Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  A bad dream splintered my sleep.

  I usually didn’t remember dreams, but this one was clear as a drive-in movie. Some guy—I couldn’t see his face—came to one of our gigs and started dancing with women at the show. As we played different songs, one by one the women began to disappear, vanishing from his arms. When he grabbed Fiona, I woke up in a panic.

  “Rabbit, what is it?” Fiona mumbled, her head buried in her pillow. I knew I couldn’t tell her about it, what with all her superstitions, so I just made out like the dream had already left me. “Well, I’m sure it’s because of these damned murders,” she said as she burrowed deeper under the covers.

  “Don’t worry, Shug. It was just about our music.” That much was true, and she seemed to accept it.

  I had a devil of a time getting back to sleep. I kept thinking about what Leonard had said, and it stirred something inside me about the music playing in the dream. I tried to remember which tunes, but they were just out of reach. At a guess, I’d’ve said they were ballads. After a while, I slipped back to sleep and mercifully didn’t dream, at least that I recalled.

  The next morning, Fiona asked me again about my dream. While I got the coffee started, I told her some of what I could remember, sticking to the ballad parts. When she went on about how we were spending too much time thinking—and dreaming—about the murders, I wanted to ask why, then, was she bringing them up again, but I didn’t want to start our day off wrong.

  Conor came wandering into the kitchen, still sleepy and looking for his breakfast. Fiona grabbed him and hugged him ‘til he squirmed. “Conor, darlin’, breakfast will be ready in a little while. Why don’t you go out to the living room and play with Mollie?” He gave her an odd look, but turned round and did what she asked. Then she whispered, “These goings-on are scaring me. I know we can’t ignore them, but I don’t want you getting involved.”

  “Well, which is it?” I asked, keeping my voice low, though I’d bet you a dollar Conor was listening just beyond the doorway. “Do you want to spend time thinking about this, maybe doing something about it, or do you want to ignore it?”

  “I just know how you and Della get yourselves involved in these kinds of things, and I worry about you putting yourself in danger.”

  “I don’t much like it myself, but when something important makes itself known, do you just turn and run because it’s not convenient? How well do you think I’d sleep if I did nothing and this killer kept on and on?”

  “Rabbit, that’s what the sheriff is for.”

  “Most of the time, but I’m working on something they’d never think of. Not even one of those fancy profilers you see on TV. I believe music, our music, is somehow key to what’s going on, and that’s likely not anywhere on their radar. I don’t know exactly how it all plays out yet, but I’m working on it. Then I’ll go to the sheriff.”

  Fiona went real quiet-like. I knew her well enough to know she wasn’t finished. “What? What are you thinking now?”

  “Your father complex.”

  “I’ll admit Daddy was plenty complex, but ...”

  “No, honey, it’s a psychological term. It means you’re still trying to please Vester, something that’s never gonna happen, even if he were still alive.”

  “That’s the stupidest thing I ever heard.” I knew she’d been taking some psychology courses through work, and I’d worried when she signed up that she’d bring all that home. And she had, standing there sounding all high and mighty. “I don’t want Daddy back in my life.”

  “He’s not back in your life because he’s never left.”

  Now that stung. I didn’t like people thinking they knew what was going on inside me. Then she came over and hugged me. “Will you pay attention to when you’re doing something just to please him, wherever he may be looking down from? Ask yourself if it’s what you want or are you trying to win his favor, albeit through a different authority figure?”

  She had me there. I didn’t understand all that she’d just said, but if that complex started with having a father who beat you down to nothing, mostly with his words but sometimes his fists, then I was its poster child. In a flash I saw Daddy standing there, lording over me. But he wasn’t alone—I saw Sheriff Brower, the one before our current sheriff, Aaron Horne, along with my school principal, Mr. Donnelly; the gym teacher, Tony Leland, and some I couldn’t quite make out. I was starting to see her point, but I told her I needed to think on it.

  “I hope you will, Abit. And be careful. I see what comes into the ER, and there are enough crazies out there to go round—and round. You know, it could be more than one person. What if a couple of blokes are killing people?”

