by Lisa Wysocky
According to other information from Martin last night, no one saw her car by her house either Wednesday night or Thursday morning. But that wasn’t unusual. Melody often pulled around behind the house and entered from the porch door in the back. Shrubbery in front provided a partial screen from the little road, so if she were home, it would have been hard to see her lights on after dark.
And that was the other thing. Melody lived on a one-lane road. There were no houses directly across from her and only two houses farther down before the lane ended in a tiny turn around. She didn’t have very many neighbors.
Martin said the autopsy found she had not had breakfast or even coffee Thursday morning, as she had no recent food in her stomach. That’s why they thought she hadn’t made it home Wednesday night. But Melody never ate breakfast, and her “coffee” would have been from the pot of tea in her refrigerator, either iced or heated in the microwave. Either would have been poured into her “to go” mug.
My mind turned to the questions surrounding Melody’s royalties and intellectual property. It was supposed to be a significant thing, but I didn’t understand it. I lay there for another minute, then threw off the covers and padded downstairs to my office. Clicking on to Google’s search engine, I typed in INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY and scanned the results. A Nashville lawyer had some info on his website, so I clicked through to that and began to read.
Basically, intellectual property meant creations of the mind. Patents, copyrights, songs, articles, books, music, and other artistic work. The owner of those works then had the right to sell, license, or produce the work for monetary gain. If I understood that correctly, Melody wanted me to have twelve percent of all the songs she had written, along with future advances and royalties from her record sales, merchandising, licensing, or any film or television projects about her.
I closed out of the browser, stunned. I wasn’t sure how much all of that was, but I knew that in less than a year of “big star” status Melody had been able to purchase her dream home for cash. Of course, a lot of that money had come from touring. Melody had told me that record and songwriting royalties were often delayed up to a year––or longer.
Holy cow, Brent was right. Melody’s bequest might not make me a wealthy woman, but I also might not have to shop at the thrift store anymore. I tiptoed back up the stairs, cautious of the two squeaky steps. When they were stepped on they gave off a sound much like a screech owl, and I didn’t want to wake Darcy. Maybe I could get the steps fixed, too.
I knew I had to stop thinking and get some sleep, but it was hard to turn my brain off. Our vet was coming in the morning to do a full exam on Ringo: soundness, vision, x-rays, the whole kaboodle. Next week Ringo would have a massage to establish baseline soreness, if any, and after that the equine chiropractor would come. Gusher Black had assured me that when it came to his horse I was to spare no expense. I was taking him on his word. And his signed contract, of course.
Our vet didn’t see any reason Ringo couldn’t jump right into training, I hadn’t been breathing much during the exam, and air rushed into my lungs at the news. I needed Ringo, or a horse like him. If Ringo hadn’t cleared his vet check, I would have had to start another nationwide search for a top horse to show next year. It was late for that, as other trainers had already snapped up the best horses. I’d still like to get another horse or two to campaign, and already had some potentials there.
As Doc loaded his equipment back into his truck, a question popped into my mind. “Don’t you take care of the horses at the Mighty Happy center in Kingston Springs?” I asked.
“I do,” he said, slotting a portable x-ray machine into a cubby in the vet box on the back of his truck.
“You know, my friend Melody Cross was a volunteer there. She was the country music star who was killed.”
“Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were close.”
I nodded. “The police haven’t figured out who did it yet and I was wondering . . . did anything ever strike you as strange when you were out there? Anything odd?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Strange? No. Emily Harding is the horse person there. The center was her idea. Most of the horses are older, but they’re well cared for.” He took time to think. “There is something, though.”
“What?”
“They put their back fence too close to the river. That’s my opinion. As soon as the next big flood comes, that whole line of fencing will be taken out.” He smiled. “They’re good people, Cat, and they’re doing good work.”
With that, he was in his truck and headed down my drive. Ringo had earned some free time, so I put him in the arena, and when I turned around I spotted Sally pinning her ears in her paddock. I followed her angry gaze to find a car parked next door at Fairbanks. That was strange. Since Glenda Dupree’s death her elderly mother, Opal, had mostly kept the house closed.
I couldn’t help myself. Wearing the guise of a concerned neighbor I jogged across the property and up the antebellum mansion’s front steps. Turned out a cleaning crew was inside. The house was going to be put on the market and I knew that must have been a hard decision for Opal to make. Her now deceased daughter had owned the home and the place held a lot of memories. Of course, many of the memories were tragic. Maybe some of those sad recollections had played into her decision.
I debated calling Opal to get the full scoop, or even popping in at her assisted living place for a visit. But the less I had to do with the Duprees, the better. They were distant cousins of the Giles family, though. That meant if Brent and I ever married (which was a topic that had not even remotely been discussed), then I’d be a cousin, too. Distasteful thought, that.
Slipping back between the fence rails I felt my phone buzz in my jeans pocket. I had turned the ringer off during Ringo’s vet check, so as not to disturb the process. When I pulled the phone out of my pocket I saw that a text had come in from an unknown number. I flicked the screen from locked to unlocked to better read the message, then all the air whooshed right back out of me.
