Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  “On the house. And please tell Roy I look forward to seeing him back at the store.”

  “More like on the bench out front,” Myrtle said with mock irritation. Yes, Roy was of that generation of men who let the womenfolk do all the shopping and cleaning and birthing and, well, you name it. He and an ever-changing gaggle of men sat out front on the beautiful bench Abit had crafted, carving along the back the silhouettes of men who’d sat with him all those years ago. Before Roy got sick, he held court out there, jawing while Myrtle shopped. But she seemed to love him dearly, and I hoped they would still have times together that did go swimmingly.

  When she left, I walked to the back. Nigel stood outside, alone, smoking a cigarette and looking for all the world like he wished he were somewhere else. I’d never seen him smoke before.

  I joined him and asked to bum one. “I’ve quit,” I added.

  “Me, too,” he said. We laughed.

  He lit my cigarette, and I drew on it deeply. “Who was that funny looking guy with the fedora?”

  “Oh, just some bloke I shared a drink with.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Er, uh, one of those double names so popular in these parts. I believe he said Johnny Ray.”

  I knew he was stalling. “Making friends, eh? Though he doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “Well, you know how it is, not too many of my type, as you put it, round here.”

  “Plenty with your heritage, but you’re right. I’m glad you’re settling in and meeting some people.” As he started to say something, I interrupted. “Hey wait a minute, where’d you get a drink?” I knew our county didn’t have much to offer in that department. They let stores like mine sell wine and beer, but bars around here were scarcer than a big paycheck.

  “Oh, there are ways. And places.”

  I let that go. “So how long do you plan to lay low in Timbuktu?”

  “Oh, who knows? You’re not trying to get rid of me, are you? I’m rather enjoying myself, and I believe sales are up since a dashing bloke from the Old Country started selling cheeses and wines—and lagers.”

  He was right. Now that Nigel was ensconced at Abit’s, I could truly appreciate having him around—just when I needed help.

  We’d finished chiseling that Parmesan into small pieces by the time Abit came to take Nigel home. He walked in with questions of his own. “Who was that guy with the lousy muffler, Nigel? It sounded like a tractor pull from inside the house.” He was smiling so I knew he was just giving Nigel a hard time.

  “That would likely have been Johnny Ray, right?” I added, piling on.

  Nigel frowned. I did too. I knew trouble begets trouble, and we had no shortage of that in Laurel Falls.

  Chapter 13: Abit

  “Both girls were killed five years ago. One lived near Knoxville but was visiting an aunt in Chattanooga; the other one lived in Chattanooga.”

  Fiona was telling me what she’d found on the computer during one of her breaks. Nothing much beyond what Leonard had shared, but I listened carefully. When she started in on the girl from Knoxville, I got anothern of those funny feelings. At that moment, I chalked it up to the chilling stories of both those girls being killed by some lunatic.

  “The first one was beaten to death with a stick, but the other one—the one the guard said was Mimi Allen—was found out in the woods by a hiker. She’d been tied up ...” Her voice wavered, and she took a deep breath. “and seemed to have been suffocated. Oh, Rabbit, this is sickening; I don’t believe I can help with this anymore.”

  I’d never asked her to get involved, but I knew I couldn’t stop. Not yet. Then Fiona added, “One more thing. I had trouble finding any news on the second girl. I searched for murders of a Mimi Allen in the past ten years, and nothing came up. Then I did a search on just Allen, and I found it.”

  “Man! I can’t believe you could do all that and still find time to stick people with needles and thermometers.”

  She wiggled her fingers toward me. “I’m good at lots of things, Abit, me boy.” We both kinda laughed, though not with much mirth, given what we’d been talking about. “Seems Mimi was just a childhood nickname. The article said her real name was Barbara.”

  I dropped the plate I was carrying to the supper table.

  Fiona’s face went as white as holly wood. “Oh, Rabbit. What an eejit I am. I was so busy at work, I just printed this out without thinking. ‘Barbara Allen.’ You’re right. These killings are connected to our music.”

