Music of Ghosts

by Sallie Bissell

  Mary thought fast. The hymn was ending; Ginger promised they would leave. But she had to take a copy of this music with her, preferably without Ginger knowing. She sang until halfway through the last verse, then she faked a coughing fit. Ginger looked over, frowning with concern.

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” Mary rasped. “I’ll be right back.”

  Scooping up her purse along with the songbook, she walked toward the back of the room. The same woman who’d given her lemonade pointed to a small door in one corner. Mary nodded her thanks and opened it to find an empty bathroom. Hurriedly, she locked the door behind her and ripped five pages from the center of the hymnal.

  “That’s ten different songs,” she whispered. “Enough to figure out what’s going on here.”

  She listened at the door until the singing stopped, then she made her move. Unlocking the bathroom, she headed straight for Ginger.

  “Are you okay?” her friend asked.

  “Just a frog in my throat,” said Mary, trying to sound hoarse. “Are you ready to go?”

  “Yeah,” said Ginger. “Let me tell Dr. Munro good-bye.”

  “I’ll go put these hymnals up.” Mary put Ginger’s hymnal on top and went over and gave both books to the lemonade lady. She felt guilty about defacing the church’s property, but she would replace the hymnal later. If she could match these notes up with the shapes carved into Lisa Wilson, it would be a total game-changer for Nick Stratton.

  Finally, Ginger made her farewells. “We’re done,” she said as they walked back out into the summer night. “It wasn’t too horrible, was it?”

  “It was great.” Mary smiled. “I had so much fun, I got all choked up inside.”

  They drove back to Hartsville, Ginger going on about how weird but beautiful the music had been. She dropped Mary back at her office with another invitation to play tennis.

  “Have you even bounced a ball on our new tennis courts yet?” Ginger asked.

  “Not yet,” Mary replied.

  “Then let’s play sometime this week.”

  “I’d love to,” said Mary, anxious to get busy on her stolen pages. “Check your schedule and call me tomorrow.”

  She waited until Ginger drove away, then she hurried up to her office. She dug the pages from her purse, then rifled through the drawer that held the Wilson evidence files. Pulling out the photos, she spread them out in front of her fireplace. The police photographer who’d taken the close-ups of the body had numbered the shots sequentially, like a puzzle. In a few minutes an image of Lisa Wilson lay on Mary’s floor, a grisly collage comprised of 8x10 glossy photos.

  “Okay,” Mary whispered. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” She got out a magnifying glass, then compared the shape notes to the figures cut into Lisa Wilson’s body. Discounting for blood smears and edema, the mutilations on the dead girl’s skin and the musical shape notes were identical. The lampshade figure was do, the crescent moon re, the baseball diamond mi. Two triangles, an oval, and a rectangle made up so, fa, la, and ti. Eight repeating shapes for the eight notes of the scale.

  “Holy shit!” she whispered. “Somebody carved shape-note music on this girl.”

  For a moment she just sat there, staring at the pictures, stunned by the enormity of what she’d discovered. There had been thirty people at that meeting tonight, and Dr. Monroe had gone on about how many shape-note societies there were. The suspect pool for Lisa Wilson’s killer had just grown by hundreds, at the very least.

  Still, she wasn’t satisfied. Were the notes just willy-nilly, or did they compose a message, a tune? She grabbed a legal pad from her desk and made a grid on a sheet of paper. Then she began to copy the symbols down. Assuming the carver probably worked as most people read, she started at Lisa Wilson’s wrist; an hour later she finished with a small, flag-shaped mark just above her left ankle. Somebody had cut sixty-four shape notes into this girl’s skin.

  “But why?” Mary said aloud. “What for? Was it a hymn? A warning of hell in the hereafter?”

  She thumbed through the pages she’d stolen. Most of the tunes were simple—four lines of notes from start to finish. “Sixty-four cuts mean sixty-four notes. Sixteen notes to a line, four lines to a song.”

