Here’s what happened: a few weeks ago, on that one lazy, rainy Sunday morning a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, my sister, Charli called just before eleven.
“Quick, turn on the T.V. Channel Forty-Two. Quick!” She hung up before I could even say “hey”.
Tim, aforementioned best friend and hot guy, loafed on my ratty sofa alternating between napping and watching one of those never-ending sports talk shows. He’s a cop and his two weeks of evening rotation, which is his least favorite, were due to start that evening, so he wasn’t exactly being Mr. Romantic at the time. “Hey, I’m watching that!” he whined as I picked up the remote and switched channels.
“That was Charli. She was all in a tizzy and ordered me to turn on Channel Forty-Two,” I said. “I’ll flip it right back. I just want to see what in the world has her so jazzed up.”
Just then the switch went through and Tim and I saw the reason for Charli’s excitement. Plastered across the screen, above the words BREAKING NEWS were side-by-side photographs of my former fiancé -- and current country music superstar -- Ricky Ray Riley, and a very smashed-up, familiar-looking, red Porsche.
“A police source confirmed they found no one in or around the car, which is upside down at the bottom of the ravine down in Skunk Hollow, just off Darcy Mountain Road.” I recognized May Lynda Conrad, one of the station’s field reporters, by her voice, which was closing in on hysteria.
Tim popped up off the couch and rubbed his hands through his hair. “Oh crap.”
The camera cut away to a live shot of Giselle St. James, my life-long archenemy and on-air partner for the “Giselle and Marty: Morning Drive Party” radio show. Giselle, wearing a walk-of-shame outfit if I’d ever seen one, stood posed in front of Ricky Ray’s parent’s neat brick ranch beside May Lynda, who was wiping away tears -- and mascara -- while juggling a green and white striped umbrella.
It was no big secret that May Lynda had long had an unrequited crush on Ricky Ray, so her inability to hold herself together, despite the fact that she was a reporter, didn’t surprise me. To be honest, I’ve always been surprised that May Lynda managed to keep the job. She’s one of those people who are just way too sensitive to criticism and she has a way of getting overly emotional, not just about things in her own life, but those going on in other people’s lives.
She snuffled, barely managing to get out her intro. “I have here with me Miss Giselle St. James, who was the first to notice the car. Miss St. James, can you tell us...”
Giselle used to have a gossip show on Channel Forty-Two until she got fired for sleeping with her boss, so she knew exactly what to do to maximize her moment in the sun, so to speak. She bounced forward and angled her body just enough to block most of May Lynda from the shot. May Lynda’s a skinny little thing, so it wasn’t hard.
“At approximately nine thirty-eight this morning, I was driving down Darcy Mountain Road on my way to worship services at my church, which of course, I attend every Sunday. I’d just said a prayer of thanksgiving for this marvelous life I have when I noticed something bright red at the bottom of a sharp drop-off. Without hesitating, I heard the Lord telling me to stop, so I immediately pulled over and made my way down the cliff-side.” She let loose with a fake shiver that set the silver fringe of beads on her low-cut top to shimmying. “Looking back, I can see that was just so dangerous, but I never even gave it the weensiest little thought to my personal safety at the time since I was following the Lord’s directions. All I knew was that someone’s life was in danger and it was up to me to save them.”
“On her way to church? In that outfit? And she doesn’t live anywhere near Darcy Mountain Road! Not to mention, why is she suddenly pretending to be all religious?” I said, but Tim had disappeared. I heard him in the kitchen talking on his phone, most likely to someone down at the police station to see if he could get first-hand info or to find out if he needed to report in early for search and rescue duty.
I turned back to the television. May Lynda attempted in vain to regain control of both her emotions and her story. Every time she tried to talk or get back in the shot, Giselle just shoved her aside and talked louder, giving a blow-by-blow account of how she heroically picked her way down the steep embankment to the car, which she’d recognized right away as belonging to Ricky Ray.
