Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  Fiona had one of those cell phones, though half the time she couldn’t get a signal. They said the mountains made it harder, and so did metal roofs. We had plenty of both. I got it why she needed one, but I didn’t want to go dragging the outside world into my life all hours of the day. Besides, I was usually at home or in my shop, so what was the point? If, for instance, there was an emergency with Conor while I’d gone into town, anyone trying to reach me knew to check with Della.

  What really got me was when people walked in the woods and jabbered on those things. They’d often travelled long distances to get up here, away from it all, and yet they’d walk right by a stand of Jack-in-the-pulpits or a blooming thicket of laurel while talking to someone who, more than likely, they needed a break from, which was why they were up here in the first place. Or they walked round town talking on them, nearly getting run over by Elbert Totherow’s delivery truck. (That almost happened a week ago.) No, I planned to stick to the phone I had at home and live my life wherever I happened to be at that moment.

  I heard Fiona carrying on about how the killer was now going after men, too, so it was long past time for me to have a cell phone. “Why, Shug?” I asked. “So I can shine the flashlight in the killer’s eyes? Or bash him in the nose with it?”

  “Oh, Rabbit, don’t be such a pillock. So you can call for help. If not for your own sorry arse, at least for Conor’s sake.”

  “But think about it. By the time the law got way out here, I’d be long dead.”

  That set her off crying, and I could see how my comment wasn’t helpful. I told her I was sorry about a million times and slipped off to make her a cup of tea. As she sipped it, she said I’d made a crackin’ good one, so I knew she wasn’t too mad at me.

  I’d hoped that would smooth over everything, and she’d forget all about that phone. But the next day, she was upset all over again when she got home from work. (I couldn’t help but picture patients getting jabbed harder with a needle or squeezed tighter with the blood pressure cuff when those nurses came back from a break where they’d talked nonstop about the murders.)

  “Shug, something bad is happening somewhere all the time,” I said, thinking that would console her. “People get laid off work, their mama and daddy die, their dogs get sick. There isn’t a day that goes by without sorrow tagging along. We can’t go borrowing trouble that’s not on our doorstep.”

  “But this is on our doorstep!” I heard her foot stamp under the dining table.

  Not really, but I didn’t know what else to say, so I just listened. And to be honest, when she started repeating herself, my mind kept traveling out to the barn where orders were waiting.

  “You’re not listening to me, but I’m serious. This is something that could come home to roost. I had a shiver.”

  Now that caught my attention. Fiona had some Irish gypsy in her. Whether she felt shivers or geese walking over graves, she knew things before they happened. She was a good Catholic, but she’d held on to her pagan ancestry too.

  We carried on like that for a while, and I kept trying to downplay the murders. That wasn’t to say they didn’t worry me. I felt uneasy too, not only about the sorrow they brought but as if something I needed to know had been laid out before me, yet just outta reach.

  Chapter 7: Abit

  The next Saturday after Fiona left for work, I figured it was a good time to take Conor and Mollie to Coburn’s. Earlier that week I’d had some orders that’d slipped past their promise date, and much as I’d wanted to see my old friend Nigel, I’d needed to finish them before heading into town.

  We all piled into my truck, and when we pulled up at Coburn’s, Conor ran into the store ahead of me. Della always made a fuss over him and gave him some kinda treat his mama didn’t usually let him have. That day it was a cookie I wouldn’t’ve minded eating myself, but she didn’t offer me one. (Then again, I reckon she didn’t feel the need to offer; she’d always given me anything I’d asked for.)

  I looked round for Nigel. When I spotted him standing near the register with a flock of women surrounding him, I had to work hard at not laughing.

  Oh sure, his silvery hair still looked dapper, what Della called his Fred Astaire look. And I could hear that he still spoke in that magical, proper way. What got me tickled was how he was dressed in a baggy flannel shirt, jeans rolled up at the hem, and a striped apron.

