Music of Ghosts

by Sallie Bissell

  “Well, if you want to get to his house, you go a mile out the highway and take a left, then a right, then another left after you cross the bridge. If you want to get to Lige, just go over yonder.” She pointed to the back of the store.

  Mary returned her odd look. “He’s here?” She figured finding McCauley would take the whole day and probably half the night.

  The woman laughed. “He and Luke Lunsford have been here since breakfast. They play checkers all morning, music all afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” Amazed at her good luck, Mary threaded her way to the back of the store. After passing two shelves of tattered paperbacks that made up the Grapevine Public Library, she found Lige McCauley folded into a rocking chair next to a cold Franklin stove, frowning as another old man jumped checkers across a board. She watched quietly as his opponent cleared all of Lige’s men from the board, then she stepped forward.

  “Lige?”

  He looked up from under a brown felt fedora that had been stylish during World War II. “Why, hey there, girlie,” he said, his blue eyes brightening with recognition. “How’ve you been?”

  “Do you remember me?”

  He nodded. “I surely do. You paid me and my boys in advance for that last gig. Fellers like us remember that.”

  Lige’s opponent rose from his seat, politely offering her his chair. “Lige, I think I’ll go get us some of Earlene’s pies while they’re hot.”

  Lige nodded. As his friend hobbled toward the front of the store, Mary took the chair he’d offered. “I need a favor, Lige.”

  “You got another park to open?”

  “Not right now. I need to know if you can read music.”

  “I can,” he said. “My mama taught me … she played the organ at the Presbyterian Church.”

  Mary pulled out her scribbled notes. “Then I need to know if you’ve ever heard this tune before.”

  Lige studied the music for a long moment. With an odd look at Mary, he took his fiddle from its case, put the music on the checkerboard and started to play. While Dermot Munro had turned Mary’s crude array of shapes into a real tune, Lige McCauley brought that tune to life. He coaxed and tickled the notes, bending them with time and tempo. The music that came from his fiddle was like nothing Mary had ever heard before—so sad and sweet that it made her ache for Jonathan and Lily and a thousand other things she could not put a name to. She got out the digital recorder she used in court and turned it on as Lige began to sing.

  In my cabin in the woods, my dear sweet love lies bleeding.

  In my cabin in the woods, my bloody knife lies reeking.

  Though the one I love is gone today, her memory never leaves me.

  Her cold gray lips and sightless eyes will forever grieve me.

  McCauley sang the song twice, then put his fiddle down. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, his tone sharp.

  “Why?” asked Mary. “Have you heard it before?”

  He gave a somber nod. “That tune is cursed. Came straight out of Central Prison.”

  “Cursed?” Mary leaned forward, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly. “What do you mean?”

  “I spent some time there.” He looked at her with unashamed eyes. “Before I met Jesus, I had some trouble with the law.”

  “When were you in prison?”

  “April 12, 1970, to April 22, 1972.” He rubbed his chin. “Two years that passed like two hundred.”

  “And you heard this tune while you were there?”

  “Feller played it every night. It came from the building across from mine, where they kept the boys on death row. Every night the whole cellblock would go quiet, waiting for that tune to begin. It was pretty, but it tore your heart out. Little by little, we learned the words. Then everybody got to where they couldn’t stand it … the sadness just drove you crazy.”

  “Do you know who played it?” asked Mary.

  McCauley shook his head. “I reckon just some poor bastard in prison.”

  “Were they still playing it when you were released?”

  “Nope. We heard it for months, then one night we didn’t hear it no more. Everybody got real antsy, waitin’ for it to start again, but it never did. We figured they must have gassed the guy who played it, Lord bless his soul.”

  “Have you ever heard anybody else play it? Anybody around here?”

  He shook his head. “Naw. The only people who’d know that tune would be dead by now. Or still locked up in prison.”

  “But it’s so haunting, so beautiful,” said Mary.