I desperately wanted to know if Ricky Ray was dead or alive, but Giselle wasn’t about to relinquish the spotlight. She yammered on and on, making herself out to be a cross between Mother Teresa and Wonder Woman. I have to hand it to her, she knew how to spin a story so that it became all about her. The cameraman wasn’t any help to May Lynda, either. He must have been hoping for, or expecting, one of Giselle’s notorious wardrobe malfunctions, because he kept his focus tight on her. Well, her recently enhanced chest, anyway.
I flipped off the television and went into the kitchen to eavesdrop on Tim’s conversation, figuring that was the quicker way of finding out if Ricky was okay. Ricky may have been a low-down, two-timing, cheating, bottom-dwelling, soul-sucking, snake in the grass, but that didn’t mean I wanted him dead.
“Okay, Miss Guydie, thanks for the info,” Tim said. He stifled a yawn and ran his free hand over his head again, making his little ginger cow-lick that I love so much stick straight up.
At first, I was sort of surprised he’d called Miss Guydie instead of one of his buddies, but once I thought about it, it made sense. Miss Guydie worked at the police station three days a week as a part-time secretary, full-time mother hen. She also happened to be May Lynda Conrad’s grandmother. In fact, Miss Guydie raised May Lynda and her two sisters from the time they were about middle school age. And, to top it all off, she was, without a doubt, one of the busiest of our town busybodies. If she didn’t know the low-down about something, it hadn’t happened yet.
Tim shot me a thumbs-up, then winked. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to tell her.” He ended his call and put his arms around me, his peck of a kiss slightly missing my lips. “Miss Guydie said to tell you “hey”.”
“So, what did she have to say about the wreck?”
Tim plopped down on one of my kitchen chairs, pulling me awkwardly onto his lap, much to the outrage of Delbert, my big black and white cat, who’d sprawled across the dining table, and who thinks Tim’s lap is his exclusive territory. Delbert swatted me on the arm, jumped down, and stalked off toward the bedroom, most likely planning on getting his revenge by coughing up a hairball on my pillow or shredding something near and dear to my heart.
“According to Miss Guydie, they’ve been scouring the area, but haven’t found any signs of Ricky Ray. Or anyone else for that matter. She also said Ricky’s phone is either cut off or out of service and his folks are worried sick.”
“So they’re sure he was driving the car?”
He wrapped his arms around me a bit tighter. “No, but you know Ricky. No way he’d be letting anyone drive that car. Heck, when you guys were together, he never even let you drive it; the only time you even got behind the wheel was that day y’all were supposed to get married and he tried to take Delbert, and you hopped in it and backed over his guitar.”
I gently pulled his arms a little looser and attempted to rearrange myself on his lap so that his belt buckle wasn’t digging into the small of my back. It didn’t work, so I stood up and turned around to face him. “Do you think we should go over to his folk’s house? His momma and gramma still love me to death. I don’t want them to think I don’t care.”
Tim did his famous guppy impression, opening and closing his mouth a couple of times without saying anything, but I knew what he was about to say. I quickly made amends. “You too. Us. We. That we don’t care about them.”
He checked his watch. “They haven’t fully mobilized S&R yet, but that’s starting to look more likely. Miss Guydie said I’d probably be getting the call to clock in early within the next hour. I’m going to run on home and grab a shower and change. I’ll give Mrs. Riley a call before I go in. See if there’s anything
I can do to help. As much as Ricky and I haven’t seen eye-to-eye lately, I still love his folks. When we were kids, they were like a second set of parents to me.”
He pushed to his feet and kissed me again, this time almost managing to connect with just my mouth. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m sure every thing’s gonna be fine.”
I wanted to believe him, I really did, but for some reason, I just couldn’t shake the feeling of dread that was building inside me. “I sure hope so, Tim. I sure do hope so.”
2
By the time I got to the Riley’s house, which is in one of the nicer subdivisions in Glenvar, and two streets over from my folk’s house, I realized I’d likely made a massive mistake.
The place crawled with reporters, friends and neighbors, and random gawkers. Even worse, a gaggle of women clutching Ricky Ray memorabilia and bawling their eyes out had taken over the yard. “Ricky’s Rays”, as his rabid fans are called, were out in full force, with more streaming in by the second.