  I managed to keep a straight face until I saw Della looking at me, her eyebrow raised that way she does. I had to step outside to get myself together; I didn’t want Nigel seeing me laughing at him. Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed me, what with all the women fluttering round. When I came back in, I whispered to Della, “What happened to his waistcoat? I’ve never seen him without it.”

  “Oh, he wore it, all right. And wore it. And wore it. I finally scrounged up some of Alex’s old clothes and forced him to wear them. His suit was starting to smell, in part because he’d been living in it for days. And, as you may recall, the Brits don’t favor deodorant all that much.”

  “Well, that just makes him fit in round here.” I’d tried to make her smile, but she was too worked up. “So why doesn’t he just change his clothes?”

  “He doesn’t have any. He came in a hurry.” I was about to ask why when she went on. “When he got a look at himself dressed like that,” she said, pointing at his hillbilly outfit, “he tried to put his suit back on, but I wouldn’t let him. So go easy on him, okay?”

  “Not a problem, now that I’m over the shock. I just need to wait for my turn with him.” I nodded toward some woman making a fuss about the English marmalade Della stocked. “Do they buy anything, or do they just coo over him?”

  “Oh, sales are up, which is a good thing, and he actually helps a lot.”

  I knew Della could use an extra hand ever since Mary Lou married the sheriff, which, for some reason, meant she wasn’t working at Coburn’s.

  “As you can see, he’s popular with the women,” Della said, blowing her bangs up as she let out a big sigh. You didn’t need to be the smartest guy in the room to sense there was more to the story. I asked. “Oh, it’s just close quarters upstairs,” she explained, smiling kinda sad-like. “I love the guy, but with Alex coming down ...”

  “Maybe I can help,” I said, an idea popping into my head.

  “Oh, that would be great, Abit!”

  I wasn’t sure what she was on about since I hadn’t told her yet what I had in mind. “You mentioning Alex made me remember how he bought me all those clothes back when I was a kid. I’ll never forget that. It was the start of the new me. And in a way, this is a new Nigel. Down in the hills, without his wardrobe, and where it sounds like he plans to stay a while. What I’m trying to say is I want to take him clothes shopping.”

  “I do remember that day,” Della said, smiling. “I didn’t even recognize you at first. But this isn’t about the start of a new Nigel—it’s more like a return to the old Nigel. And I doubt he’d go along with buying anything from the local dry goods store. He’s used to custom tailoring.”

  “Well, I planned to buy them for him.”

  Della got one of her looks. “I’d rather you did something else.”

  Just then Nigel called out, “Hello, hello, hello!” The women had gotten what they wanted (from the looks of things, it wasn’t just food), and Nigel wandered over. I gave him a big bear hug, something that always flustered him. I reckon the men in England hadn’t learned the abiding pleasure of throwing their arms round someone they hadn’t seen in a while.

  We talked about all the family things, though mostly about mine: How’s your wife, Fiona? Fine. And your little boy, Conor? He’s out back; you won’t believe how big he’s gotten. And your woodworking? Keeping me and Shiloh busy.

  Then I asked about his daughter and grandkids. No way was I gonna wade into his business matters. From the little Della had told me, it didn’t sound good.

  As these things had a way of doing, the recent murders came up. Della didn’t seem
that worried. After all those years living in D.C. chasing crime stories, I reckon it would take one happening right in Laurel Falls to get her riled. All she said was she was sorry for the families left behind. Nigel nodded.

  When we’d finished catching up, Nigel asked Della if he could take a break. I looked at my watch, and sure enough, just like at home with Fiona, Nigel needed his teatime. “I’ll just pop up the pears for a Rosie.”

  I musta looked lost (I was) because Della piped up, “He’s going upstairs for a cup of tea.”

  “How’d you know that?”

  “What else? I wrote a story on Cockney rhyming slang years ago, and it so fascinated me, I’ve never forgotten some of the more colorful words.” Della watched Nigel close the front door after him, and then looked at me kinda funny.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I need a favor.”

  “Anything.”

