Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

I wasn’t convinced “Barbara Allen” (some folks like Wallis called her Barbry) was out of step with the rest, but I needed to keep an open mind. I mean, what did I know?

  Wallis kept his word to Keaton about mushrooming. As they walked down a trail behind the cabin, he called out, “I need to help Keaton get settled over in Wilkes County, but I do some of my best thinkin’ on the road.”

  I started walking back to my truck, chuckling about how he did that crazy thing people in Mama’s church did. They wanted to swear, but they didn’t want to break any commandments. Thing was, the words they used instead always made me stop and ask myself which real swear words they were working so hard not to say.

  I hurried on home. I didn’t want to be late and have Fiona asking what took me so long. I knew she’d say I was playing with fire.

  Chapter 20: Della

  “Bloody hell, Della! I’m an artist,” Nigel ranted as he paced awkwardly in the confines of Coburn’s small backroom. “I’m not an effing factory.”

  “Hmm, would that be called a forge forge?” I asked.

  “Oh, you think you’re hilarious, don’t you? Well, this is no laughing matter.”

  He was right, but it was one of those laugh-or-cry situations. Nigel had been so cranky all day, even his doting customers were affronted. So when we finally had a lull, I pressed him to tell me exactly what was going on.

  “I’ve never been treated like this in my life. Always with respect—even by that bottle and stopper who arrested me.”

  “Sounds like you’ve met your match with this Meeks character.”

  Nigel sat down heavily and slowly shook his head. “Yeah, all because I got itchy fingers. When I tried to put an end to it, Meeks came out to Abit’s and shouted like a mad man. I kept saying I was done, but those blokes know when they’ve got a good thing. I’m their ticket to untold ill-gotten gains.”

  I listened as Nigel explained the scheme and where he fit into it. It sounded like a typical small-potatoes scam until he mentioned real estate. My ears perked up. I’d seen a story at the Mountain Weekly about just such a racket.

  Except it was in a reporter’s trash can.

  I hadn’t told anyone I’d gone back to a bit of journalism. The managing editor had stopped by Coburn’s a few months ago and asked if I’d do a column for the Wednesday food section. I said yes—with a couple of conditions. One, I’d have a pseudonym, and two, I wouldn’t get edited to death. She agreed to both.

  I wasn’t sure why I didn’t want anyone to know about the column. Pride, I suppose, or put another way, journalistic snobbery. I’d worked hard to build my reputation with some of the best papers and magazines, so working for a small-town rag stung a little. I hadn’t even told Alex, who would have teased me unmercifully. I could hear the jokes about jello molds and tuna casseroles before he even voiced them.

  What I did like was having access to a real, albeit small, newsroom. The energy inside a newsroom is like nowhere else, and I wanted to feel that again. Not all that different from Nigel needing a fix, but at least my situation was legal.

  A couple of weeks earlier, while filing one of my columns at the paper, I’d noticed a roughed-out story sticking out of Jessie Walsh’s trashcan. While most newspapers had gone digital, many of us still printed out ideas and drafts. The brain sees things differently in hard copy; for me, it was the best way to catch fuzzy thinking and gaping holes in my stories.

  Something instinctual made me grab the trashed rough draft and hide it in my bag. I went to the restroom and skimmed it. Then sporting what I hoped was the face of innocence, I asked Jessie how her latest story was coming along.

  “I was making great headway with it—then E.J. made me stop,” she said with a sad resignation all too familiar to reporters. “He told me it was a dead end. But I know it’s not. He got this funny look on his face and told me to cover the festival at The Hicks instead. Nice enough assignment, but nothing I couldn’t do with my eyes shut. This other story got the juices flowing. Know what I mean?”

  Did I ever. I couldn’t believe she’d left it at that, but then E.J. Blakely was a tough editor-in-chief. And some people had more sense than I did.

  When I got out to my Jeep, I took a longer look at what I’d found. The names and addresses I could follow up on gave me a jolt. People who sat much higher than Fedora.