They’d already started what appeared to be a memorial in the Riley’s front yard. Bouquets of flowers, teddy bears, posters of Ricky, handmade signs proclaiming undying love, small pennants from Ricky’s last tour, miniature Ricky Ray guitars, and several pairs of Ricky Ray Riley panties filled every square inch of Mrs. Riley’s planting area next to the mailbox.
I eased past all of the hoopla and drove around to my parent’s house, figuring I’d park there and just walk over. Thankfully, it had finally stopped raining because my big Virginia Tech umbrella no longer seemed to be in my car. When I pulled into the driveway, Mom stood on the front porch, locking the door, dressed to the nines as always. (Picture Michelle Pheiffer when she played a reporter in that movie with George Clooney, but with a sugar magnolia, southern drawl and you’ve pretty much got my mom.)
“Here, take this,” she said, handing me a cake carrier.
I sniffed at it. Fresh apple, my favorite. I lifted a corner of the lid to see if there were any stray crumbs, but Mom smacked my hand.
“Stop that, it’s for the Rileys. Your dad is already over there helping with crowd control. I guess you saw when you came past. Some of those fans of his have lost their ever-loving minds! Your dad already had to stop one of them from going through the trash and another one from trying to chisel up that place on the sidewalk where you all put your handprints when you were children.”
The mention of the sidewalk shot me right back to that day. Ricky, Tim, and I had spent the morning riding our bikes round and round the driveway, waiting as patiently as a bunch of six-year-olds could for that moment Mr. Riley called us over to plop our grubby little hands down on his fresh concrete. “Mom, what if, what if he’s...” I couldn’t finish. “I don’t think I could bear it. I don’t love Ricky anymore, but once upon a time I did, and for a really, really long time.”
She put down her purse and umbrella on one of the wicker side tables that dress up her porch and pulled me to her, making all those familiar motherly moves: hugging, hair stroking, back patting.
“It’s okay, honey. I know it’s hard. But I believe in my heart of hearts that Richard is fine. He might not even have been in that car at all. In fact, his mother said she spoke to him a few days ago and he told her then he was thinking about going to Hilton Head for the weekend to play golf and get a little bit of rest before the next leg of his tour. She thinks he’s probably just got his phone turned off and hasn’t heard the news yet.”
“I guess it’s possible,” I said.
I understood why Ricky’s mom would want to believe that, but I didn’t really buy it. Ricky was not the type to turn off his phone for even a second. I had first-hand knowledge that he slept with it tucked on a side table next to his bed. Heck, he probably even took it out on stage with him during his shows.
Mom handed me a tissue she’d retrieved from her purse. “Here,” she said, digging down a bit further into the bag. “Blow your nose. I’ll dab some make-up on you to cover up all that red. The last thing you want is to pass through the media gauntlet looking like you’ve been crying.”
She was right. I absolutely did not want anyone to think I still carried a torch for Ricky Ray Riley.
Mom finished my face, picked up her stuff, and shot me a dazzling smile. “Ready?”
I sighed and followed her down the sidewalk, apple cake in hand. “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” I lied.
Mom “pardon me’d” her way through the sea of folks milling about in front of the Riley’s house. I trailed along behind like a duckling, gently tossing an occasional elbow in order to clear the path, all the while trying to keep my head down in the hopes no one recognized me. Which, of course, was akin to my hoping Delbert would suddenly grow opposable thumbs and learn to operate a vacuum cleaner.
One of Ricky’s “Rays”, a heavy-set, middle-aged woman with short, gray hair and a slightly wonky eye, suddenly grabbed my arm, yanking me to a stop. Mom didn’t notice and plunged ahead, straight to the Riley’s front door.
I juggled the cake, but managed not to drop it. “What the heck? Let go of my arm!”
The woman tightened her grip on my wrist. “Well, will you lookie here, Sugar! It’s that no-good floozie, Marty Sheffield, in the flesh! Imagine the nerve of the hussy, showing up here toting a cake. I’ll bet donuts-to-dollars she’s to blame for our precious boy being missing! What should we do with her, Sugar?”