  “I want Nigel to stay in your guestroom.” I musta looked funny right back at her, because she added, “You said anything.”

  “Look I love the guy, too, but ...” She’d caught me off guard. I got it when she explained that after a week together in her small apartment, she was tired of having a houseguest. Not so much Nigel—anybody. Alex was the only exception, and he was heading down from his home in D.C. in a few days oncet he finished writing some story about the president trying to take away Social Security. Della and I had talked that over, especially because folks round here had been in a dither. They counted on that check more than others might. Lots of them had worked long hours at the t-shirt factory and had that money taken out of their pockets each week. It seemed mean-spirited to have it taken away twicet.

  Anyways, Della was right to ask. We did have space in our guestroom in the barn. Shiloh had been staying there, paying a small amount of rent, but he’d moved out recently, or rather in with his latest girlfriend.

  “I don’t think Nigel will be any trouble,” she went on. “He’s started to relax, feeling safe in our remote outpost, as he calls it. I hate to mention that he needs to move on, and I keep putting it off. But if you offered for him to stay at your farm, that would feel different. He’d love it. And he’s got plenty of money, so you could charge him rent.”

  Later after supper, when I told Fiona about Nigel, she insisted he stay rent free as long as he liked. She reminded me that without him and his story about second chances (and some strong nudges while I was visiting Della in D.C.), we might never’ve gotten back together after she’d left me for anothern—which meant we wouldn’t have Conor. She knew that would win me over. Besides, I figured she wanted a fellow tea drinker round.

  Turned out, she got that and a whole lot more.

  Chapter 8: Abit

  I started looking at our summer from Conor’s view, and I didn’t like what I saw. Oh sure, the little tyke made the most of any given day. He read books and worked on a model airplane I’d bought him last time I went into town. He and Mollie played endless games of tug of war, and he loved going over to “Uncle” Nigel’s room for elevenses on mornings Nigel had off.

  And we were enjoying our best summer of music gigs, which kept him busy practicing his fiddle and harmonica. But both Fiona and I had been awful busy with work, and I knew he’d overheard us talking about the murders. I wanted to do something extra nice for him.

  I went down the drive to get our mail, and I was leafing through one of those free circulars when something jumped off the page at me. That evening, holding up the ad from the paper, I told Conor and Fiona I wanted us to go to Lake Winnepesaukah over near Chattanooga. I expected them to ask what in the world that was, but Conor jumped up and hugged me round my legs. I looked at Fiona.

  “He had a little friend from school visit there,” she said, ruffling his hair. “He came home begging to go, and with all the uproar about, you know, Randleman and Kona, I forgot to mention it.”

  I told them I’d been wanting to go since I’d heard about it at The Hicks, which made Conor start dancing round, I guess from the delight of sharing this hankering with his daddy. One of the boys at The Hicks lived in Chattanooga and went every year, sometimes more than oncet a summer.

  We all went to bed looking forward to the trip, not realizing how it would change everything.

  The sun wasn’t up yet when we left that Saturday. The night before, Fiona packed a lunch, and I got her wagon ready for the road. The next morning, Conor was sound asleep when I carried him in the dark to the car and settled him in the backseat.

  It was a good four-hour drive, but we made it fun with stories, songs, and apples dipped in peanut butter, which Conor got all over his face. Just before Chattanooga, we stopped at a roadside table and ate some of Fiona’s fine fried chicken (you’d’ve thought she was reared right here in the mountains instead of Clifden, Ireland) along with my coleslaw. I’d even learned to bake biscuits, which were a little tough, but with enough butter and Mrs. Ledford’s strawberry jam, they tasted just fine.

  When we finally reached Lake Winnie, as they’d started calling it, we laughed as Conor raced first to a beautiful white wood rollercoaster then over to the antique carrousel and old-timey Ferris wheel. I saw from the look on his face he couldn’t figure out why we hadn’t done this sooner. To be honest, I couldn’t either.