  I told Nigel all about what Jessie’s rough draft had laid out, plus the little bit of research I’d had time for. “There are all kinds of nefarious goings-on in the county’s real estate, and this situation isn’t going to get any better for you.”

  Like always, he said he could fix things. “Just leave it be,” he added with a big sigh. “I’ve got a plan.”

  “Well, don’t expect me to sit by and leave this story in some trash heap.”

  “Oh, Della, don’t get tangled up in this mess. Please stay out of it.”

  “Don’t worry, Nigel. I’m coming from a different angle.”

  On my next day off, I drove over to Cleva’s for lunch. I’d been so busy with the store and the newspaper column, I’d been neglecting my old friend. Her granny flat—at least that’s what they’re called in D.C. Not sure what it’s called in an area accustomed to families living together on shared land—was almost as nice as the home she’d lived in for decades. It didn’t have the music of the falls in the background, but the mountain vistas were even prettier.

  “Honey, so good to see you,” Cleva called out from the front door as I got out of the Jeep. When we hugged, I didn’t feel that solid, strong woman I’d been hugging for years. Not frail, but not the same. She looked more her age, though still more like 78 than 88. And her mind was as sharp as ever.

  I’d brought part of our lunch from the store—all her favorites like Wensleydale cheese, hard salami, fresh baguette, and of all things, cornichons. She’d made a green salad from the small garden she still tended and baked a cake—her famed caramel cake, a rich pound cake with penuche frosting. Almost too sweet for me, but when it came to homemade cakes, almost wasn’t an obstacle. Since Lonnie Parker got a promotion and moved to Gastonia with his mother, the county’s best baker, we’d all been short on the kind of baked goods Cleva’s generation favored. I also brought wine, a lovely dry rosé we both enjoyed.

  When we finished, Cleva got up to make coffee. Not the usual hogwash served around here but from freshly ground beans her cousin shipped every two months from Portland, Oregon. Somehow her coffee always tasted better than what I made in the fancy Rancilio Alex gave me for my birthday—more than likely due to the indefinable improvement that came from not having to make it myself. She stirred in plenty of cream and sugar before asking what had been keeping me so busy.

  I explained about Nigel, Abit, Alex, and as I was about to add Coburn’s, she interrupted. “Enough said. I’d been wondering where you were, and now it’s clear. So what’s going on with you?”

  “Well, I found a different baker I’m trying out. Next time I promise to bring a surprise. And I haven’t told anyone this, but I have a newspaper gig.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m writing a food column for the newspaper. Maybe you’ve seen it—Food for Thought? I’ve got a pseudonym, but please don’t tell anyone that’s me.” She smiled and nodded. “And I also got involved with a story about local money laundering.”

  “That doesn’t sound very culinary.”

  I laughed. “It’s not, but as long as I brought it up, I’d like to get your take on something. It’s about ...”

  “Don’t tell me that’s why you came over,” she interrupted.

  My words froze in my throat. Had I? I knew myself well enough to know once I got my teeth into an investigation, everything else went by the wayside, including manners. But this time I didn’t think I was guilty. I had honestly wanted to see my old friend; her opinion on this was a bonus. I told her that.

  “I believe you, honey. You’re a little on edge, you know that? I was just teasing you.” She took
my hand and squeezed it.

  I was on edge; the story had gotten its hooks into me. I took a deep breath before pulling papers out of my bag. I laid the most important ones in front of her. Cleva put on her reading glasses; she skimmed most of the content before leaning back in her chair.

  “I don’t need to tell you we’ve always had corruption. What place hasn’t? But when the price of land started to skyrocket in the ‘70s, there were lots of shenanigans, or more like machinations, amongst the locals and people from Charlotte and Raleigh. Bankers, loan officers, and higher ups were getting their share of the boom. First from loans they shouldn’t have made in the first place—and then off foreclosures. Or worse, money laundering, though I hadn’t even heard that term until years later. I lived a sheltered life. I do recall my bank—Westonia—was one of the worst. I learned from reliable sources they were helping make land prices go up to benefit the bank. Lordy, I hate to think how many of us struggled to pay the property taxes once prices kept rising; some even had to sell off parcels from family land just to pay their taxes. Made me so mad, I moved my money elsewhere, though I imagine every bank has its crooks.”