  Lige McCauley’s blue eyes flashed. “Maybe to you, girlie. To me it’s somebody’s soul, flying up out of that hell hole, trying to find a place to land.”

  twenty-nine

  Halfway home from Grapevine, Mary’s cell phone rang, a recorded voice announcing CALL FROM ALEX. Immediately she pulled off the road and put the thing to her ear.

  “How did it go?” she asked, not bothering with hello.

  “Okay,” said her oldest friend.

  Alex’s flat tone chilled her. She took off her left earring and pressed the phone closer. “How did the judge rule?”

  “She didn’t. We’re going back Monday.”

  “No!” cried Mary. “What happened?”

  “Well, Jonathan did great, our Dr. Pace did great. Bagwell tried to argue the Ruth murder angle, but the judge wasn’t buying. At three o’clock I thought we were done, but Bagwell said she still had a few more points to bring up. So back we go on Monday.”

  A thrum of unease passed through Mary. Bagwell had already proven herself sly. Now she had all weekend to come up with more mischief. “What more points could she have?”

  “I’m guessing she’ll dig up her own expert witness to rebut Dr. Pace.”

  “You think she’ll call Lily?”

  “I don’t know,” said Alex. She paused for a moment, then spoke again. “Mary, there’s something I need to say to you.”

  Mary felt sick inside. Now she really didn’t like the tone in Alex’s voice. “What?”

  “I think you should come out here. And I think you should come prepared to testify.”

  “What?” Mary could hardly believe what she was hearing. They must be in deep shit for Alex to reverse herself like this. “What’s going on, Alex? And tell me the truth. Did Jonathan take a swing at Fred Moon again?”

  “No, nobody hit anybody,” Alex replied. “But most of the testimony was about you. I began to feel like you were the elephant in the room. Everyone was testifying about Mary Crow, but where was Mary Crow?”

  “Did the judge say anything?”

  “No, but I could tell she was frustrated. I mean, essentially, you are the child’s mother. You should have been in court.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying all along, Alex,” Mary reminded her. “I’ve wanted to come since day one.”

  “Mea culpa,” Alex replied. “I called it wrong. I guess that’s why you graduated first in our class and I came in twelfth. But can you come out now? Testify Monday?’

  “I’ll get a flight tomorrow,” said Mary.

  “Great.” Alex gave a sigh of relief. “I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  The Saturday flights out of Atlanta had such long layovers that Mary bought a ticket for an early nonstop on Sunday. Shortly after noon that day, she landed in Tulsa. She’d spent the whole flight nervous and edgy, and as she waited for her red suitcase to start spinning around the baggage carousel, she kept looking for Jonathan, hoping that he had come to pick her up. But she saw only strangers at the baggage claim—cowboys in Stetson hats, college kids in flip-flops. Disappointed, she finally just waited for her bag. All this way, she thought. All these years, and he can’t even come to meet me.

  Luggage churned along the conveyor belt, then her bag emerged. She was reaching to grab it when she heard a fa
miliar voice.

  “Mary!”

  She turned. Alex stood there, tall and grinning, wearing khaki shorts and an oversized white blouse. She opened her arms and wrapped Mary in a warm embrace.

  “I’m so glad you’re here!” she cried, hugging her close.

  She smelled of sun and a distinct aroma Mary knew only as Texas—wind and hay, peppermint gum and suntan lotion. Still, she’d forgotten how tall Alex was, how strong her arms. Her old friend held her heartily, without any fussy little pats on the back.

  “It’s so good to see you.” Mary blinked back sudden tears.

  “Jonathan’s at the motel,” Alex replied, answering her unasked question.

  “Did you tell him I was coming?”

  Alex nodded.

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked me not to tell Lily.”

  “Oh.” Mary was disappointed. She’d hoped the child might have softened toward her. Apparently that had not happened.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alex said, taking her bag. “He’s just got a bad case of the mid-trial willies.”

  Him and me both, thought Mary.

  They walked out into a bright Oklahoma afternoon, to Alex’s once white Jetta, now beige with dust. “Have you had lunch?” asked Alex as she put Mary’s suitcase in the trunk.