Her companion, a slightly younger, much too skinny woman wearing a Ricky’s Rays t-shirt, Ricky floppy rain hat, and --I’m only guessing here-- Ricky panties, stepped in front of me and glared. “Maybe we should take her for a little ride. Have a little come to Jesus meeting with her. See how she likes....”
She didn’t get the opportunity to finish. Suddenly a woman about my age appeared and rescued me. She had reddish-auburn hair and a moon-shaped face, and she reminded me of someone, but I wasn’t exactly sure who.
“Ladies! Please, let go of Miss Sheffield. Remember, the press is here,” she said sharply. “We don’t want to do anything that’s going to make Ricky Ray or the Rays Fan Club look bad, do we?”
The woman who had hold of my wrist, Rose, her friend had called her, let go and dropped her head sheepishly. “Oh, no, Bella,” she mumbled. “That’s the last thing we want to do.”
Bella patted Rose on the shoulder, then pulled a twenty out of her pocket. “Exactly. We want everyone to think we’re model citizens, not a bunch of hooligans. Now, why don’t the two of you be the dears that you are and run down to the coffee shop for me. I am just dying for a soy chai latte and a slice of that yummy gluten-free pumpkin bread they sell.”
Rose mumbled a sullen “okay” and took the twenty. Sugar shot me a nasty look and whispered an ugly name under her breath before the two of them trooped off toward the street.
“Thanks,” I said to my rescuer, who also wore a Ricky’s Rays tee-shirt, but a really fancy, v-neck, designer one. I looked at her more closely. She’d obviously had some work done, including both nose and boob jobs, and her hair was no longer its natural shade of mousy brown, but I realized why she’d reminded me of someone. I knew her.
“Hey, I was right. I do recognize you. You’re Izzy Belle Conrad. You graduated the year after I did. You’re May Lynda’s younger sister. Miss Guydie mentioned to me a few months ago that you were running Ricky’s fan club now. Congratulations.”
She smiled with her lips, but not her eyes. “Bella. I go by Bella now. And thank you. Ricky Ray hired me back in June when I finally finished up my degrees in Public Relations and Marketing at the University of Nashville. Normally it’s a lot of fun, but not today.” Her voice cracked. “I just don’t know what I’ll do if....” She didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to.
I put my free arm around her and awkwardly attempted to give her a hug. She stiffened as soon as I touched her, and sort of jerked away. “Thank you, Miss Sheffield. I’m fine.” Her tone turned cold; downright steely, in fact.
I’ll admit, it hurt my feelings a tiny
bit. But, then, she was upset about Ricky Ray and different people handle problems differently. I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. “Please, call me Marty. Miss Sheffield makes me sound really old.”
I tried to look compassionate, but it must not have been effective because she just stared angrily at me, her eyes practically boring holes in my forehead. “Like I said, Miss Sheffield, I’m fine.”
Yikes.“Okay, well, if you need anything, let me know,” I said. “I’m going to go on in now.”
She half-waved, but it was more of a wave-off than a good-bye wave. She slipped off into the crowd of fans, smiling and nodding her way through, stopping to give a hug or pat a shoulder like a politician or a preacher. You’d have thought she was a celebrity in her own right instead of the head of Ricky’s fan club, the way the women she interacted with fawned over her, and she certainly appeared to enjoy their groveling.
Well, good for her, I thought. She hadn’t been all that popular in high school, not like her fraternal twin sister, Vivi Anne, who’d been homecoming queen, valedictorian, state champion in the mile, and first runner-up in the Miss Virginia Commonwealth pageant. Vivi also went to Penn on a full scholarship, just one of many she’d had to choose from, and graduated a year ahead of time while double majoring in philosophy and business.
Of course, Izzy, I mean Bella, probably still felt totally engulfed in her sister’s shadow since Vivi was a big-shot Hollywood publicist. She worked for Ricky Ray, too. According to her grandmother, who, despite her claims that she was proud of all three of her granddaughters, couldn’t help but gush just a bit more when she talked about Vivi, he was her lowest level client and the only country singer she represented. I guess she took him on since he was a local boy. Most of the people she represented were A-listers, Miss Guydie bragged to anyone who would listen. To hear her tell it, Vivi was rolling in the dough and knew everybody who was anybody out in L.A.
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