by Aiden James
“Yep, you’re seeing me in the only suit I own,” I told him, standard handshake this time, given the locale and circumstance. “But I’ve got nothin’ on you, bro!”
Very true. Fiona readily agreed, unable to resist a hand brush against the right sleeve of Justin’s designer suit. Not that my pinstripes didn’t catch an eye. But he looked just like Michael Vick on the pages of Sports Illustrated, right before he signed with the Eagles when he got out of prison. Justin trimmed up his beard, too…so suave.
Jackie could scarcely contain her excitement about ‘sexy Justin’, announcing his dress details to us when we first arrived, followed by a faux fan wave as if she might faint from desire. This, despite her partner Michelle standing nearby. Even Angie noticed, standing nearby and smiling in admiration. Poor Tom and Tony, both dressed in impeccable suits as well, received no such fanfare. Not that it’d matter outside of our small circle of friends anyway. With so many pretty people from the music industry in attendance, just those who looked like they belong in that group got a second look. Justin, a GQ looking African-American couldn’t help but get noticed in a predominately white affair. The rest of us just sort of blended in with our surroundings.
As for me, my only concern is looking halfway comfortable in a suit. Hate it, I do. But since it’s to honor our friends today, I’m happy to wear it for them.
The ushers moved us up near the front, just a few rows behind Candi’s and Brenda’s families, who took the trip out west from New Jersey and Vermont. Fiona had met Candi’s mom previously, Shirley Miller, so before sitting next to me she went up to her and gave her a tearful hug. Really, it was an intense and poignant moment, since shared grief and hoped for healing are the only noble reasons to be here. Although I didn’t grieve like Fiona and Candi’s mom did, I hurt a lot more right then, watching them.
Candice Miller, as the minister later told the audience, loved life. She lived it fully, as evident in her music career that she pursued seriously after a failed marriage in her early twenties. Her divorce set a fire under her ass, giving her inspiration for her songwriting that later fueled her career as a country artist. Grammys and CMAs already in abundance, what stood out most about Candi was her steadfast devotion to her family back in Jersey, and the cherished friends she made in Nashville during the past few years.
Unlike many of the folks Fiona does readings for and has associated with in the music industry over the years, Candi was completely genuine. It seems ironic that she grew up in an area where people are supposed to be a little cold and unapproachable. Not her. She was an open book and reminded me of folks born and raised in rural Tennessee and Kentucky. Country fit her, like Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, and people like that.
It’s why I never understood why she changed her name to Candi Starr. Sounds like a pole stripper down at Déjà Vu. Fiona told me a while back that her first manager made her change it. He said it’d help her rise above the competition.
Her talent alone did that.
“Do you believe in God?”
Justin asked me this after we’d all paid our final respects to our three departed friends and exited the main sanctuary. Johnny was scheduled to be buried in Mississippi this Tuesday, while Candi and Brenda would be buried on the east coast later this week.
“That’s a strange question to be asking in a place like this.”
Yeah, I know it isn’t, and Justin snickered at my response.
“Well do you?”
“Yes…I believe in something beyond us,” I told him. We moved out of the main aisle to wait on the girls, who were blocking traffic while chatting with the Dixie Darlings. “I grew up Catholic, and I flirted with the holy-rollers when I dated a Born Again Christian in high school. But, I relate best to the ideology of Thomas Paine.”
“What, a frigging deist?”
He made it sound so bad, and I would’ve called him on it, since I figured his religion had to include the Greek pantheon, since he’s such a dedicated hedonist. But, his iPhone beeped with an incoming picture message from his latest girlfriend, Lakisha.
“Yes, a deist, and proud to be one, I might add!”
Justin simply nodded, while chuckling at the image she sent. He totally missed my charade at sounding offended.
“Here, check this out, dude.”
He showed me the image on the screen. Him dancing snake-like with a white turban on his head, shirtless…not sure what else was missing since the camera focused on his naked muscular torso and chiseled facial features. And the turban, which I could tell was a bath towel wrapped around his head.