  “Nothing beyond coffee and a bagel in Atlanta.”

  “Then let’s get something to eat.”

  They left the airport, driving along shimmering, ruler-straight highways. Alex sped along with her blonde hair stuffed beneath a baseball cap, finally stopping at Pepe’s, a tiny restaurant that operated out of a Silver Stream trailer parked on the edge of a flat, green pasture where horses grazed in the distance.

  “Best tamales in town,” she told Mary as she got out of the car. “And I’m an expert on tamales.”

  “Then order us some.” Mary dug a twenty-dollar bill out of her purse. “Lunch is on me.”

  “Si, senorita.”

  Alex walked over to the window of the trailer, where she ordered their lunch in rapid Spanish. A few minutes later she came back to the car, two large iced teas in hand.

  “Let’s go sit down,” said Alex. “They’ll bring us our food.”

  They went to a small table shaded by a bright red umbrella. “So tell me about Friday,” said Mary. “How did I get to be the elephant in the room?”

  Alex took a deep breath. “Well, Dr. Pace said Lily had been raised by an incredibly caring maternal parent, Jonathan said though Lily didn’t call you ‘mom’ she regarded you as her mother, and that you two shared child-rearing responsibilities equally. Bagwell then went off on a financial tangent. What did Jonathan pay for, what did you pay for, how did he make his money, how did you make yours.”

  She’s trying to make him look lazy, thought Mary. “What did Jonathan say?”

  “He said he was a hunting guide and you were an attorney. Bagwell asked what kind of attorney you were. Jonathan said you were in general practice. Bagwell said she understood you were a prosecutor. Jonathan explained that you had agreed to give up capital crimes as long as Lily was in the home.” Alex took a sip of tea. “I thought that was such a good point that I came back to it, on re-direct, to show how committed you were to Lily.”

  Mary’s mouth went dry. “Are you serious?”

  Excited, Alex nodded. “It was a freebie. If stupid Bagwell hadn’t asked the question, I couldn’t have scored with the answer.”

  Suddenly a great humming noise enveloped Mary’s brain. In slow motion she watched a young girl come and put a basket of steaming tamales on their table. She wore a silver and turquoise bracelet on her left arm; a crucifix around her neck. Mary heard nothing but the humming and the echoes of what Alex had just told her. Jonathan said you’d agreed to give up capital crimes. It was such a good point that I came back to it, on re-direct.

  “Mary?” Alex reached across the table. “Are you okay?”

  For a moment all she could do was stare at her friend. Finally, she spoke in a whisper. “There’s something you need to know.”

  “What?”

  Mary pulled out the copy of the Snitch she’d stashed in the bottom of her purse. She’d brought the thing along as a joke, thinking Alex would get a laugh out of seeing her in a supermarket tabloid. “This.”

  Alex unfolded the paper. When she saw the cover, she gasped. “You’re Pocahontas? You’re defending this Fiddlesticks guy?”

  “I didn’t mean to do it … it just happened.”

  Alex’s eyes blazed. “What do you mean it just happened? Getting drunk just happens. Getting laid might just happen. But signing on as defense counsel in a murder trial? That doesn’t just happen, Mary!”

  “I’m sorry. The accused is a good guy. He saved an owl Jonathan hit with the car. Anyway, I’ve got Dave Loveman lined up to take over as soon as he gets back from Israel.”

  Fierce blotches of red bloomed in Alex’s cheeks. “I’ve talked with you nearly every day for two weeks—could you not have at least mentioned this? Like, ‘oh, by the way, Al—a pal of mine just got charged with homicide, so I’m going to help him out’.”

  “You told me to take a new case to get my mind off this one,” cried Mary. “This just fell in my lap. All the other criminal guys in town were representing the other suspects in the case. I never dreamed you’d base your custody argument on a promise I made to Jonathan seven years ago.”

  “Jonathan was the one who brought it up,” Alex snapped. “And he brought it up proudly, I might add.”