  “And ‘Knoxville Girl.’ We’ve been calling her ‘the girl from Knoxville,’ but she was the Knoxville girl, and she was killed with a stick of wood, which is how I believe she died in the murder ballad.” I stopped for a minute to get my thinking straight; all kinds of ideas were pouring into my head. “And Barbara Allen in the song died of grief. Seems to me grieving feels like you’re suffocating, which would be as close as a killer could make it.”

  My heart started racing something fierce. Our music was tied in, and if we could dig deeper, it could lead us to the killer. But just as quick I realized we’d only uncovered possible clues about Leonard’s murders. Nothing linked them to ours. That was still a long shot.

  But I knew who could help us figure that out.

  Chapter 14: Nigel

  Friday evening Abit and his family invited me to join them at one of their musical events—a gig, I believe he called it—and we all trundled off together to somewhere named Seven Devils. England has many quaint names for its towns—Great Snoring and Nether Wallop came to mind—but I believe North Carolina has us beaten with the likes of Seven Devils, not to mention Shacktown and Shatley Springs.

  Our destination was an old school repurposed as a music hall. Scores of people huddled near the stage area, and more kept filing in throughout the show. I felt what could only be called familial delight as the crowd cheered its approval when Fiona sang a new song Abit had composed. One that, I noticed, necessitated his stepping in quite close to her when he joined her for the chorus. A lovely sight, indeed.

  Playing mandolin and fiddle, respectively, Abit and Fiona were obviously the stars of the show. But when Conor came out on stage (he was such a young boy, Fiona’d explained, he performed only a few songs), the cheers and claps grew louder yet, and all eyes turned to the little tyke. He could fiddle with the best of them, and when he and his mother sang “Keep on the Sunny Side of Life,” even my crusty old heart skipped a beat.

  Abit had mentioned they had a new banjo player, Marshall White, and I must say, the chap played well. (Speaking of colorful names, Abit said White had replaced Tater Matthews, who’d left for California.) White played what Abit called a break during “Flint Hill Special,” and I was surprised I didn’t see smoke coming off his picks.

  The evening was a grand respite from my troubles. When we returned to their homestead, Abit and I shared a lager in my room once Fiona and Conor turned in for the night. It was my first time chatting alone with Abit since his fateful trip to Churchill Arms in D.C. I couldn’t help but marvel at the fine young man sitting across from me. A far cry from the wide-eyed, high-water-trouser boy I’d first met two decades ago. When he left round midnight, I felt a sense of contentment I hadn’t known in ages.

  The next day—Saturday, Della’s busiest day at the store—I was waiting on Clare Someone-or-Other, one of the women Della said hadn’t come in more than a time or two before I’d arrived. I had to admit these women were making this old git feel a wee bit younger. As she was dithering over which cheese to buy, the front door bell jingled. I looked over.

  “Oh, Mr. Steadman, am I boring you?” Clare asked, followed by a coy titter. Actually she was, but that wasn’t what had diverted my attention.

  “Not at all, Clare. But I do need to take care of something rather urgent. Now that you know more about them, can you decide on your own whether you want farmhouse Cheddar or Caerphilly?” I was glad she didn’t pick up on my gritted-teeth delivery; she assured me she’d be right th
ere when I finished with my matter.

  Thank heavens Della was upstairs on her lunch break; she’d have been ever so mum and dad to see that scoundrel back in her store. I guided Johnny Ray Meeks by the elbow into the back, then outside behind the store. He started in telling me how I was part of his plan—forging documents for the sale of mountain land. After he explained the scheme to me, it seemed rather simple, which was good. Like the American expression KISS—keep it simple, stupid—the best plans are the least complex. But it was also amateurish, which deeply concerned me because cocksure idiots like Meeks and the like almost always got caught.

  “I told you. I’m not going to do any of this for your slipshod enterprise,” I said, getting right up into his face. “You’re a bunch of bloody plonkers, and you don’t own me.” I believe I even pushed a finger against his chest.

