I’d timed my visit for lunchtime, telling myself Della would be freer to talk with Nigel watching the store. But who was I kidding? I was partial to her cooking, and she knew it.
Oncet we finished a big bowl of chicken stew she’d warmed up—along with some apple pie from a new baker (we both agreed was a keeper), I laid out my thinking about how the murder ballads were some kind of clue, especially for the ones earlier in Tennessee. When I was done, Della nodded, but I could tell she was holding something back.
“What?” I asked.
“Well, you could be right.” I knew there was a big but coming. She’d been a good, maybe great, reporter in D.C., and she’d mentioned over the years how she always gathered as much information as possible before writing anything.
She sipped some coffee and thought a moment before going on. “If I were reporting on this story about the murders happening today, I couldn’t include the Tennessee murders. They have no real ties to what’s happening now. I’ll admit those two seem connected to your music, but what about the two from here? Do they share any similarities with murder ballads?”
“I don’t know. I just have this sense ...”
“Well ...,” she said, stretching out the word and twirling her fork midair as if to say, how can you find out?
“There is one guy I can ask—Wallis Harding. Have you met him?” She shook her head. Figured. He wasn’t the kind to come to her store, even if he was driving by and needed a quart of milk. “He’s a mountain music expert. Self-taught but he really knows his stuff. But before I go and get him all involved, I was wondering ...” She motioned for me to get to the point. “... do you think that creepy Johnny Ray Meeks has something to do with all this? I don’t recall seeing him round here ‘til just about when these murders started.”
“I don’t suppose we can rule anyone out,” she said, pinching some pie crumbs with her finger, “but he doesn’t seem like a killer. And according to Nigel, he’s lived here for some time, probably under your radar. No, I think your best bet is this Harding character.”
Chapter 17: Nigel
I’d underestimated Johnny Ray Meeks, a most unfortunate presumption. I’d thought he was just a small-time con artist, someone who’d only pick on unsuspecting locals, luring them into his web until they were too entangled to get out.
Like me.
A couple of weeks after Meeks cornered me at Coburn's, Della’s fears were confirmed: Meeks was the frontman for sizable (and ever so shady) real estate deals. Back in my heyday, I’d discovered how hard it was to trace such transactions, in part because government regulations were quite lax in the U.S. and the U.K. It required little planning or expertise to launder large sums of money that way.
After delivering several rounds of forgeries to Meeks, I came to understand how their scheme worked. I forged documents so they could buy property under false names or names of dead people (most unsavory!). My work allowed them to file the right documents “legitimately”—only they were buying shacks and steep, untillable land for hundreds of thousands of dollars more than their worth. Large sums of money could then be deposited legally, so to speak, and thereby laundered. Subsequent sales of those same properties put “clean” money right back in their pockets.
I reckoned the dirty money came from all the marijuana grown in the area. Or moonshine. Or worse. I felt sick to my stomach thinking about what crimes they were profiting from thanks to my handiwork. What had I brought into my life? And into Della’s and Abit’s? They felt as much like family as my daughter and grandsons.
I was getting soft—I wanted to get soft—but I needed to start thinking more like the old Nigel Steadman.
All this talk about laundering reminded me I was about to run out of clean clothing. Abit had run a load for me last week, but I didn’t want to impose on the boy more than necessary. I’d noticed the laundromat in Laurel Falls, just a short walk from Coburn’s, so the next morning when Abit drove me to town, I carried along a couple of pillowslips filled with wash.
“Planning on skipping out on us?” Della asked when she saw my bulging baggage.
“Not at all, my dear. I thought I’d head down to the laundromat on my break.”
“Well, look out for Blanche Scoggins. She’s got a million signs up about what not to do, and she doesn’t like men. Or women. Or children. You might recall she disowned her own child. Of course, she was a criminal, but still ...”