  We watched as our boy steered his first-ever ride—an airplane going round in a big circle one foot offa the ground—with the firmness of purpose of a 747 pilot. I had to turn away when my eyes filled up, afraid Fiona would notice. I thought I heard her scoff at me, but when I looked over, she was trying to cover her own tears with a fake cough.

  Oncet he’d ridden all the little-kid rides, he talked me and Fiona into going on the rollercoaster. We all squeezed into one car and wedged Conor in the middle for safety, if there was such a thing on a rollercoaster. We rode it twicet and then the Ferris wheel. I’d never been to a park like this in my thirty-some year, and it was possible I was having even more fun than Conor.

  Until I rode The Scrambler. Fiona took one look at me after that ride and offered to take Conor on a few more while things settled down for me. I walked over to the lake in the middle of the park, filled with some kinda huge fish. I was watching them glide round when a security guard sauntered over.

  “Biggest damn carp I’ve ever seen,” he said as a three-footer swam by. He stood about six foot three like me, though he was bigger round the middle. You could tell he liked wearing a security guard uniform, and to be fair, he looked smart in it. When he took off his cap to wipe his brow, I could see his white hair cut short, military-style.

  I reckon he was bored and wanted to shoot the breeze. I mean, other than a little roughhousing, what did he need to secure in an amusement park?

  We talked for a while, the way men back home did over a Dr. Pepper on a hot summer day. We exchanged names—his was Leonard. He looked puzzled when I told him mine, but I just kept talking; I’m not the first person in the world with a peculiar name. When he asked where I was from and I told him, his eyes got big. “Oh, over where all them murders are happening.”

  When I said, “Just two,” he looked at me like I was Jack the Ripper. I guess it did sound hard-hearted, as though two weren’t two too many. I didn’t know how to explain myself, so I just asked, “How’d you hear about them?”

  “News like that travels fast,” he said, straightening his uniform and putting his cap back on. He bowed out his chest before saying, “You know, we had a spell of it over in this part of the state about five years ago. Sounded a good bit like what you’re going through.” I nodded the way people do when they want the talker to go on. “A young woman from somewhere around Knoxville got beaten to death with a piece of stove wood, and some other girl got killed; I believe she was suffocated. We never caught the guy.”

  I’d been staring at those crazy fish while he talked, not focusing on every word ‘til he said “we” and “caught.” When I looked up, Leonard told me he still worked on the police force back then—just moonlighted at
the park on the weekends until he retired from the force last year. “But the lead detectives on the case never made much headway. A real shame. As you can imagine, the families were—are—torn up. Now what was the second girl’s name? She was from Chattanooga, and I should know her name.” He hemmed and hawed a while and finally added, “Oh, yeah, Mimi Allen.”

  And just like that, I got that feeling again that something important had been said, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Fiona had her shivers, but my signs weren’t as clear.

  I was glad when I saw Fiona and Conor heading our way. I introduced them, and Leonard tipped his cap and gave a Lake Winnie deputy’s badge to Conor. Fiona pinned it on his t-shirt, and it just killed me how tickled that boy was with his simple gift.

  On the trip home, as we wound through the mountains, I kept thinking about a different trip—the one through Virginia, back in 1989 when I was chasing those con artists who’d fleeced me and The Hicks. And when I met Fiona. I loved that story so much that even though I knew Fiona had lived it and Conor had heard it a dozen times, I started telling it again.

  “Daddy, I’ve heard that one before,” Conor said, but like any good storyteller, that didn’t stop me. I saw Fiona wink at Conor as I took us through Virginia and up into Kentucky and back. Seemed to help get us home faster. Conor fell asleep before we got to Murphy, which gave me a chance to tell Fiona what Leonard had said about the killings five year ago. I told her about the funny feeling I had too.

  “I don’t like any of this,” was all she’d say. She reached back and covered Conor with her jacket.

  Oncet home, after we tucked Conor into his bed, Fiona and I weren’t far behind.

  Chapter 9: Abit