  Using a song called “Long Time Traveling” as a template, she drew five lines with four spaces between them. Laboriously, she copied down each shape note on its proper space on the staff. Do became C, re became D. Cursing the fact that she’d taken French in high school instead of music, she worked into the night—charting the notes going across the girl’s body. Several times she tried to hum the tune, but she couldn’t make it sound like anything. Finally, she put her pencil down as the courthouse clock struck two a.m.

  “Okay,” she said, flopping back on the sofa, her eyes burning with fatigue. “Right now, you’ve got the notes. Tomorrow you’ve got to find someone who can turn them into a tune.”

  Twenty-eight

  The next morning, more contemporary notes poured from the iPod in Alex Carter’s car. The songs comprised her special going-to-court playlist, ninety minutes of music that started with the Rolling Stones, traversed through Kate Bush and Duran Duran, and culminated with Bob Wills and his Texas Playboys.

  As the music blared, Jonathan Walkingstick sat stiffly in the passenger seat, thinking how differently Mary prepared for court. With her, it was mostly silence—hours of pouring over case law or gazing at a computer screen. Her breaks consisted of either long, solitary walks in the woods, or fierce tennis matches with Ginger Malloy. If she ever listened to music, he’d never heard it.

  “You okay?” asked Alex, turning down some song he remembered from high school.

  “Yeah.” Okay covered it, he thought. Not great, but okay.

  “Did you get any sleep last night?”

  “Enough,” he said. Lily had slept well. He’d dozed in frustrating increments, waking up every fifteen minutes. At four a.m. he’d given up and gotten up, brewing a pot of in-room coffee while he watched the sun rise over the parking lot of the Holiday Inn.

  “Lily’s had a big time these last ten days,” said Alex. “Riding Butterbean, playing with my boys.”

  Jonathan smiled. They’d both had fun at Alex’s little forty-acre ranch, but Lily had truly blossomed. She’d learned how to ride a pony, played soccer with Alex’s sons. Her laugh started coming easily again and the tightness around her mouth relaxed. Still, not once had he heard the child speak Mary’s name.

  “Has she said anything to you about Mary?” he asked, wondering if Lily might have shared her thoughts more easily with a woman.

  “Not a word,” said Alex. “How about you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s like she doesn’t acknowledge Mary’s existence anymore.”

  “Well, Ailene Pace said Lily still needed help. Probably you guys should get some counseling when you get back home.”

  He thought of home. It now seemed as distant as Shangri-La. “You don’t think they’ll make Lily testify, do you?”

  “Probably not.”

  He sat back in the seat, his thoughts returning to Mary. He’d known, since he first signed the contract for that duplex, that he was going down the wrong path. But he’d seen the look in Fred Moon’s eyes, the smirk on his face: you took my daughter, so now I’m going to take yours. Then, the lawsuit had come and he’d gone farther down that path, afraid to tell Mary what he’d done, afraid she would accuse him of deceit. Afraid, ultimately, of her looking at him without the love that he’d known since they were kids. He suddenly felt such a heaviness in his chest that he turned to Alex.

  “So you think we’ll do okay?”

  “I feel better about this than I did ten days ago,” she said, sipping her cup of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee. “Aileen will testify that Lily is a healthy child whose current emotional difficulties were brought on by her recent stay with the Moons. Plus I�
��ve got a bunch of old DUI charges that don’t exactly make Fred and Dulcy look like model grandparents.”

  “What about the Mary-Ruth thing?”

  She shrugged. “They open the Mary door, I’ll open the Ruth door. She comes across like a crazed poisoner.”

  Her words made him feel odd. Ruth had loved him, had worn his wedding ring. She’d wrapped her life around his like a little green vine. Now, Ruth was a ghost, haunting his nightmares, appearing in Lily’s face when the light came at a certain angle.

  “How do you feel about testifying?” asked Alex.

  “I’m okay with it,” he said, grateful to leave the subject of Ruth.