  “Oh, I know it’s one man doing all this.”

  “Oh, yeah, and how’s that?”

  “I just do. You aren’t the only one who knows things.”

  Ever since Lake Winnie, I’d had a strong sense those Tennessee murders were tied to ours. I didn’t want to worry Fiona, so I told her I was still looking into what Leonard had told us. That part was true. “Besides,” I added, thinking I’d thought of the perfect way to end the conversation, “there’s too big a gap in time between those Tennessee killings and ours.”

  “Not if the killer were in jail or a mental hospital,” Fiona said, getting right back into it all. “He could’ve been put away all this time and just got out a few months ago.”

  She finished her coffee and got up to make Conor an egg-in-a-hole. That was a kind of kiddie food she grew up with, but truth be known I loved it too. I felt like a fool when she made me beg her to make me one, but I did it. Then I grabbed her and kissed her.

  When I let go, she got down to frying the egg in a hole cut outta the middle of a piece of buttered bread. Some recipes say toss out the hole, but Fiona’s too tight for that. She browned it separate and served it with marmalade.

  She called Conor in and added, “Maybe during one of my breaks I could do a little work on the computer.” (We didn’t have one at home.) “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  Chapter 10: Abit

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen jeans and a flannel shirt look quite so, well, tailored.”

  Mr. Tate, owner of Tate’s Dry Goods, was admiring how good Nigel looked in his new duds. I had to agree. Those clothes of Alex’s didn’t fit him worth a lick, but when he got his proper size, you’d’ve sworn he’d had them made custom.

  And he knew it. It didn’t take much prodding to get Nigel to model everything he was trying on. Seemed as though oncet he was over the blow of wearing flannel shirts and denim pants instead of silk suits and velvet waistcoats, he really got into it.

  While he was hamming it up, making us double over laughing as he twirled and pointed one toe forward with his hands on his hips like some fashion model on TV, I noticed one of the sales clerks taking an awful lot of notice. (Of course how could you not with the show Nigel was putting on?) I hadn’t ever seen this guy round, but then again, I didn’t get out much anymore. I had a lot of furniture orders—plus a family to spend time with.

  But he had a weaselly way about him. A thin mustache that I’d swear looked drawed on. Longish hair with Brylcreem running through it, looking more greasy than groomed. Short and stocky—but strong. Not somebody I’d want to mess with. I noticed he kept staring even after Nigel quit joking round. Then again, he was probably just bored with refolding shirts people messed up and left for him to tidy.

  When Nigel went up to pay for all the clothes and underwears (he refused to let me pay since he was living in our guestroom rent-free), Mr. Tate brought up the murders. They were on everyone’s mind, trailing through their lives wherever they went. Nigel and I made the right noises and nods and headed home. It was teatime.

  As we came through the front door, I saw that Fiona had laid out her best china from Ireland. She was excited to have an almost-fellow countryman over for tea. (The English and Irish, I’d come to hear a good bit about, have done terrible things to one another, but she
saw Nigel as closer to kin than anyone else nearby.) She even shared some wheatmeal biscuits from the private stash her father sent now and again. Nigel likely didn’t realize what an honor that was. Conor got some from time to time, but I rarely got offered any, though I’d’ve probably told her to give them to our boy.

  We sat round drinking our tea, and thank heavens no one mentioned anything about why Nigel was down here. No need to know the details. He was our friend, and that was enough. And like Fiona’d said, we might never’ve got back together if he hadn’t encouraged me to call her. I looked over at little Conor eating a biscuit, getting chocolate all over his face and hands, and I reckoned I owed Nigel the world.

  “Now if you need anything, anything at all, Nigel, just ask Abit.” Fiona was showing Nigel his guest “cottage.” That was what she called it even though it was just a nice room at one end of a barn. I figured calling it that made her feel a little like she was back home.

  She was good at being hospitable (especially when she could send folks my way for anything they needed). And she’d put some nice things out there for him—an electric kettle, teapot, cozy, Irish tea, more biscuits, fresh bread, jam, this and that.