When I opened her front door, Blanche Scoggins looked up, frowning. “Hello, hello, hello, Ms. Scoggins,” I said with false cheer. “I’m Nigel Steadman. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“I know who you are,” she grunted, a scowl now creasing her forehead.
“Ah, and I know who you are,” I replied with a knowing smile.
She maintained her severe facial expression and didn’t say a dicky bird. Then to my surprise she suddenly burst out laughing. A right old cackle. “Well, I reckon you do, what with that Kincaid woman bending your ear. Don’t believe everything you hear.” She began tidying her hair, which she’d pulled back in a rather severe bun. A few gray strands had fallen out, and she slipped them behind her ear. “Let me help you with that,” she added, scurrying over to start sorting my laundry.
I felt ever so humiliated to have her fussing over my personal clothing, but at least all my smalls were new. Nothing to be ashamed of, I supposed, but nonetheless I could feel my face start to color.
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed. I’ve seen more things than you can imagine,” she said, elbowing me as she talked. “Like them thongs the girls are all wearing now? They get wrapped around the agitator, and I have to cut them loose. And the men who don’t ...”
“Er, thank you. I get the picture.”
“Ha! A gentleman in our midst. Well, I’ll be damned.” She slapped me on the back and finished sorting my clothes, adding some detergent from behind the counter. “No charge,” she said and actually winked at me! But when it came time to feed the washer, she was all business, holding out her hand for coins. I couldn’t get them out of my trouser pocket fast enough.
“It’ll be thirty minutes ‘til they’re done. Why don’t you join me for a bite of lunch? Tell me all about yourself.”
Over some rather nice ham biscuits and sliced tomatoes, Blanche listened to my stories (some of which were actually true) with the intent of fans watching England in the World Cup. By that time, I was beginning to wonder if this woman really was Blanche Scoggins; perhaps it was her day off.
When I returned to the store empty-handed, Della didn’t waste a moment before starting in. “Did she confiscate your clothes because you broke one of her rules?”
“Er, no. Actually, I had a rather pleasant experience, all things considered. I’m not sure why you’ve had such a difficult time with her. Quite a nice lady.”
“Are you sure this was Blanche? Kinda tall, long gray hair in a bun?” I nodded. Della got a glint in her eye. “Oh, I see,” she said, her eyebrow going up. “She’s sweet on the elderly English gentleman. Not surprising. But where are your clothes?”
My clothes were still in the dryer; Blanche promised to deliver them on her way home. She explained she lived just down the road from Abit in Hanging Dog. (Ha! Another remarkable hamlet name.) “Professionally folded and wrapped—no extra charge!” she’d called out as I left, smiling and waving. To Della I said, “She’s delivering them when she heads home. Apparently she lives ...”
“Oh, I know where she lives,” Della interrupted, “and you’d better have Abit there when she stops by. Otherwise she might want to spend the night.” Della started laughing, and for the second time that day I felt my face flush.
As it turned out, Abit was at my room when Blanche drove up. I scurried out and thanked her profusely while Abit just stood in the doorway. She scowled at him (I’d begun to see that was a favorite expression of hers) but pleasantly bid me a good evening.
When I walked back with the bundle in my arms, Abit was grinning from ear
to ear. “Well, well, well. Good thing I was here to scare her off.”
“Not you, too!” I grumbled. Next time I would impose on him for the use of the washer.
The following evening, Abit stopped by my room to ask if I would mind Conor on Tuesday, my day off from the store. He needed to make some furniture deliveries and Fiona was scheduled to work.
So it was just me and the nipper on the farm that day. And Mollie, of course, who seemed to love every occasion—new people, a romp in the woods, a lazy afternoon with her family.
Conor was an easy child to be with, and why wouldn’t he be with Abit and Fiona as parents? When I saw children reared that way, I couldn’t help but muse how my life—and really, that of most anyone I knew—might have turned out differently if we hadn’t had to work through the effects of drunken, dispirited parents.