  Coburn’s mortgage was with Westonia. I had four more years to pay off the loan, and I didn’t want them coming after me because I was digging around. I’d never let that stop me from getting at the truth, but I knew I needed to work smart.

  I really did want to talk about other things, so I asked Cleva about her family. She did the same, asking what Abit was up to. I hedged. I didn’t want to get drawn into the murders; the real estate crimes were enough for one day. Besides, Abit’s theories were just that: theories.

  After a while, I could tell she was getting tired—and a little tipsy. The wine had gone to my head too, but the coffee brought me around for a safe drive home.

  Chapter 21: Della

  Conor spent the next Saturday with me while the Rollin’ Ramblers played at the wedding of one of Fiona’s co-workers. The ceremony and reception were set in a popular natural sanctuary just outside the Laurel Falls Wilderness area. Alex and I had attended a party there years ago, and I could still recall how magical it felt within that grove of old trees, a setting that was sure to make their music sound spectacular.

  Usually they took Conor everywhere, but Fiona wanted to stay late and have some fun with her colleagues. I was all for that. Those two didn’t get enough time alone.

  And Nigel had asked for the day off. I’d agreed begrudgingly—only because I knew his request had something to do with Fedora. Then again, I was glad not to have any of that drama going on while Conor was here. Or so I’d thought at the time.

  I loved little Conor, but I didn’t have a knack with kids. I never had a clue about what they liked. Of course I always indulged him with cookies from the store—he got to pick out the ones he wanted, eat a few, and take the rest home. And I’d picked up a dozen boxes of crayons the last time I shopped in Boone. Earlier he’d told me he didn’t like them all rubbed down with the paper torn, and I recalled having a similar distaste. When he asked me why the crayons at my place were always new, I answered with a white lie about a store going out of business. Whatever, by now he just accepted—and expected—that they’d all have fresh points.

  Conor kept himself busy in the back with crayoning and eating and later napping on the couch. He didn’t seem to mind being on his own. As an only child without ready-made sister or brother playmates, he knew how to entertain himself.

  The only thing I dreaded was the inevitable splitting headache. Not because of Conor—you couldn’t ask for a sweeter kid—but guilt. Guilt over never sharing with Abit his mother’s damn deathbed confession. She’d laid her burden on me, explaining the real reasons Abit was thought to be slow.

  To make matters worse, the headaches often conjured that preachy angel-and-devil duo. One telling me I’d promised Mildred I wouldn’t say a word, the other arguing my loyalties were to Abit. And it didn’t help that I couldn’t tell which one was saying what.

  I’d never squared this with myself, me playing God and keeping that vital information from Abit and Fiona. But given how well Abit’s life had turned out, I worried more about the consequences of their learning of Vester and Mildred’s thirty-year coverup. I told myself over and over that the truth would hurt far more than having only one child.

  But what did I know? I’d never had the call to motherhood; I couldn’t begin to measure their sorrow.

  My head pounded while waiting on a slew of Saturday customers. When I hit a lull, I went into the backroom to check on Conor and find some aspirin. He was sitting stiff as a stone statue and almost as pale. I saw the backdoor close.

  “Who was that, honey?” I couldn’t imagine who’d come in that way. Alex was off on some assignment, and no one else used that door. Conor didn’t—or couldn’t—speak. After a few beats, he burst into tears. “Conor, who was that?”

  “I-I don’t kno-o-w.” I knelt down next to him and hugged him. I found a tissue and asked him to blow.

  “Did he say anything?”

  He nodded like only a kid can with big ups and downs. With a little more coaxing, he said, “He told me to tell Uncle Nigel he was in big trouble.”

  After a while (and more cookies) I asked about the guy’s appearance. “Did he look like a gangster?”

  “No, a moonshiner.”

  “And when have you seen a moonshiner?”

  “Well, on TV mostly, but Daddy has pointed one or two out, and he looks like them. Kinda weasely.” I smiled at his word choice, until he added, “I’ve seen him before.”