  We’d bought a new mattress for the maple bedstead I’d made for the room, and Fiona’d put a fine old quilted coverlet on it. (Conor and Mollie started bouncing on the bed, and I had to get after them.) There was a small chest of drawers, a hotplate, and a little fridge I’d found at the dump that worked just fine. I’d placed a pretty little table and chairs I’d made under the window. I’d always liked taking my meals near a window, and this one had a flower box outside filled with pink and white flowers Fiona’d planted earlier in the spring.

  We didn’t really know how long Nigel wanted to stay, but I was excited about having my old friend close by. We’d worked it out so I’d take him in to the store four days a week, and I’d drive him round for any errands he needed to run. He’d never learned to drive (which some days sounded like a good idea).

  We left Nigel to settle into his new home, and I went back to work. Those orders weren’t gonna make themselves.

  Things went along fine for a while. Then a few days later, as I was closing up my shop for the evening, damned if I didn’t see that weaselly store clerk heading down our drive.

  Chapter 11: Nigel

  The sun poured in the window of my new abode. I liked the way Abit had positioned the window so the morning rays streamed on to the breakfast table. That and a good cuppa made the day start in the finest fashion. Too bad the rest of the day failed to live up to its dawn.

  My regular shift at Coburn’s went just fine. When Abit picked me up to head home, I brought along a few things for an easy supper: a hunk of farmhouse Cheddar, half a baguette, an apple. It was all I wanted after Della had shared scrumptious chicken piccata leftovers for our midday meal.

  As I settled into a lovely rocker I’m sure Abit had made, I poured a glass of port from a bottle Della insisted I bring to the cottage. Very kind of her—she’d called it a barn-stall-warming present. Indeed, my room may have had such a humble beginning, but it was charming now with many of the comforts of home. (And though I’d never tell Della, it was good to get out of her cramped quarters.)

  While I was still staying at Della’s, we’d had one of our little dust-ups. She was worried, I believe, that I was enjoying working in her store too much. “You’re not cut out to be a cheesemonger,” she’d said, waving her hand toward that counter. “You’re a man of the world. Besides, I don’t want to come to rely on you only to have you head off to, to, er, Timbuktu.”

  “I thought I was already in Timbuktu,” I said with a smile. “And you know, I wouldn’t mind staying a while. It all seems rather pleasant.” I forced a chuckle as I sipped my tea, but I didn’t fool her.

  “You know what I mean, Nigel.”

  She was right. I wasn’t a cheesemonger at heart. I enjoyed the store, but I knew eventually I’d grow weary of the day-in/day-out monotony. That evening I was particularly glad to be away from the store, sipping port and relaxing to the rhythm of the rocker. The day had had its drama, like that monster child who’d stuck her hand in a large apothecary jar of chutney and squeezed it as though she were making mud pies—then marched round the store getting sticky goo all over Della’s nice displays.

  A knock on the door interrupted my recollection. It was just a light tap, so I thought it might be the little nipper, Conor. When I opened the door, I was startled by a smarmy-looking bloke who barged his way in.

  “Howdy, Gramps.”

  His temerity was so astonishing, I couldn’t even mumble a hello. What in the world did this blighter want?

  “We’re so glad you came to our little mountain town.”

  At that point, I wasn’t so sure I was, especially when he began pacing around my room as though he owned it.

  “Look, all you have to do is sign a few things for us to make some good money,” he said as his index finger smoothed the pencil-thin (and revolting, in my opinion) mustache hovering above his upper lip.

  “I don’t know what you’re on about. And whatever it is, I don’t want—or need—your bloody money.”

  The cretin (I still didn’t know his name) started laughing. “Don’t pull that bullshit with me, Steadman. I know all about you—or at least what Google coughed up for me. Have you tried that yet? Amazing what it can find about someone in seconds. A lot better and faster than that stupid ‘Ask Jeeves,’ which I thought must be something slipshod from your homeland, given the name and all, but turns out I asked Jeeves, and ‘he’ is from kooky Berkeley. Go figure. That’s the crazy world we’re living in. And ‘he’ didn’t know shit. But Google did.”

