and I have an assignment tonight to find out all we can about Viola Mitchell. I can’t believe what happened to her.”

  “I’m up for that.”

  She handed him the kittens. “My turn for supper. Tuna casserole sound good?”

  Camden and I did our best to look pleased. Tuna casserole was the one thing Kary can fix, and although good, it’s not my idea of a great meal. “You bet. Extra crackers for me.”

  “Ready in thirty minutes.” She went into the house.

  Camden offered me a kitten. I declined. Cindy was all right, but these little furballs snagged my clothes and punctured my ankles.

  He put the kittens down on the porch. “How did things go with your client?”

  “You should’ve been here. According to Ellin, Mrs. Harper’s one of your biggest fans, and you could make piles of money seeing into her future.”

  “Ellie came back?”

  “Like a boomerang.”

  He pried one kitten’s mouth off his bare toes. “Do I need to see into Mrs. Harper’s future?”

  He tries not to get involved in my cases unless it’s really necessary. “No. It’s pretty straightforward. Her business partner’s run off. I can find him.”

  “Ow. Good grief, these little teeth are sharp.”

  All the kittens had decided his feet were tasty. I was about to suggest he roll them back down the steps when Rufus and Angie arrived in the bigfoot truck, and the two of them got out.

  When you see Rufus and Angie together, you have to imagine that a ridge of the Appalachian Mountains decided to put on clothes and lumber into town. Rufus is pro wrestler size with a scraggly red beard. As usual, he was stuffed into bib overalls and wearing a cap over his bushy hair and long skinny braid he calls a rat tail. Angie’s the biggest woman I’ve ever seen. Not only fat, but big all over. The porch steps groaned as she climbed up. Her tiny eyes twinkled at Camden.

  “Cam, honey, you have made another conquest. Those people down at the theater couldn’t stop talking about you.”

  “Yeah,” Rufus said. “When do we get to see this little fairy show of yours?”

  Angie smacked his arm. It sounded like twenty pounds of raw meat landing on a slab of granite. “Will you quit acting so stupid? It’s My Fair Lady.’”

  He put on a superior air. “I know all the musicals, dearest. Got season tickets to the opera, too.”

  “It’s next weekend,” Camden said. “I’ll get tickets for everybody.”

  Rufus was still teasing Angie. “Well, hell, I don’t know why you don’t sing something realistic like ‘Your Love Ain’t Worth A Spit, But I Want You Anyway.’”

  This earned him another playful smack. “Why don’t you sing it for us, then, you big baboon?”

  To my horror, Rufus threw back his head and warbled in true country fashion, that is, through his nose:

  “Your love ain’t worth a spit, but I want you anyway,

  Your love’s just like a toilet, flushing me away,

  Down the sewers of my heart, to the ocean of my soul,

  Love you so much, darling,’ I would even catch your cold.”

  Camden laughed. “That is sheer poetry, Rufe.”

  He grinned. “Ain’t it, though? Sing that at your next rehearsal, Cam. That’ll make ’em sit up and take notice.” He sniffed. “Kary cooking supper?”

  “Yes,” Camden said.

  “Damn.” He patted Angie’s huge shoulder. “What say we make a pass at Chunky Chicken? Bring you guys back some?”

  “No, thanks.”

  I didn’t want to hurt Kary’s feelings, so I said no thanks, too. Rufus and Angie galumphed back to their truck and heaved themselves in. As Camden went down the steps to return the kittens to Cindy, my cell phone rang.

  When I answered, a familiar voice said, “Randall, it’s Charlie. We’re playing tonight. Did Kary tell you I wanted to talk to you?”

  “Yes. See you there.”

  He thanked me and hung up. I hoped I could solve his problem with Taffy quickly and easily. I wanted to find Viola Mitchell’s killer, and I wanted to convince Kary to trust me. Right now, I had no idea how to solve either mystery.

  Chapter Four

  “The rain in Spain…”

  The tuna casserole had some crunchy bits that might have been green peas and a strange aftertaste that reminded me of the glue I sampled in first grade. After bravely eating two helpings, I dropped Kary and Camden off at the Little Theater and went on to the Tempo. The Tempo’s a dark little place right in the middle of downtown Parkland. There’s a bar with a mirror behind it that reflects the seating area, round tables with four chairs each, and a raised stage with enough room and light for small music groups to perform. When I arrived, the club was almost full of the usual customers, older couples who were big fans of traditional jazz, with a few younger folks sprinkled in, curious about the music. There was laughter and the clink of glasses as everyone gathered to their tables. On stage, J.J.’s Hot Six was setting up. J.J. was J.J. Farino, a gnarled little drummer who could be any age between forty and sixty. The other members of the band, the trumpet player, saxophone player, trombone, and clarinet, greeted me.

