Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “Feng Shangs!” a woman yelled into Jimmy’s ear. In the background, he could hear the din from the kitchen, scraping metal, leaping flames, screaming.

  “Yes, this is Jimmy Rogers with the, uh, Memphis Commercial Appeal. We’re doing a story on local Chinese restaurants and I need to know if we should list you under the MSG or the no-MSG banner.”

  The woman became hysterical. “No MSG! Nevva!” Her screaming drowned out the chaos of pots and pans behind her. “You come look! No MSG, okay? Spell name right! F-E-N-G S-H-A-N-G! No MSG! You come look!”

  “No, that’s okay,” Jimmy said. “I believe you.” The woman continued yelling as if Jimmy had accused her of peeing in the egg drop soup. “I’ll put you down as a no-MSG establishment,” he said. The woman was still screaming as Jimmy flipped the phone shut. He wondered where the MSG had come from if not Feng Shangs. He also wondered if it mattered. To answer that, Jimmy would have to find out if Tammy was allergic to MSG in the first place. But, in any event, it seemed odd it was in her system when the restaurant was so adamant they didn’t use it.

  Until he had that squared away, Jimmy needed to find out about the nature of sodium fluoroacetate. He pulled a copy of the U.S. Poison Control Center Guide To Toxic Substances. The USPCC used a six point scale to rate poison toxicity. Substances with a rating of 1 were almost nontoxic, those with a rating of 6 were called ‘super toxic.’ Sodium fluoroacetate had a non-nonsense rating of 6.1. It was a botanically derived pesticide in the form of a fine white powder with no smell or taste. It blocked cellular metabolism in the entire body, including the central nervous system. Depending on dosage and means of exposure, death occurred within minutes as a result of respiratory failure due to pulmonary edema or ventricular fibrillation. Sodium fluoroacetate was used as a rodenticide in some cases, but was mainly an insecticide used on fruits to combat scale insects, aphids, and mites.

  Jimmy’s mind seized on something. Fruits? His blood suddenly chilled. The peach orchard. Was it possible? He drove straight out to the Lytle’s farm and went directly to the shed where Eddie used to sit and play his guitar when he wasn’t tending the peach trees. He looked at the shelf with all the large brown bottles and the rusty cans but all he found was Benzahex, Ortho-Klor, Ethylene chlorohydrin, and Compound 1080. No sodium fluoroacetate.

  Jimmy was relieved. He was also a little embarrassed for thinking, even for a moment, that Eddie was a murderer, let alone a serial killer. It wasn’t until he was driving back towards town that another thought, perhaps slightly more evil, occurred to him. If he’d found the poison, and it turned out that Eddie was a killer, he just might be sitting on a best seller.

  41.

  Big Bill was nearly done. It was two in the morning and he was alone in his studio, lights dimmed, doing the final mix. Earlier, a cello player laid down a track for ‘It Wasn’t Supposed To End That Way.’ Big Bill put it way in the back, lurking, whispering something dark and sad. The instrument blushed a lucid warmth so low you could hear more wood than strings. It was perfect.

  As Big Bill listened to a playback, he remembered the moment he was first touched by music. He was ten years old and the teacher had Bill and his little classmates arranged in a tiny choir. They were singing a hymn, a dozen guileless voices, free of self-consciousness, united and soaring. Bill was in the middle row, his eyes closed, his soul open, and the music moved him. It was a spiritual moment and he was fully aware of it. He knew it was something special, a gift from a higher plane. And he knew, from that point forward, music would be his world.

  He listened to the radio and he bought records and he went to local shows to hear and, just as importantly, to watch people play. He always got as close to the stage as he could. He wanted to see how it was done, how someone could take wood and strings and coax emotions from them. They were magicians and it thrilled him that he couldn’t see how they did their trick, no matter how close he stood. He watched the players communicate without speaking and he wanted to learn how it was done. He loved watching the guitar players especially, their faces contorting as they reached for notes and chords and meaning.

  Bill saved his money and bought a guitar. He took lessons and he practiced every day. But he could never get beyond the notes and the chords and the mechanics. He could never do the alchemy he had seen others do. Still, he knew his place was with music and he could work with those who had the gift and that would have to be enough.