  “Go on, Gramps. Shout away. But I do own you.” Then he shoved me! “You gotta do this. Unless, like I said before, you want me to contact the FBI, D.C. police, and anyone else who’ll listen. You don’t cooperate, I’ll tell ‘em right where to find Steady-hand Steadman. Besides, it’s easy money. You should be thanking me, not giving me shit.”

  “You won’t need to call them. They’re going to catch you because of your sloppy ways. And if you do call them, I’ll squeal on you, matey. Ever thought of it that way? When you turn me in, I’ll turn you in.” I definitely pushed my finger against his chest that time.

  “Watch it, Steadman. You’re underestimating how big this operation is. You’re thinking it’s just me and a couple of rubes, right? Well, think again. And don’t forget we know where your goober friend lives—with his adorable little boy and lovely wife. You wouldn’t want anything to happen to them, would you?”

  “You are despicable,” I spat with all the indignation I could muster. Which wasn’t much considering how hard my back was against the wall, both physically and metaphorically. “I won’t do it. And I don’t want or need your filthy lucre.”

  “Nothing filthy about it, Gramps. It’s getting nicely laundered, thanks to you.”

  Just then Della appeared at the backdoor. The look on her face made Medusa appear grandmotherly. “You are not welcome in this store, Mr. Meeks,” she said in a frighteningly calm voice. “Don’t ever let me see you here again.”

  “Okay, Gramps. I see you’ve got your girlfriend to protect you. But we’re not done.”

  He turned to leave and shoved a thick brown envelope at me. What could I do but take it?

  After that, we went back into the store without saying a word. (Mercifully, Clare had left.) I busied myself scraping cheeses, the way Della’d taught me. I was amazed to learn how much that helped to preserve them. As it turned out, they were living, breathing things that needed grooming, just like the rest of us.

  After a while, I heard Della clear her throat. “Anything you want to tell me?” I felt like telling her to mind her own business, but then I realized she was. This was Meeks’ second time to corner me at Coburn’s, and she couldn’t have crooks like him hanging round her store. I just shook my head.

  In the long silence that followed, I could almost hear the wheels turning in her head. Eventually, her curiosity got the better of her. “Anything I can do to help?” This time I just ignored her. “Well, don’t let the so-called simple life around here fool you,” she added. “Your friend is likely involved in a whole lot more than you might think.”

  I just waved her off. “As you well know, I’ve been in crime’s major league longer than I care to remember. This is more like tee-ball my grandsons used to play. I can take care of myself.”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  “He’s just a penny-ante crook,” I mumbled as I restocked the marmalade department. It had taken quite a hit lately.

  And that’s how we left it. Until all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 15: Abit

  “Who passed this up to the stage?”

  My hand was shaking as I read what was written in red lipstick on a napkin. TOM DULA. “Where did it come from?”

  Fiona musta heard something in my voice because she came over and gave it a look. “It’s just a request, Rabbit,” she said, patting my back.

  But that was only half of it. I knew it was referring to a murder ballad, and “Tom Dooley” was one we’d never played. It’d been done to death, as it were, especially back in the day of the Kingston Trio, Doc Watson, and the like. Some popular songs you play because people expect them, but others just need to have a rest. What really troubled me was most folks didn’t know the guy’s name was Dula, not Dooley. Whoever wrote this was up on murder ballads.

  I hadn’t yet gotten the nerve to call on Wallis Harding, who knew more about murder ballads than anyone round. I wasn’t accustomed to people believing in me or my ideas, so I’d held back, afraid he’d laugh at me. Not that Mr. Harding seemed like that type, but you could never tell.

  We’d met when he came to The Hicks to talk about mountain music and folklore. That’s how I knew he lived not far from Laurel Falls. So naturally, after Leonard’s tales about the deaths of the Knoxville girl and Barbara Allen, I wanted to talk with him. I hoped he’d share our belief that those two names coming up and the mention of “Tom Dula” within a couple of weeks of one anothern was too much of a coincidence.