BACK OFF OR YOU WILL END UP LIKE MELODY
Oh boy. This was so not good. Jon took most of the farm calls so only a few people had my cell number. I could count them off in my head: Jon, Brent, and Martin; Annie, Tony, and Agnes, Darcy, Darcy’s Dad, and Bubba; Hill (unfortunately), my college friend Noah Gregory, Bob’s owner Doc Williams, our vet and farrier, Gusher Black, and Melody.
Who else had gotten hold of my cell number? Mr. Clean Cut maybe? And just who was he anyway? My hands began to shake as the full meaning of the text slowly dawned on me. Whoever killed Melody, had my number.
My legs suddenly didn’t seem to want to hold me and I plopped down in the dry grass, smack between my house and the Fairbanks fence line. Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe. It took a few minutes to calm myself, and when I did, I called Martin.
Fortunately, my favorite detective was not too far away and arrived a few minutes later. By that time I had gotten myself into my house.
“I’ll need to take your phone,” he said. “I can either get a warrant for it, or––”
I slid the phone across my kitchen table to him.
“Our forensics team can maybe get some info from it. They hook it up to a do-hickey and get all kinds of data,” he said. Then he paused, folding his hands and placing them on the table. “I ’spose I should tell you that we found Melody’s car.”
“And?” It took a conscious will of effort to stop the shrieking inside my head.
“It was behind the church, behind that thick screen of trees between the playground and the river.”
The church again. Allen, Emily, Ruthie, and Robert. Did one of them kill my friend? The shrieking in my brain morphed into a rage-like anger and I grabbed the table to keep myself from getting into my truck and driving to the church. That would not have ended well. One day I’ll do something about my anger issues. But not today. Martin reached across the table to hold one of my shaking hands.
“Do you want to hear
the rest?”
I nodded.
“According to several people at the church, the only time people go behind that screen of trees is to walk down to the river to be baptized, or to sit peacefully near the water to pray.” He looked into my eyes. “You with me?”
I nodded again. I didn’t trust myself with words.
“There’s a little, paved parkin’ spot there behind the trees. People park, walk the several hundred yards to the river. The church couldn’t put a longer road in to get closer to the river ’cause it floods there sometimes, mostly in the spring. Now, Miz Cross drove a five-year-old gray Toyota Camry. ’Cept when we looked back there behind the trees a few days ago, the car wasn’t there.”
“How did you find it, then?”
“Churchgoer went back there and parked. Was going to sit by the river, then realized the car prob’ly belonged to Miz Cross and called us.”
“But,” I processed, “just because the car is there doesn’t necessarily mean someone from the church is involved.”
“No, it doesn’t,” he said. “Could Melody’s body have been moved?” I asked.
“Could she have been killed somewhere else?”
“Possibly.” He loosened his grip on my hand as he explained. “The water in her lungs was river water. Harpeth River water. Could she have been drowned somewhere in the Harpeth other than behind the church? Maybe. We’ve got an expert working on weather conditions––temperature and wind and such all––matching it to the water depth and flow. She can maybe help us know, given the time frame from seven-thirty Wednesday night to eight a.m. Thursday morning, where and when Miz Cross entered the river. Pathology says she probably died more toward Thursday morning, but water and the cold night temperatures make that difficult to pinpoint.”
It was all so complicated. I wished for the thousandth time that none of this was happening, that I didn’t have to sit across my kitchen table with a police detective and have him explain the details of my friend’s death.
“There’s somethin’ else,” Martin said.
There always was something else.
“We recovered her car, but not her purse, so you are right. Whoever killed Miz Cross has her phone––and your number.”
Cat’s Horse Tip #13
“A pre-purchase or pre-training vet check can uncover important and hidden health problems.”
22
AFTER MARTIN LEFT WITH MY phone I realized that the recent emotional events called for major hot chocolate. I took out some of my special dark chocolate blend, heated two cups of water to boiling, mixed in the chocolate, added a splash of whole milk and a tablespoon of sugar, then poured it all into a thermal to go mug and topped it with a generous amount of whipped cream. I’d be on sugar overload for the next week and a half, but I didn’t care.
Before I walked out the door, I took the letter Melody had left me out of my purse and tucked it into my jacket pocket. Then I wrote a note for Jon, left it on the kitchen table, and headed for the riverbank. That was where I went whenever I needed to think, to wash away my emotions, or to pound my fists into the ground.
My favorite place on the steep, wooded bank was in the crook of the trunk of a large maple tree that hung diagonally out over the water. The tree was near the top of the bank, and when I was there, I was hidden from the world. As soon as I got comfortable I realized that Hank had followed me. The tree-filled riverbank was a treasure trove of sticks, and I watched as he nosed around, first choosing one, then discarding it when he found another that was more suitable. Then he settled on the ground a few feet below me at the base of the tree. His gnawing presence was soothing, and I was glad that he chose to spend this time with me. There’s nothing like the comforting presence of a loyal hound dog.