  “Can you remember what we talked about? When you go on the stand?”

  “Answer your questions in full. Answer Bagwell’s questions briefly. Be polite, especially to the judge. Don’t take any punches at Fred Moon.”

  “Even if they make you mad?” Alex said. “Even if they say awful things about you and Mary?”

  He shook his head, feeling like a child promising never to call the playground bully a bad name. “Whatever anybody says, I stay polite.”

  “Then we’re cool, buddy.” Alex offered him a fist-bump. “I have every reason to believe that this will work out in your favor.”

  Please God, he thought, staring out at the flat farmland as Alex turned south on Highway 52. He had no idea what he would do if the judge gave Lily over to the Moons. Suddenly, his cell phone vibrated. He pulled it from the pocket of his jacket. It was a text message, from Mary.

  Good luck today. Still saving you a seat in Carolina.

  A thousand miles to the east, Mary put her cell phone on her table at Sadie’s coffee shop, hoping that Jonathan would get her text message before he went into court. She’d gotten little sleep the night before, both excited over discovering the shape note figures and terrified about Jonathan’s custody trial. About the trial she could nothing but offer her support; about the shape notes, she had quite a few more options. She’d done some Internet research last night and learned that Dr. Munro, the funny little man at the church, was one of the country’s foremost authorities on Sacred Harp music. She’d decided, around five in the morning, to take her transcribed scribblings to him. Maybe he could figure out the tune carved into Lisa Wilson’s body.

  She waited through two more cups of coffee for Jonathan to text back, then she gave up and returned to her office. He’ll text when there’s something to text about, she told herself. He’s probably so nervous right now his fingers can’t press the keys.

  She sat down at her desk and looked up the number for the Sugartree Baptist Assembly. A pleasant secretary answered her call, and happily gave her Dermot Munro’s number. When he answered her call, she re-introduced herself and told him that she’d copied some old shape note music down and would he have a look at it?

  “I’d be happy to.” Munro sounded thrilled. “Just bring it to the next singing!”

  “I may not be in town then,” said Mary. “Could you possibly have a look this morning?”

  Munro paused for an instant, then replied, chirpy as ever. “Of course. I live at 1414 Mulberry Street, in Sylva. I’ll be here until three this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  She locked all of Lisa Wilson’s photos in a drawer and headed down the stairs. Forty-five minutes later she stood ringing the doorbell of a modest brick home shaded by an old tree laden with ripening apples.

  “My,” Dermot Munro exclaimed as he opened his front door. “You are quick on the trigger.”

  “I apologize for coming so early,” said Mary. “But this song has been driving me crazy.”

  “It’s alright,” said Munro. “My wife and I are retired teachers. We still get up early. Come on in.”

  Mary walked into the living room of a couple who’d obviously devoted their lives to music. Small busts of Beethoven and Mozart stood on two end tables, while over-stuffed chintz chairs held stacks of sheet music. A grand piano commanded one corner of the room, a full-length mirror beside it.

  “Hopefully, this won’t take long,” said Mary, pulling out the legal pad that held Lisa Wilson’s notes. “I wondered if you recognized this tune.”

  Munro studied the scribbled music. “Does it have a title?”

  “No.” Mary thought of the old trunk in her office. “I just copied notes written inside an old trunk.”

  “Well, that’s a new one on me,” said Munro. “I’ve never heard of one written inside a trunk.” Nonetheless, he sat down at the piano and began to play. The melody sounded odd and discordant, as if it were some composer’s work-in-progress.

  “Hmmm,” said Dr. Munro. “Let’s put this in minor key.” He shifted his hands on the keyboard and played the song again. It sounded no better.

  Frowning at the notes, he called to his wife. “Ima Lou, would you come in here and see if you recognize this?”

  Mary turned as the lemonade lady from last night came bustling in “Well, hello!” she said, pumping Mary’s hand. “How nice to see you again!”