  “We can get started now,” J.J. said. “Randall’s here.”

  Charlie Valentine looked up from the piano, holding a glass of beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. The remains of several other cigarettes filled the ashtray at the end of the keyboard. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, his tie was askew, and his dark hair was rumpled. He and Camden must subscribe to Sloppy Small Men’s Quarterly. Like Camden, Charlie’s hair is always in his eyes and his tie’s always undone. And like Camden, he has plenty of women fussing over him because they feel he’s cute.

  I strolled up to the stage. “I think you’re trying too hard for the burned-out jazzman look.”

  He put the glass down, took a long pull on the cigarette,
and propped it in the ashtray. “But I am a burned-out jazzman.”

  The clarinet player laughed. “An incredibly jealous one.” He put the clarinet to his lips and played the first few bars of “Frankie and Johnny.” The bouncy yet mournful blues theme foreshadowed the doomed couple of the song. “That’s what we call those two.”

  Charlie tossed back the rest of his beer. “She’s driving me crazy, Randall. I know she’s seeing someone else.”

  “What makes you think that?” Personally, I didn’t see why Taffy would run around on him. He may be a little intense, but he treats her like a queen. Still, he is a musician. Probably doesn’t make enough money.

  He sucked the last dregs of the cigarette and blew out the smoke. “This makes four times I’ve asked her out, and she always puts me off. She’s giving me lame excuses, too. One night, she’s washing her hair. You know something’s seriously wrong when they give you that one.”

  I had to agree. “And the other times?”

  He ground the cigarette down to a wrinkled stub. “Going to a friend’s house. Too tired. Coming down with a cold. The odd thing is when she’s here singing with us, she’s fine. I call her up the next day, and she’s giving me some excuse. I thought we had something going. There for a while, we went out every night.”

  “Have you talked to her? Told her how you feel?”

  “She knows how I feel. I’ve been crazy about her ever since I met her.”

  “You got any old girlfriends in the closet? Maybe she’s been talking to them.”

  He put his hand to his heart. “Swear to God, ever since I met Taffy, I haven’t even said hello to another woman.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that. I’ve seen how the ladies come on to you.”

  “And I’ve resisted all temptation.”

  Now the band members snickered. He glared. “Did I invite any of you to this conversation?”

  The saxophone player, a large black man, grinned. “Please find out what’s going on, Randall. He ain’t no good to us like this.”

  “I’m fine,” Charlie said.

  “Oh, yeah? How many beers you had this evening?”

  “Fifty-five.”

  “Smartass. And didn’t the doctor tell you to stop smoking?”

  “Didn’t the doctor tell you to lose a hundred pounds?”

  “Ooo, the boy is touchy now. Must be love.”

  Charlie’s grand gesture upset the ashtray. “Yes, I admit it! I am in love! Get over it.”

  “Shut up. Let’s play.”

  I sat back at one of the small tables while they ripped through “Mule Walk.” The trumpet sounded like liquid gold, and the clarinet darted like lightning around the melody. Despite his romantic trials and his alcohol and nicotine abuse, Charlie ripped through the number as if riding a hurricane, merging the black and white keys into one perfect storm of sound. J.J. often remarked Charlie played better when he was drunk.

  The crowd roared their approval, and the Hot Six swung into one of my favorites, “Wildman Blues.” They were halfway through when Taffinia O’Brien appeared. If the sight of Taffy sauntering down to the stage didn’t set your red blood cells dancing, you must be mummified. With each step of those long legs, her honey-colored hair and her graceful hips swayed in their own special rhythm. She likes to wear green to set off her exotic slanted green eyes. Tonight’s outfit was a green leather skirt and jacket and a gold blouse. If somebody hadn’t already invented the phrase, “She looks like a million dollars,” this sight would’ve inspired them.

  Unaware of all the approving glances from the patrons, she slung her studded green leather pocketbook onto my table. “Hi, Randall. Hi, guys.”

  The members of Hot Six kept playing, acknowledging her with lifted eyebrows and nods. Charlie paused to knock back the remains of his drink and continued with the refrain. Taffy readjusted her skirt and came up to the microphone. She tapped it a few times and settled onto the tall stool. Seeing her cross those magnificent legs made me glad I got up this morning.

  The band finished “Wildman Blues.”

  “That was a little rough,” J.J. said. “Who’s supposed to take the chorus second time around?” The clarinet player raised his hand. “Okay, and lighten up a little more when the sax takes the lead. Charlie, you follow, and then the trombone takes it. Good evening, Ms. O’Brien. Thanks for joining us.”

  She spoke over her shoulder. “What do you want to start with?”

  “We’ll start with ‘I Love My Baby,’ and then ‘Someday Sweetheart,’ if you’re ready.”