  Chapter 22: Abit

  I heard Coburn’s front door bang hard against the wall as I flew into the store. I looked round for a moment, then headed straight for Nigel, who was on his knees stocking some damn thing in the canned goods section. Didn’t even speak to Della—who was standing behind the counter with her jaw hanging open.

  I grabbed Nigel by his shirt, raising him up to my eye level. He looked so scared that some of the steam went out of my fury; I was an awful lot bigger than him. But I wasn't done with him yet.

  “What have you brought on to my family, Nigel? When Fiona and I came to pick up Conor yesterday evening, Della told us about that lowlife coming to the store and scaring the shit outta him. This morning when Conor was sick to his stomach, the little fella burst into tears. He told us about that bastard coming to our farm earlier and threatening you. How could you let that happen?”

  By then I’d lowered Nigel so his feet were firmly on the ground; he staggered over to a chair by the wood stove and sat. Even oncet he’d caught his breath he couldn’t seem to find his words. I guess I’d scared them right out of him. Della came over and made some soothing sounds, and eventually I felt calm enough to sit in one of the other chairs. I looked round the store and noticed it was empty.

  “Well, I’m glad nobody was here to see that,” I offered.

  “Oh, they were,” Della told me. “They left. In a hurry.”

  I could feel the heat rising up my neck, ashamed of myself. But then I remembered how hard my boy had cried, and I got mad all over again.

  Della turned to Nigel. “You never mentioned that Conor had seen Fedora before. Was Conor there when Meeks threatened you?”

  Nigel nodded. He looked so woebegone, I almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

  Della went in back and came out with tea and teacups. “I’d just made a pot. You Brits always say a nice hot cuppa cures all ills. I doubt this is strong enough for that, but it’s a start.”

  We sat there not saying a word, sipping our tea. I felt like a damned fool—the cup handle so small I had to hold it with my little finger sticking straight up, just to make room for the rest of my hand. I was back to feeling bad I’d been so gruff with my friend. I seemed to always be saying sorry to people who should be apologizing to me, but sometimes you had to be the first to make amends.

  “I’m sorry, Abit. I never thought it would turn out like this.” That was Della. Ni
gel was still silent as a grave.

  “I’m not mad at you, Della—we wanted Nigel to stay with us.” I looked over at him, but he was studying his shoes. “He’s our friend. But this can’t go on.”

  Nigel nodded again. Thing was, we didn’t want Nigel to leave; we just wanted Johnny Ray Meeks out of our lives.

  After a time, Nigel started talking, though he didn’t sound like the Nigel I knew. “It’s a right mess, innit? Meeks told me a bunch of porkies, and I dunno how things got so bad. The last time I knew he’d come round was when the boy and I were having a grand ole time making scones. I tried to keep Meeks at bay, but then he started getting rough and, crikey, things went to shite.”

  As Nigel went on, I could feel the terror Conor must have felt, sure as if I’d been there. I started glaring at Nigel, which made him clam up, and we were at a dead end again. Then Della stepped in and got us back to talking. Della and I kept saying we could help with a plan to get Meeks offa his back, but Nigel shook his head. “I can fix it,” was all he’d say.

  When the store closed that evening, Della drove Nigel back to our place. She knew I was in no mood to give him a ride.

  After breakfast the next day, I walked over to Nigel’s room to tell him I was sorry. He wasn’t there. I figured he musta stepped out for some fresh air because his flannel shirts and jeans were neatly hanging in the closet, and some books and underwears still lay in the dresser. The only thing missing was the suit he’d been wearing when he arrived months ago. I couldn’t imagine him taking a walk dressed like that, but I’d learned the Brits (and the Irish) had their odd ways.

  We all expected him to show up any minute, but a coupla days later, still no word. I stopped by Coburn’s several times to check with Della.

  “Nigel just isn’t the type to go off without leaving a note," she said, shredding a tissue. “And to leave his mess for you to clean up. I’ve been his friend for decades, Abit, and that isn’t the Nigel I know.”