“Rebel Soul?”
“Don’t pay attention to that, man—just the picture,” said Justin, placing his forefinger over his email user name, as if that’d make it somehow disappear from my mind. “It’s Jafar, dude!”
“Okay, Jafar…Rebel Soul,” I teased. “So, when did you decide to pick up the Chippendale strut?”
That got him, at least for a moment. Just a glint of fire in his eyes, before he started chuckling. He’s got a great sense of humor, always.
“Man, this was taken a month ago, when Lakisha and I visited her family in Miami. We were goofing off in the hotel, and I just wrapped a towel around my head, acting like some stupid terrorist and shit,” he explained. “She just got around to downloading the video to her phone and now sent it to me, I guess.”
“Hmmm…you make a good terrorist—really you do,” I said. “I should probably keep an eye out for your box cutters, huh?”
“Dude, unlike you I’m Christian! I ain’t lookin’ forward to no seventy virgins when I die!”
He feigned indignation, louder than I think he intended. Some of the crowd passing by us turned to look, their scowls reminding us both we conversed in a church lobby—not the latte line at Starbucks.
“So you say…Rebel Soul!”
“Shhh!! Hey, Fiona likes that name, man!”
He looked back toward the sanctuary, but she and the other females were still talking. The crowd gathered around them and the Darlings quadrupled in size. We, the guys, could be stranded here in the lobby indefinitely.
“That’s how I came to really know y’all,” he continued, turning back to face me. “After Sherri Taylor’s party, I ran into Fiona on that Civil War chat site she talks about. Rebel Soul was what drew her interest, and then we found out we were both big Franklin Civil War buffs. The rest you know, man…the Union Army ghosts that used to parade in my Granny’s backyard off of 8th Avenue in Nashville, and other stuff.”
“Okay, I’ll quit,” I told him. Rapidly becoming one of my very best friends, I didn’t want to be an ass. I’m just having some fun. “So, that’s actually the Jafar dance, huh?”
“Now, you’re talking!” he beamed. “Lakisha’s all excited about Halloween and shit, even though it’s still three months away. She’s gonna dress up like Jasmine.”
“So, Jafar and not Aladdin?? What gives with that, man?”
“The beard, dude. I’d have to shave,” he said. “I ain’t ready to do that just yet.”
“So, Jasmine with the guy she hates….interesting.”
Tom and Tony walked over to join us from across the room, each holding a pastry from a refreshment table on the north side of the lobby.
“Hey, I’ll just add Abu to go on my shoulder, and we’ll be a’ight.”
“Yeah, maybe,” I agreed, laughing. Justin’s voice and antics always gets me, as he can make even the most mundane thing sound hilarious. “Here comes the Sultan and Genie if you’re interested in bringing them along.”
Our two NVP partners would be perfect for the parts. Tom’s shoes sort of look like slippers, and his beard is curly like the Sultan’s. So, who knows?
“Sorry about that,” said Fiona. She and the other girls finally caught up with us. “Michelle and Natalie haven’t seen each other in years, so it took a little longer to catch up.”
She looked over at Jackie’s beau…is that the right word? Anyway, she looked over
at Michelle, who nodded shyly. Pretty lady, with strawberry blond hair and emerald eyes. She and Jackie make a great couple, and Michelle’s soft spoken nature seems to blend well with Jackie’s louder personality. It’s been almost a year since they hooked up. I hope it works out for them.
When we left the building, we gathered briefly in the parking lot to confirm our plans for tomorrow night. Fiona talked with our ‘Dragon Lady’ client this morning, and we’re on for tomorrow night. Yippee!! Yeah, I’m sure all us guys are really looking forward to visiting the inside of Charlain Thompson’s Cumberland River home. At least the girls sound like they’re excited about it.