  I had no idea what he was talking about and told him so.

  “Oh, never mind all that—the point is, I know about your past. You’re a master forger, and when I saw you at Tate’s, I knew something was off. I’m smart that way. And you gave off all the signs. Like when I watched you getting a whole new hillbilly wardrobe. That’s when I started putting two plus two together and got a lot more than four.”

  “Whatever do you mean? What signs?” I was stalling, but it was all I could think to say.

  “That you’re on the lam. You know, on the run. I mean, who shows up here talking all British proper-like with no change of clothes? And nowhere to live except in that goober’s barn?”

  His slight of Abit tore right through me. Abit had had his troubles getting through school, but he’d worked hard to find his rightful place in the world—more than this bloody bastard could ever hope to accomplish. I believe if I’d had a gun, I would have shot him through the heart. No question about it. I was grateful all I had was a glass of port, which I threw in his eyes.

  While he fumbled round trying to get the sting out, I was able to push him out the door. Abit had forged (that word again! I can’t get away from it!) a lovely iron latch that was sturdy enough to hold the door against his rantings and ravings.

  “Get the hell out of here, you scoundrel,” I shouted through the heavy wooden door. “And don’t come back!”

  I pressed myself against the door and listened. For a time, all I could hear was my heart, knocking considerably louder than the cretin had. Eventually, though, I could discern a rattly old muffler as he drove away. I inched over to the rocker and sat heavily. Its gentle rhythm once again restored my calm as I rubbed my hands along the arm rests, which Abit had sanded and polished to a silky finish. I poured myself another port.

  I should be ashamed to admit it, but I used to love the forger’s life. It had its ups and downs, of course, but I was fortunate and enjoyed many more of the former. And when I was up, I was positively skyrocketing. Plenty of money, never a dull moment. I made a point of ripping off only rich people, which, as I saw it, made me a sort of modern-day Robin Hood. My wife, however, was no Maid Marian and threw me out of the house when she realized what I’d been up to. That would have been when the coppers came and carted me off to the n
ick. Before that, she thought I was a stockbroker!

  But times had changed. I had changed. My tenure at the U.S. Treasury Department had been exciting—catching the bad guys and all that. If they hadn’t let me go, I would never have gotten itchy fingers again. But I was like a junkie; I needed a fix.

  And what a fix I was in.

  Chapter 12: Della

  My favorite customer, Myrtle Ledford, was telling me about her husband, Roy, when the bell over the door jangled. I looked up and saw a most peculiar man sporting a pencil mustache and a fedora. Nothing like my usual customers. He closed the door behind him and searched furtively with beady eyes. Then he spotted what he came for, and it wasn’t piccalilli.

  Nigel had just come from the backroom, where we’d been cutting a large wheel of Parmesan into wedges. The odd little man met him at the cheese counter. Nigel blanched, and I knew Fedora spelled trouble.

  Nigel jerked his head toward the back in a most un-Nigel-like way, as though he’d been watching too many film noir. But of course he hadn’t been watching them—he’d been living them during those years before we’d met. Now I could only stand by as he reclaimed his old way of life.

  “What is it honey?” Myrtle asked, her voice warbly from a botched medical treatment over in Murphy.

  I shuddered. “Oh, just one of those twists that life throws at you when you think everything is going swimmingly.”

  She chuckled at my old-fashioned word. “Well, be grateful you’ve had a stretch of swimmingly. Can’t say I remember one.”

  Myrtle’s hardscrabble life included too many heartaches to recount. They’d dealt with lifelong poverty, the death of a child, and a lengthy separation when Roy, her husband, went “up the river for moonshine.” Myrtle uprooted herself to follow him to a small apartment near the Ohio federal penitentiary. Now Roy was in the hospital following his second heart attack, and Myrtle had stopped by to pick up a few of his favorites. As she hoisted her bag of groceries, I tossed in some Scottish oatmeal cookies I knew he liked.