  The playback ended and the sudden quiet eased Bill back to the present. The only sound in the perfect room was the hiss of tape racing across the heads at thirty inches per second. He hit a button and the room went silent. Big Bill sat in the dim light, a tired old man far nearer the end of things than the beginning. He tried to recall when his life had become more about the business than about the music. Sad enough he couldn’t remember; worse, he realized he no longer cared.

  42.

  It was dark by the time Jimmy left the Lytle’s farm. He wanted to go by Eddie’s and Tammy’s old house before returning to Jackson but he didn’t want to go at night, so he got a room at the Roadway Inn in Hinchcliff. He’d go by the house tomorrow to take some photos, even if he had to break in to do it. Seems the place was still considered a crime scene since the National Crime Information Center bulletin had piqued FBI interest.

  Jimmy was sitting in a booth in the back of the motel’s coffee shop. He was working on his fourth Budweiser and starting to get angry with himself for thinking about how much he still loved Megan and how much he missed her despite how she’d done him wrong. What the hell happened to my self-respect? He was just drunk enough to think he should write a song about it. But before he could get started, the waitress stopped by to take his order. “I’ll have the catfish and the dinner salad.” He handed her the menu. “And another Bud when you have a chance.”

  Jimmy toyed with some lyrics for his been-done-wrong song: You left without a word, and got a number unlisted; love flew off like a bird, just ceased and desisted. He shook his head, deciding he was either way too drunk or not near drunk enough for country songwriting, so he turned his attention back to his book. Looking over the sheriff’s report Jimmy found something he thought might be helpful. The sheriff had made a list of everyone they’d interviewed after Tammy’s death. Jimmy hoped to find someone on the list who might be willing to answer a few more questions. The Teasdales were at the top of the list but Jimmy wasn’t prepared to pester the parents of the deceased, so he skipped down a bit. There was a Steve Teasdale, an uncle, way the hell over in Fulton but Jimmy didn’t think his questions warranted the two hour drive to Itawamba County. Next on the list was one of Tammy’s co-workers, Carl. He circled the name just as the catfish arrived.

  43.

  Jimmy got to The Dollar Store about ten the next morning. He found Carl lining up a putt on the little Astroturf green in the middle of the sporting goods section.

  “Excuse me,” Jimmy said.

  Carl never broke concentration. “Be riiiight with you,” he said. He reset his feet, looked at the cup, then stepped up to address the ball.

  Jimmy waited for Carl’s backswing before speaking. “Sheriff tells me you knew Tammy Long.” Carl’s putt soared across the green and disappeared into cosmetics. Jimmy looked off in that direction. After a pause, he looked back at Carl. “That’s a bad case of the yips.”

  Carl’s right leg suddenly got the weak trembles. He thought all this was behind him. Ever since Tammy’s death, he’d been going to church regular, had been faithful, more-or-less, and was starting to feel better about himself. Until now. “You shouldn’t talk when a man’s fixin’ to putt,” Carl said. “It’s bad manners.”

  “Yeah,” Jimmy nodded. “I guess that’s why they won’t let me join the country club.” Jimmy glanced at cousin Carl’s leg and wondered what had triggered the sudden palsy. “You seem a little tense,” he said. “Have you tried decaf?”

  Carl spoke through clenched teeth. “Well you come up in here messin’ up my putt an
d talkin’ about what the sheriff said and . . . what’s this all about anyway? You with the FBI or something?” He feared Jimmy was about to ask for a semen sample.

  “I’m just doing a little investigative work is all,” Jimmy said. “Relax.”

  Oh God, Carl thought, they’ve caught me. I’m done for. When the truth gets out, I’m gonna get it from all directions. Mr. Teasdale’s gonna wrap this putter around my neck and my wife’ll use the driver to cave in my testicles. How did they find out? I thought the investigation was all over. Maybe I should call a lawyer. No, wait until he makes an accusation, otherwise I look guilty. Meanwhile, I better say something instead of just standing here. “What kind of investigative work?” Carl’s voice cracked slightly.

  Jimmy looked at his note pad. “Well, I figured since you and Tammy worked together you might be able to answer some questions.”