  “Nice to see you, too.” Mary smiled. “I really enjoyed last night.”

  Dr. Munro looked up from the piano. “Sweetheart, see if you recognize this tune. This young lady found it written inside a trunk.” He gave Mary a wink. “Ima Lou taught voice for thirty years. She has a sub-specialty in Southern Gospel traditions.”

  Ima Lou stood behind her husband, gazing at the music while Munro played the tune for a second time.

  “Have you ever heard that before?” He looked up at her over his shoulder. “In the shape note literature?”

  “Never.” She shook her head. “It’s so plaintive—it almost sounds like a string tune.”

  “You’re right, Ima Lou!” cried Munro. “Violin, maybe. Or cello.”

  Mary gulped. Fiddle music at the cabin, fiddle notes carved on Lisa’s body. Were two pieces of the puzzle fitting together?

  “So you probably wouldn’t find it in the shape note hymnal?” Mary wanted to be sure she understood this correctly.

  “None that we know of.” Munro nodded at a bookshelf stacked with books. “And we’ve got all the collections. If you found it in a trunk, it might just be a snippet of a tune somebody wrote down so they wouldn’t forget it.”

  “Thank you so much.” Mary smiled at the couple as she took back her scrawled musical transcription. “I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

  “Then give Ginger our best and come to the shape note singing again,” Dr. Munro replied. “We meet the third Thursday of each month.”

  “I’ll put it on my calendar,” Mary said. “I feel like I’ve just scratched the surface of Sacred Harp singing.”

  She got back in her car. She checked her cell phone, but there was nothing from either Jonathan or Alex. They’re probably in court now, she told herself, the pit of her stomach fluttery with nerves. They’ll call when they have something to call about.

  Keeping her phone plugged in to the dashboard, she turned her attention to the shape notes. Thanks to the Munros, she now had clues that weren’t mere wisps of conjecture. The figures on Lisa Wilson’s body comprised a tune, probably written for a stringed instrument.

  “Which throws your canned-music theory in the toilet,” she said aloud. “But doubles down on every fiddle player in the mountains, starting with Stratton.”

  But still, why cut this tune into someone’s flesh? What did it mean? What she needed now was not a Sacred Harp expert, but someone who knew fiddle music.

  “Lige McCauley,” she said. She’d hired him and his string band to play the sports park ceremony. He was famous in the old-time music community, and was the current spiritual godfather of all mountain fiddlers. Now, all she had to do was find him. She remembered sending his check to an address sparse by current standards—simply Lige McCauley, Grapevine, M
adison County, North Carolina.

  “Okay, Lige. Here I come.” She got back on the highway and headed north. Ninety minutes later she crossed into Madison County, a place of roaring creeks and woodsy hollers populated by mountain families who’d arrived in the mid 1700s and never left again. At a market she asked for directions to Grapevine and drove where she thought the clerk had told her, but she found no town, no church, not even a gas station. She was beginning to think that Grapevine might be one of those nebulous mountain communities that was more a state of mind than an actual place. If you lived there, you knew where it was. If you didn’t, you could pass right through without ever knowing you’d visited.

  After twisting along the Ivy River for a few miles, she came to a gap between two mountain ridges where the woods thinned out enough to allow a small, one-gas-pump country store and a row of industrial-sized garbage bins. Quickly, she turned into the parking lot. If this wasn’t Grapevine, then maybe someone here could get her there. She parked her car and headed up the steps. Inside, the store was dimly lit and smelled of old wood fires. The narrow aisles were packed with everything from laundry detergent to lottery tickets. She walked to the counter, where a large woman with hair the color of soot sat behind an old brass cash register, frying apple tarts in an electric skillet.

  “Help you?” the woman asked as she flipped one of the tarts over.

  “I was wondering if you know where Grapevine is.”

  “This is Grapevine.”

  Mary smiled; she figured it might be someplace like this. “Then do you know where Lige McCauley lives?”