Anyway, Conor loved my idea of baking scones. I used to be quite a good baker in my day, when I had a family that enjoyed eating my confections. Living alone above Firehook Bakery in D.C. had spoiled me, and I hadn’t baked in years. Out here in the hinterland, though, I found myself missing a good scone. (Della’s baker tried, but in my opinion, she kept missing the mark, turning out something more like American muffins.) Conor helped mix the ingredients, and before long, he had as much flour on his hands and shirt as the board we were cutting them out on.
“Could we make some that look like stars and Christmas trees?” Conor asked. He went over to a cupboard and began pulling out a bag of biscuit cutters. It wasn’t even close to that season, but hey, why not?
“Well, those cutters will squash the dough,” I said, “but there’s no reason we can’t use a knife to the same effect.”
Turned out I hadn’t lost my touch. The rose beautifully and came out of the oven golden, and if I did say so myself, delectable. The trees and stars lost a bit of their shape, but then who besides the very young hadn’t?
I suggested we take tea in my room. I recalled, even after all these decades, how much fun it was to be in someone else’s abode. Conor clapped his hands and grabbed a basket to help me carry all the tea accoutrements. I already had a brown teapot in my room along with a tin of tea and an electric kettle, so we just took the scones, jam, butter, knives, plates, serviettes—oh, honestly, tea could be such a bother!
Conor was working on his second scone (one star, one tree) and Mollie on her third (Conor insisted I cut some smaller bone-shaped scones) when I heard the knock on the door. A knock that had become all too familiar. I knew our lovely tea party was over before I opened the door.
Chapter 18: Abit
We hadn’t had any more killings, and life had drifted back closer to normal. Fiona lost her jitters, and I had new furniture orders to keep me busy.
But thoughts of murder trailed after me wherever I went. In my shop, I heard those ballads in every hum of the saw or whir of the drill. Finally, when we had a lull in music gigs—I’d stopped worrying people didn’t like our music anymore; things like that just happened—I got myself dressed and ready to call on Wallis Harding.
I drove a fair piece past Beaverdam and turned down a road that was too rutted for my truck. I parked and hiked in to Mr. Harding’s cabin. You might think log buildings all look the same, but I grew up with them and could see what made each one different. Maybe a wraparound porch or some dormer windows or pretty flower boxes. Harding’s had a weathervane on top with different stringed instruments pointing north, south, east, west. The center of the vane was a bass fiddle. I wanted one.
I was relieved to see Wallis’ pickup parked next to his cabin. There was no calling him on the telephone because he didn’t have one, so it was my good luck he was home. I noticed a late model four-wheel-drive SUV next to the truck, which meant he had company. I hoped he’d have time for me.
Before I got to his porch, I called out, “Mr. Harding? It’s me, Abit Bradshaw.” You couldn’t be too careful when showing up unexpected.
I saw his front door open before I saw anyone in the doorway. Wallis wasn’t much taller than five feet something, and in the dim light of his tree-shaded porch, I almost missed him. (Later on, he told me he’d been tormented by a nickname as bad as mine—Pee-wee Harding.) He sported a stubbly beard, and his longish hair rose out like a white halo round his head. “I know you, boy. You play a mean bass fiddle.”
How ‘bout that? He knew me for what I could do. “I’m proud you recall that, Mr. Harding. May I talk with you about something?”
“Well, I could spare you a few minutes. My son, Keaton, and I were planning to go mushroom hunting. Perfect time after that FREAKIN big rain we just had.”
My heart sank, and I reckon my face showed it because next thing I knew he was holding the screen door open for me. “Come on in. How ‘bout a cup of coffee? I’ve got enough time to get started with whatever brought you all the way out here, and you’re welcome to come back.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harding.”
“Call me Wallis, please. We don’t hold to formal conventions here.”