  “I already answered the sheriff’s questions. Besides, I’m married and have a new baby.”

  Jimmy nodded slightly unsure what to make of Carl’s non-linear thinking. “Were you and Tammy close?”

  “Were we close?” Carl leaned up against a display case trying to get his leg to stop trembling. “Close for working in different departments, I guess.” Carl suddenly read a little something extra into Jimmy’s question. “What do you mean by close?” He squinted at Jimmy.

  Jimmy thought poor Carl was going to have a stroke. “Listen, I’m not with the police or anything. I’m writing a book about Eddie. I’m just trying to find out a few things.”

  Carl’s eyes flashed skyward in a thank you, Jesus glance. “Not with the police” were the sweetest words Carl had ever heard. He took a deep breath and leaned forward on his putter. His twitchy leg began to settle. “A book about Eddie, huh?” Carl’s rusty wheels began to grind. It seemed like there might be some way to turn this whole thing to his advantage. He just hoped he could figure out how before it was too late. “What kinda book you writin’?”

  “Biography,” Jimmy said.

  Carl nodded sagely. “What kinda biography?”

  Jimmy hesitated, unsure how best to answer such a question. “Oh, uh, all about his life, his music career, major events, like his wife’s death, that sort of thing.”

  “What makes you think people wanna read about Eddie? He ain’t never done nothin’.”

  “I’m thinking he might, now that he’s moved to Nashville.”

  That’s when it occurred to Carl. “Lemme ask you a question,” he said. “You talked to the sheriff. Are they still looking into this? I mean I’d hate to think they’d stopped looking for who killed her.”

  “Sheriff said as far as he was concerned the case was closed in Quitman County. I think the FBI still considers it open but I don’t know how active their investigation is.”

  Carl nodded some more. He figured if the Feds were still poking around on this thing, they might end up talking to this fella writing the book about the husband of the deceased, in which case Carl figured this would be a good chance to direct attention away from himself and cast it in other directions. “All right,” Carl said, “I’ll answer your questions, but you gotta promise not to use my name or nothing if I tell you anything.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “So what kind of things you wanna know?”

  Jimmy glanced at his notes. “Well, for instance, I was wondering if you knew why Tammy and Eddie used to make a two-and-a-half-hour round trip to Memphis for Chinese food. I mean, I hear that place in Clarksdale serves a pretty good egg roll.”

  “What, Chow’s?” Carl shook his head. “Nah, Tammy liked that Hunan food what they serve up at that place in Memphis, real spicy you know, with them little peppers.” Carl curled up a pinkie finger to indicate the size of the peppers in question. “Things’re stronger’n horse piss with the foam farted off,” he said. “Turns out you’re not supposed to eat ‘em.” Carl looked a little embarrassed. “Anyhow, Chow’s serves that Mandarin style. It was too bland for Tammy.”

  “Do you know if she was allergic to MSG?”

  Carl shook his head. “No, we weren’t so close that I’d know stuff lack ‘at. But I’ll tell you somethin’ else I do know. . .”

  44.

  Every day for five days e-mails were sent to the head of every record label in Nashville, their A&R departments, and members of the local music press. The content of the e-mail changed each day. Monday’s e-mail said: “We found him!”

  Tuesday’s said: “You’ll want to meet him!”

  Wednesday’s: “He’s more than the next ‘It Boy.’”

  Thursday’s: “We’ve got the whole track!”

  Friday’s: “Vanderbilt Plaza. Acuff Conference Room . 5 PM. Today. Open Bar.” Whereas the level of intrigue generated by the e-mail campaign promised to put a lot of butts in the seats, the open bar guaranteed an SRO crowd. There was, of course, a great deal of speculation within the industry as to the nature of the event. All week long theories floated up and down Music Row but by Friday the good money was on this being the culmination of an elaborate promotional campaign by a major Dot.com set to introduce a new Internet music delivery system or some clever new way to control the sale of MP3 files. The assumption was that the Eddie Long character was the mythical spokesperson for the company. Everyone agreed the campaign had been handled expertly, probably out of Atlanta.