  The day before that gig I’d found my notes from The Hicks. Fiona and I recalled only the simplest versions of the stories behind those ballads, and as much as I’d dreaded reading up on such hateful crimes, I knew I needed to before taking my ideas public.

  In “Knoxville Girl” a man meets a girl and starts courting her. And then who knows why, they go for a walk, and he starts beating her with a stick. He really goes at it and she dies. For the life of me, I couldn’t figure out why that story inspired somebody to write a lovely waltz-like ballad with such gruesome lyrics. And then years later inspire someone to kill a poor girl from Knoxville the same way.

  As for “Barbara Allen,” man, that song is so mournful, it sounds spooky. Whenever Fiona sang it at home, I’d get chills every time. (The Rollin’ Ramblers would never perform something that dreary.) Seemed some man on his deathbed sent for Barbara, and when she arrived, he told her he was in love with her. Typical of mountain ways, she held a grudge because he’d slighted her oncet. When he dies, that’s when she goes off and dies of grief because she really did love him. At least that’s one version; there are a slew of different ones out there.

  The band members were looking at me funny, wondering why I’d freaked out so over that napkin. But they didn’t know what all I’d found out about our recent murders. And they didn’t seem to think murder ballads were as ugly as Fiona and I did. Maybe because they didn’t have kids, or they’d seen so many TV shows with serial killers they were numb to the notion. Or like most people do, they thought that kinda violence would never come close to home.

  Whatever, Fiona and I were in agreement about not playing those ballads when Conor was round. I crumpled the napkin and threw it away.

  Later, while we were playing a slower song, “Lonesome Moonlight Waltz,” I glanced down at my plucking hand and lost a beat when I saw what I thought was blood on my fingers. Then I remembered that damn lipstick. Fiona gave me a look, but I shook my head and got back on track.

  Even so, I spent the rest of the evening peering into the crowd whenever I could, trying to imagine who’d sent us that request.

  Chapter 16: Abit

  Just as I was stepping off our front porch to head into town, I noticed a black Mercedes parked in the drive. At first, I couldn’t imagine how the Merc had gotten outta the barn where I’d parked it. After a moment, I realized it was a lot newer model than the one Alex had given me back when I was a kid, though the body hadn’t changed all that much.

  And, of course, Mollie never met (or barked at) a stranger. She danced round the car, trying to get the attention of the man and woman inside.

  I walked over and the woman rolled down her window. I introduced
myself. They did the same, then told me where they lived. I knew from the address they were second-homers.

  “We saw a sideboard we really liked at the Maury’s,” she offered. “We wanted to see about getting one for ourselves.”

  That’s how it went. All those folks who moved up from big cities hung out together. I reckon that was only natural, but it seemed a shame they weren’t interested in getting to know something about our ways too.

  I opened the shop, and we filed in. It was real clear they weren’t dog people; Mollie tried hard to convert them for a minute or two, but when I told her to settle down, she took to her shop bed. As I wrote up the order, the wife walked round and looked at pieces in various stages.

  “You’re so lucky,” she said. “I don’t have a creative bone in my body.”

  “Now that just can’t be right,” I said.

  She looked startled. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you probably do all kinds of creative things you take for granted, but they’re worthy of praise and consideration.”

  I gathered from the looks on both their faces that I’d offended them. I hadn’t meant to, but I hated hearing people tear themselves down. What a waste to limp along with half-assed attempts and make-do efforts (like I’d done for so many year). I wished everyone believed they could try their hand at something new, even if their first attempts weren’t all that great. The atmosphere at The Hicks was like that. Even those con artists who ripped off the school were awfully creative.

  No one said much after that. We just exchanged money for the promise of a sideboard.

  I drove into town and pulled up in front of Coburn’s. It still felt funny parking there, instead of running down the steps to say howdy. I’d grown up in the house on the hill above the store, but now a writer lived there. She’d moved up from Atlanta, and Della said she’d fixed it up real nice, though she mostly kept to herself. I hoped she’d added some insulation. In wintertime, the butter of a morning was softer from the refrigerator than if it’d sat on the breakfast table all night.