Ready to split up and head our separate ways, Detective Silver came up and surprised us. Dressed in a tailored dark suit, he had also attended the service…from some other vantage point, thank God. He’s probably looking for anyone out of place, since many murderers down through history have taken an active interest in the funeral services held for their victims. I’ll bet Ed’s disappointed we didn’t actually bury anyone that afternoon, since a gravesite visit might lure the killer out of hiding and give our friendly neighborhood dick the elusive edge he so desperately seeks.
Well, maybe not so desperate. After all, it is the man’s job to be looking for the killer at every opportunity to do so.... But he needed to talk with Fiona for a moment, and she told me briefly she’d called him that morning and left a voicemail message for him. What about, I’d have to wait to find out.
Everyone else decided to leave, except for Tony, who kept me company while I waited for Fiona. We don’t talk as much as we used to, mainly because our days off from our employer are usually different, and he’s been spending most of his spare time trying to finish his graphic design degree. So it’s good to catch up on things. Besides, he wanted to show me pictures from his latest fishing trip to Gatlinburg. He caught a fifteen-pound German Brown he’s quite proud of.
After twenty minutes or so roasting in my gangster suit, Fiona returned to where I stood with Tony, who also simmered under the afternoon sun. He appeared quite grateful to be on his way back to his Civic, parked nearby. Walking hand in hand with my wife to our Camaro, I made a bigger show than usual of opening the passenger door for her, since I caught Ed watching us from near the main entrance.
He must have some other business to take care of inside the church…more possible suspects to interview, perhaps? Anyway, Fiona gave me an amused look once I got in the driver’s side and started the engine.
“You’re so silly,” she told me, gently grasping my arm, squeezing my bicep. It was her way of letting me know she’s mine…my responsibility to love and protect.
“You want me to lighten up on him?” I asked, wearing the smirk she so dearly loathes. She nodded emphatically. “Okay…I’ll try harder.”
I let out a low sigh. Leaving the parking lot, I felt immensely better. Too much death and sadness. Too much Ed. We rode in silence until we reached the main highway heading south. I-65.
“The reason I needed to speak with Ed is I had another dream last night.”
Fiona’s reserved tone made me realize she’d been pondering how to bring this up. My first thought was ‘why didn’t you talk to me first?’, but my gut instinct told me not to go there…to have enough faith in my wife that she had a damned good reason to tell him before sharing the dream’s information with me.
“Okay,” I said, and waited for her to go on.
“It was Candi again,” she said, releasing her own sigh. It wasn’t a restful night for her, I take it. The faint circles under her eyes should’ve told me that much. “I wish I could go inside her house. Something is there that can help us find her killer.”
“Really?”
I made sure my tone stayed neutral, nothing cynical.
“Yes,” she said, pausing to look at me.
I could feel her penetrating gaze study my expression, digging into my psyche as far as she could. Thank God, I’m often a tough read for her.
“Candi’s spirit told me last night that the killer is connected with her former life in New Jersey,” she continued. “Mafia. He has something to do with gangland stuff…racketeering, contract hits, stuff like that.”
“So, Candi was part of the Mafia too?”
I couldn’t picture Candi’s blond cupcake persona busting someone’s knuckles or delivering a Sicilian necktie. But maybe the Jersey girl version could pull that off.
“No, no…not at all,” said Fiona, shaking her head. “But people she knew were associated with some of the meanest crime bosses in the northeast. That’s what she told me. The evidence to support it lies somewhere in her house…and maybe the killer’s identity is there, too. Candi’s image faded away before she could tell me exactly where, or specifically what we need to look for. She seemed frightened…like something was coming after her. Something or someone who doesn’t want us to find it...whatever it is.”
“So, does this mean the Mafia is after us?”
It seemed really absurd to even pose a question like this. What would any of Candi’s friends have that organized crime would find remotely interesting?
It simply didn’t make sense…not to me, anyway.
“Not them as a group,” she said, finally, her tone somber, very worried. “But, I definitely feel the killer has mobster connections. And, I know this…the guy has killed before. Before he came to Tennessee. Now it’s up to the police—and Ed, to find him before he kills again.”