  By four forty-five the Acuff Conference Room was near capacity. At one end of the room there was a dais with a podium in the middle. Behind the dais, heavy maroon curtains dropped from the ceiling to the floor. Centered in front of the stage was an array of tables draped in white linen and dotted with tealite candles floating in crystal bowls filled with icy blue water. The room was equipped with an elaborate sound system which was playing something at a hushed volume. Listening closely, one could just hear a cello lurking in the background, but it was mostly drowned out by the sounds of people enjoying themselves.

  At the other end of the room, adjacent to the bar, was a fabulous buffet of boiled shrimp, crab fingers, roast beef on buttermilk biscuits, and crudités vinaigrette. And no one was being shy about it. At odds with the fact that a great deal of the conversation seemed to revolve around claims that nobody in the music business was making any money in the current economic climate, the mood was prosperous, upbeat, and friendly. In fact it was like a locker room with cocktails, especially given the eight-to-one ratio of men to women.

  “Not that it says anything about the state of the business,” one well dressed woman was overheard saying to a reporter, “but out of the twenty-five record labels, I’m the only female label head.” Using a crab finger, she pointed across the room at another woman, who happened to be talking to Megan. “And she’s the only head of A&R in this town who doesn’t have a dick.” She lowered her voice slightly and winked at the reporter. “But trust me, she’s got brass balls.”

  The head of A&R for one of the major labels, who had been eavesdropping, elbowed his way into the conversation. “Well now, to be fair, little lady,” he drawled, “just let me point out that a lot of the women here tonight work in all those A&R departments.” He smiled as if that settled that.

  “Well, of course to be really fair, sugar,” the woman replied in a condescending tone, “there’d have to be a few more women running those departments.”

  Just then, the lights in the room dimmed, the cello faded, and a disembodied voice came over the sound system. “Ladies and gentlemen.” The crowd fell silent as a spot light hit the podium. “Big Bill Herron and Franklin Peavy.” As the maroon curtain parted and the two men took the stage, the crowd broke into spontaneous applause — a knee-jerk reaction from having attended so many awards ceremonies. While the applause continued, the guests looked at one another with expressions ranging from curiosity to suspicion. Big Bill took the podium, Franklin hovered at his side. Both wore dark, tailored business suits with matching cowboy hats.

  Big Bill held up a hand asking for quiet. “Thank you very much for coming this af
ternoon, ladies and gentlemen. For anyone who doesn’t know us, my name is Bill Herron.” He held a hand out toward Franklin. “And this is my partner Franklin Peavy.” Franklin took a slight bow. “Now I suspect the question most of you are asking yourselves is, what the hell has gotten into Herron and Peavy that they’re giving away crabmeat and cocktails?” The crowd laughed and nodded collectively. “Well don’t worry about that, Franklin’ll find a way to make it recoupable against somebody’s royalties.” The crowd laughed again, this time less perfunctorily.

  “Okay, so now you’re asking yourself, what’s this all about? Well, I’ll tell you.” Big Bill took the mic from the stand and, followed by the spotlight, began pacing the dais. Franklin moved to the far end of the stage where the sound gear was stacked. “Over the past several weeks,” Big Bill said, “there’s been a lot of talk about a certain song drifting around out there in the ether. . .” He waggled his free hand in the air. “. . .otherwise known as the Internet, the World Wide Web. The dubya, dubya, dubya.” His bug eyes bulged a bit more than usual. “Most of you have already heard half the song.” Big Bill pointed across the stage to Franklin who was standing at the controls. “Right now, we are pleased to be able to play the rest of it for you.”

  The spotlight winked out and the overheads faded to black. The only light in the room came from the tiny candles floating in the crystal bowls. Franklin hit the ‘play’ button and a moment later the tones of a mandolin and a pedal steel guitar merged to remind the room of the feeling of loss. The fiddle and Eddie’s guitar joined in a few seconds later and everyone suddenly and inexplicably felt buoyed by hope. The piano, bass, and drums gave them strength and Eddie’s voice, singing words they’d all heard before, helped them feel release. It was an incredible and visceral response, all the more remarkable because of the nature of the audience. These were hardened music professionals who heard and dismissed a hundred songs a week, people whose response to music tended more toward calculation than celebration. But still, there it was.