I thought of other emotional times when I had sat in this tree. I’d run here after I discovered Glenda Dupree’s body, and after my first serious boyfriend told me the only redeeming thing about me was my green eyes. Today, the remains of the fall foliage was beautiful. November is typically the most colorful month in Middle Tennessee, and I saw a swirl of red, orange and yellow, backed with the brilliant blues of river and sky.
I leaned my head against the rough bark of the maple and watched a series of dark clouds descend over the river. I had decisions to make. The first was contact with other people. Melody’s killer had my phone number, but I no longer had to worry about that because the police had my phone. I’d have no worries that the next call or text would scare me to death.
I’d unplug my landline, then email my clients and friends (and Melody’s team) that the best way to reach me during the next few days would be through email. All I’d have to do was check my email more than once a week. Then I’d run up to Walmart and get one of those pre-paid disposable phones for emergencies. I’d give the number only to Brent, Martin, Darcy, and Jon.
My second decision was who to tell about the threatening text. I’d have to tell Jon. He always knew when I was holding out, and in the spirit of our newly regained cooperation, he needed to know. And Darcy. I took a sip of the hot chocolate and felt it’s warmth spread through me, and the sugar rush to my brain.
Brent? I’d have to tell him, because Martin knew. I dreaded that little conversation. Brent liked life simple and smooth. He was different from his younger brother in that way. Martin loved tackling a complex puzzle, and reasoning through people’s bad choices.
My third decision was safety, and my eventual decisions here were based on one of two main choices. I could back off, as the text suggested, or I could continue to nose around Melody’s life to see if I could come up with anything the police couldn’t. I had already been able to tell them a lot about Melody’s daily habits, and about her personality. As her closest friend, I could see life through her eyes better than anyone else could.
I turned the thought sideways. What would Melody want? She’d want me to be safe, but she was never one to back down from something she believed in. She believed in the mission of her church and the riding center so strongly that she had worked hard to carve out time to spend there. She certainly would not have been as successful so early in her music career had she been a shrinking violet. No. Melody would not have let this text scare her, and I wouldn’t either.
So, how to stay safe? At horse shows I made the younger kids who showed with me use the buddy system. When they were in my care, they could not go anywhere past our immediate barn aisle without someone else being with them. I could do that. I could buddy up.
Decisions made, I relaxed. I took another sip of chocolate, then fingered the letter in my pocket. Part of me couldn’t wait to open it, but the other part of me never wanted to read it. If I read the letter, it meant that Melody was really and truly gone. Somehow the envelope ended up in my lap. It was just a plain number ten business envelope with my name written on it in Melody’s handwriting. What was Melody thinking when she wrote the letter? Did she sit at her kitchen table? Or was she on her back porch? It made me sad to think that I’d never know.
Cautiously, I opened the flap, slid the letter out, and unfolded it. It was two pages, written by hand on plain white copy paper.
Dear Cat,
Well, if you’re reading this then something awful happened to me. I just hope it was quick. I want to let you know that you mean the world to me. I am so very glad that we met and became such good friends. We haven’t known each other long, at least we haven’t at the time I am writing this, but I feel as if you are the sister I never had. Well, I do have a sister and if you are reading this then you have probably met her and know exactly what I mean.
Moving forward, I want you to remember all the fun times we had. Every one of them. Remember when we hiked up to Hidden Lake and picnicked on the old cement dance floor? We sat in a pile of fire ants and itched and laughed all the way down the hill. And the time we were asked to leave the movie theater because we were laughing so hard? It wasn’t even a funny movie! I am still glad I wasn’t recognized. Davis would not ha
ve been pleased.
But seriously. Cat, you are an awesome person, and I love you more than my silly words can say. I’ve left you a little something in my will. I hope you find it helpful. Even though I know you will do something practical with it, over time, I hope you do something fun, too. For us. I want you to do something that will make you laugh. I’m not sure how heaven works, but no matter what, I’ll be right beside you for the rest of your life, laughing along with you.
Please don’t let my mother or anyone else contest my will. Making out my will was like all the instructions I ever received about writing a song: keep it simple and write what you mean. I meant everything that I put into my will and I want people to respect that. I also entrusted my electronics and journals to you because I know without a doubt that you will keep my private thoughts private. Guess I should wind this up. Pastor Ruthie says our soul never dies, so know that I will be the first one to greet you whenever it is your time. Hugs and love to you, Cat, for all of your life.
Your loving sister,
Melody
It took me a long time to read the letter because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see very well. I hadn’t brought any Kleenex with me, so had to use the sleeve of my jacket to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. After I’d read the letter for the second time, and the third, I was so emotionally drained that I felt like I’d been sucked down a garbage disposal. Eventually I climbed down out of the tree and Hank and I made our way back to the house. I felt a hundred years old.
After I changed my jacket and splashed some cold water on my face I went out to the barn.
“Want to make a Walmart run with me?” I asked Jon.
He looked up from a spot he was rubbing on Gigi’s back. Jon had been doing some basic massage on Gigi every day and it helped take the edge off her flightiness. I couldn’t wait to get the vibration plate and whispered my thanks to Melody. “I’ve got a lot to do,” he said.