  “I’m always ready.”

  Taffy sang as if channeling a great blues singer of the twenties or thirties. Charlie played the introduction and provided a beautiful counter-melody to her singing. She didn’t even glance his way. She sang in warm smoky tones that made my tie close around my throat and my heart beat like a snare drum. When she finished her set, the audience gave her another round of applause and cheers, which she acknowledged with a regal nod. Then she left without even a backward glance at Charlie. Charlie continued to smoke and drink steadily, so by ten o’clock, he was good and stewed.

  Even though I knew it was useless, I tried to get through to him. “You know, this isn’t going to solve anything.”

  “But I can’t figure her out! Why wouldn’t she want to be with me?”

  “Because she doesn’t want to be Taffy O’Brien Valentine. It sounds like too many holidays.”

  The other members of the band thought this was funny, but Charlie took a swing at me that would’ve connected if he hadn’t been so drunk. I caught his arm and pushed him into a chair.

  “Look. I go through this all the time with Camden. Either declare yourself or find another woman. I’m tired of all the drama.”

  He hiccupped. “But I have! I’ve told her I love her.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She says if I really loved her, I’d love her songs.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Hell if I know.”

  J.J. said, “I’ll take him home, Randall.”

  Years of maneuvering Camden have made me an expert at getting small disoriented men in and out of cars. I helped J.J. wad Charlie into the backseat of his Ford Escort.

  J.J. shut the door. “Don’t look like it’s getting much better.”

  “What’s Taffy talking about ‘loving her songs’? Charlie loves the old stuff.”

  J.J. leaned against his car and folded his arms. “I think Ms. Taffinia’s got herself another gig somewhere.”

  “That’s all right, though, isn’t it? With a voice like that, I imagine she’s in demand.”

  “Think she’s getting tired of us.”

  I couldn’t believe this. “Quit J.J.’s?”

  “Mm-hm. That’s what Charlie’s most afraid of. Do the boy and us a favor, Randall. Talk to Ms. Taffy and see what’s going on with her. She was born to sing the blues, and I can’t say that about just anybody.”

  “I will if you’ll see what you can do about Charlie’s bad habits.”

  “He don’t listen to me. Sometimes I think the boy wants to head for an early grave. These women’ll drive you mad.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  J.J. looked at his watch. “’Bout time for our next set. Let me get him situated. He’s no good for the rest of the night. I’m counting on you to straighten this out, Randall.”

  With Viola’s murder, George’s disappearance, and Kary’s emotional crusade to expose Baby Love, all I needed was one more thing to straighten out.

  ***

  With Charlie done for the evening, it was time for me to return to the theater and pick up Camden and Kary. The Parkland Little Theater sits in the downtown arts complex, which includes a dance studio, a rehearsal hall for the city orchestra, classrooms, and a small art gallery. I parked
the Fury in the adjoining lot. Double glass doors led to a foyer decorated in gray and burgundy, and another set of doors opened into the auditorium. Little groups of people sat in the plush gray seats and clustered around the stage. Strangled noises came from the orchestra pit as the violins attempted to tune.

  An annoyed voice spoke from the front row. “Could we run that scene once more?”

  The lead, Eliza, was learning how to speak like a lady, and everyone hopped around singing “The Rain in Spain.” The scene was pretty lackluster. No rain. Maybe a sprinkle, at best. The director, a thin man with wild hair—probably from pulling on it in frustration—stopped the action halfway through. I looked around for Camden and found him sitting in the middle row, surrounded by attractive women dressed like parlor maids. He introduced me before the women were called away for wardrobe adjustments.

  “The Rain in Spain” cranked up again. “Doesn’t seem to be going too well,” I said.

  “It’s still rough.”

  “And this show opens next week?”

  The actress playing Eliza had a good strong voice and plenty of pep, but the guy playing the professor kept missing his lines.

  “He’ll get it,” Camden said. “It’s his first show, so he’s a little nervous.”

  “It’s your first show, too.”

  “All I’m worried about is the haircut.” He brushed a hand through his hair. “The wardrobe mistress says she can’t wait to get her hands on it.”

  “You mean Freddy doesn’t look like a sheepdog?”

  “Not in this production.”

  “Anybody broken up about Viola?”

  “Most of the cast have worked with her, so they couldn’t believe she was murdered. Viola was a force of nature. Someone said she would’ve appreciated the dramatic way she was found buried under her house.”

  “Anybody looking particularly pleased?”

  “Not that I can tell.”

  “Who’s the best person to talk to?”

  “I’d talk to our director, and our stage manager, and Millicent Crotty. She and Viola were best friends. She was too upset to come tonight. Rehearsal should be almost over, unless they want to do ‘The Rain in Spain’ again.”