I stepped inside the cabin, which was a lot neater than I’d expected. He had one main room—kitchen, dining, living room—with a bedroom on each side. As I walked toward the kitchen area, I saw Keaton standing by the stove. He nodded at me, and I returned the gesture. No introductions necessary. He was dressed real preppy-like, at least that was how Alex had described clothes like that.
The only messy area was where Wallis musta done his work. Papers and books piled all round a couple of card tables he’d set up. That gave me hope some answers lay in that corner.
Wallis looked smart in a new flannel shirt and ironed jeans. I couldn’t imagine him bent over an ironing board, but stranger things happened round here. I kept staring at his tangled white hair. That plus the way his wire-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes gave him the look of a wild man.
Which made it all the more amazing how well-regarded Wallis was for his mountain music knowhow. His family had lived here a long time, or as Wallis put it, they were “born, bred, and buttered right cheer.” He learned about our music from his mama, who’d passed it down from her daddy. They were all fiddlers, and I’d seen Wallis play a time or two, years ago at The Hicks. Now, though, he mostly spent his days in that dark little corner, studying old books and papers so he could write books and articles of his own. I reckon you’d call him a hermit, but the way I saw it, that just gave him more time to study bluegrass and old-timey music.
As I sipped some good strong coffee, I tried to hide the need to pick grounds offa my tongue.
“Don’t worry about them grounds, son. They’ll keep you regular-like,” Wallis said.
I didn’t like to talk about such things, and Wallis picked up on that. He laughed real big and punched me on the shoulder. He was standing next to me while I was sitting or else he’d never’ve been able to reach that high.
“Okay, the clock’s a-ticking. How can I help you?”
Now that I was there, I felt all nervous. Like I was a kid again, about to give a report on a book I hadn’t read.
“WHAT THE FRAK, son? I don’t bite. If I did, I’da already taken your head off, right?” He laughed again, and I moved my shoulder some, just in case. I tried to chuckle along with him.
After that I just blurted it out: “I think some murders five year ago were copying murder ballads. And something tells me the two that just happened here are too. But I need proof.”
Wallis looked real serious-like. I noticed Keaton poured himself some coffee and headed out the back.
“So what in the H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS does that have to do with me?” He held his hands up the way they do in westerns, like I was pointing a gun at him. “I ain’t killed nobody, not five years ago or five days ago.”
Things weren’t going the way I’d hoped. But then he laughed again.
“Oh, well, yeah, you’re right. I haven’t explained very well,” I said. After that, the whole story came tumbling out about Leonard the security guard, “Knoxville Girl,” an
d “Barbara Allen.”
I could see his eyes light up at the mention of those two ballads. He went over to a shelf and started pulling out books and papers and setting them on the kitchen table. He poured us both more coffee, and we got to work.
Chapter 19: Abit
Right off the bat Wallis recognized Randleman, the site of our first murder, as the setting for “Omie Wise.” “That’s one of the oldest American murder ballads,” he said. “Never gave that any thought when I heard about the murder, but now, well, you’ve opened my eyes. We need to take a closer look.”
He told me the true story dated back to 1807 when a poor lass named Naomi Wise was drowned in the Deep River by Jonathan Lewis. He was of higher standing than she was, so when he got her in the family way, he couldn’t have her running all over town talking about it, the way folks do these days. What really got me going was the fact that the murder we’d had in Randleman was a drowning too.
Wallis looked at the clock over the kitchen sink. “CRAPPITY, CRAPPITY, CRUD. That’s all I’ve got time for today, but you’ve brought some mighty interesting things to ponder.”
“Well, if you have the time, could you check out Kona, North Carolina and anything that might have happened there?”
“Oh, we’ve got lots more work to do. I’ve got the tingles. I believe you’re right—there’s some kind of pattern going on here. Except that ‘Barbry Allen’ don’t fit, at least not with your murder-ballad idea. That may be a real chink in your hypothesis, young Abit,” he said just before hitting me in the shoulder again. Not mean-like; more like he was enjoying our hunt for the truth.
Murder Ballad Blues Page 6