All I could do is shake my head. No matter how you looked at it, the news kept getting worse. Much worse.
Chapter Fourteen
I would’ve never bothered with rehearsal Sunday night if I didn’t feel my wife and kids would be okay. Safe and sound from a murderous stalker bent on eliminating Candi Starr’s close friends and business associates. Thankfully, Gerard Simms, Fiona’s younger brother agreed to come to our place and spend the night.
I guess most folks would wonder what good that’ll do.
Well, let’s start with the fact Gerard really isn’t little—not in the physical stature sense, anyway. Six-foot six, and two-hundred and forty pounds of steel-like muscle. Not to mention the former Marine holds a third-degree black belt in Karate. He’s good enough to teach classes, so I’d say he’s the next best thing to having a personal bodyguard on hand.
I drove my Harley to Madison, since the normal heat and sticky humidity had subsided somewhat. It was Seventy-five degrees when I left our house at eight o’clock, and the temperature had dropped down to sixty-nine by the time I arrived at our warehouse. Very unusual for this time of year. The latter half of July can be murderous.
I unloaded my bass and stepped into the building just before eight-forty five. Ricky and Chris met me outside the door to our rehearsal room, smiling while they nodded approvingly. I thought I was fifteen minutes early, and since I didn’t see their cars, I assumed I’d be the first one to arrive that night. I guess I was wrong.
“‘Is This The Way?’…awesome tune, Jimmy!” Chris enthused.
“Thanks, man,” I told him, unable to mask a shy smile. Our kid virtuoso is a great addition, as I mentioned before. But for him to really dig something we created—something I wrote pretty much by myself—really threw me for a loop. I felt completely humbled and honored at the same time.
“No, I’m serious, my good man!” he assured me, taking a quick hit from the joint he shared with Ricky. I recognized the rolling paper. “Ricky and I have decided to showcase that tune at number five, when we slow down for a moment after the assault from Primetime, Lil’ Miss Walker, Burnin’ Fever, and Harlequin.”
More heady stuff, since the other tunes were some of Ricky’s and my earliest completed compositions. I’d already heard Chris’s ‘enhancements’ to Primetime and Harlequin, which lifted the tunes to a level no one could compete with. Definitely no other rock bands in the southeastern United States could do it.
“Seriously, Jimmy, you should hear the violin patches Chris added to Max’s
guitar work,” said Ricky, moving over to give me a hearty slap on the back and bring me inside the room. Mongo was just getting started on setting up his drums, and Max was due to join us at any moment. “The parts where Max uses his guitar to create a violin feel with the volume knob trick he does with his pinky? We now have a real violin part which works so much better—it even blends well with the twelve-string.”
I’m actually the guy who laid the original acoustic guitar tracks for this one, using a beat-up Ovation twelve-string that records really nice. When we play live, though, Ricky handles all of the acoustic work, since the bass line for this song is what drives the song’s sorrowful groove. It reminds us all of the haunting ballads from the Scottish Isles and the later evolution of that sound in nineteenth century Appalachia.
I came up with the chord progression back in high school, but never finished it beyond adding a mournful melody line. It’s one that’ll tear your heart out...but is still catchy, too. Just so sad, man, and I remember how I once wept trying to work on it in college.
I let it go, and forgot about the song until I relocated to Nashville. Not long after I met Ricky, I played the unfinished tune for him and regretted it right away. He went ape-shit over it, and then insisted we start working on it that night. By the time I headed home we had our first finished collaboration.
It’s sort of ironic, looking back now, since it turned into one of our finest pieces. The words were mainly Ricky’s creation, who likes things a bit more obscure than what you’ll ever see from me. But the lyrics work. Probably because they came from his heart…talking about the suicide of his twin-sister soon after he arrived in Nashville. That event damn near made him pack everything up and return home to Georgia, for good.