  They fell into an awkward silence. Alex gazed miserably at her plate of tamales, then finally pushed it away. “Do you realize where Bagwell could go with this?”

  “Yeah. I do.” Mary closed her eyes. She was beyond tears, beyond anything except feeling a great numbness inside. She’d broken her promise to Jonathan, been deceitful with Alex, now she’d just torpedoed their custody case.

  “Look—maybe my testifying isn’t such a good idea. Maybe I should just catch the next plane out of Tulsa and just go home.”

  “No,” said Alex. “Then you’d look too busy to testify for custody of Lily.”

  “Somehow, that still sounds better than being Pocahontas in the Snitch,” said Mary.

  Alex shook her head. “Damn, Mary. Why a murder trial? Couldn’t you have just written a few wills? Or entered a tennis tournament?”

  Suddenly, Mary’s temper flared. “Because it’s what I do, what I am. A good man is being railroaded by our asshole DA. I couldn’t just tell him I was sorry for his bad luck, but I promised my boyfriend that I wouldn’t take any nasty cases.”

  “Jonathan’s a little more than your boyfriend, Mary.”

  “I don’t know what Jonathan is anymore. Whatever he is, he can get over my not doing criminal work. So can you and everybody else.”

  Alex sat there, mulling their options. “Can you prove this Loveman is going to take over?” she finally asked.

  “I’ve got his emails,” said Mary. “I guess you could depose him, from Israel.”

  “Okay,” Alex replied. “This is what we’ll do. If by some stretch Bagwell knows about this case, we say the accused is a friend, this is his first criminal charge, and you’ve already made arrangements to turn the case over to another lawyer.”

  “No,” said Mary.

  “What do you mean no? Have you’ve got a better idea?”

  “Yeah, Alex, I do,” said Mary. “The truth. Thousands of criminal attorneys raise happy, healthy children. Why can’t I?”

  “Good question,” Alex agreed. “Maybe you should pose it to Jonathan.”

  “I intend to,” said Mary. “And sooner than later.”

  Thirty

  The same Sunday afternoon found Jerry Cochran staring up at Ginger Malloy’s bedroom ceiling. After a lingering brunch on the patio, they
’d retired to her room where they’d made love in the sunlight, a rare treat for both of them. Now they lay drowsy, attending the chirps of young wrens and the more distant laughter of golfers as they navigated the seventh-hole rough that bordered Ginger’s backyard. Though Cochran knew he should treasure the moment—the feel of her body against his, the rhythmic, slightly hypnotic sound of her breathing, his thoughts kept going back to Lisa Wilson’s funeral. It had been a political extravaganza—dozens of solemn-faced governors and congressmen lining up to express their condolences to Carlisle Wilson. He hadn’t known how the governor would react to him, but the old man surprised him again—offering him a leathery handshake, whispering, “You’re a good man, Gerald Cochran. I always knew you’d find who did it.” But all the fire had vanished from the old man’s snapping black eyes, and it seemed as if the only thing holding him up was sheer resolve. Though Turpin had driven them back home delirious to be re-admitted into Wilson’s good graces, the doubts that had niggled at Cochran from the first had only grown worse. Every day he grew more convinced that Lisa Wilson’s real killer was running free.

  Suddenly, Ginger moved. Purposefully, as if deciding that now was the time to take action, she lifted up on one elbow and pinned him with a fierce green gaze. “I need to ask you something.”

  “What?” he asked, surprised. He thought she’d drifted off to sleep.

  She brushed back a wisp of red hair. “Are we okay?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, are you still into this relationship as much as you were?”

  “Of course I am.” He raised up and kissed her. “Why would you ask that?”

  “Because I’m here snuggling against you, while you’re frowning at the ceiling. Looking, I might add, as if you wanted to check your watch.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was just thinking about Lisa Wilson’s funeral.”

  “Oh, God. Don’t tell me you’re lying here dreaming of the succubus.”

  “The what?”

  “The succubus. Jessica Rusk in her white Armani suit.”