Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  All the best,

  Nigel xo

  ​

  I felt the same way: I missed him and I’d had enough of him. For now. I’d heard from more than one therapist that being able to hold two contradictory thoughts at the same time is key to living a serene life. I was working on that. And I was relieved to see Nigel had resurrected his eloquent voice; his last conversation with me and Abit had been a startling regression.

  When it finally sank in that Nigel was safe, I couldn’t move. I just sat on that bench and cried in front of God and everyone. My customers were well acquainted with life’s troubles, so anyone passing by took it in stride. Two women gently laid their hands on my downturned head before walking on. After a while, I went upstairs for a cuppa in Nigel’s honor.

  No doubt Johnny Ray Meeks had skipped town too. That’s what criminals do. Unfortunately Sheriff Horne, like E.J. Blakely, thought the whole affair was just some small-time local caper and, after a few modest inquiries, chose to look no further.

  I knew they were wrong.

  Chapter 27: Abit

  After we met Vernon that first time, I couldn’t help but worry about him, probably because he reminded me, well, of me—all shy and withdrawn at that age. We’d learned he was a year younger than Conor, though he was nearly as big. I asked round the other band members, and someone said the boy’s mama had run off and left Marshall and Vernon a few month ago. I vowed to help those two however I could.

  Before our next gig, Fiona and I talked it over and decided to ask Marshall if Vernon would like to spend some time with us, especially on the weekends. I put Fiona up to asking because I seemed to piss off Marshall, more often than not over music decisions and such. I was having to learn to give in more to others’ ideas, and I wasn’t doing such a good job of it.

  The next evening when she asked, Marshall looked funny at first, then his expression turned to what could only be described as relief. “That would be great for me,” he said and actually smiled. Then he added real quick-like, “Oh, and for Vernon too.”

  Conor loved having an extra kid round, and Mollie was over the moon. Two more hands to pet her and throw her rope toy. And I could tell Fiona was happier too. Just having one child—and that was only because of an accident—had hovered over our lives. I’d been afraid our children would turn out like me—and afraid I’d carry on the Bradshaw tradition of treating them like shit. We’d dodged heartache when Conor turned out so fine, but I just couldn’t risk it again.

  Fiona sacrificed the most. She’d always said she wanted a big family, and she’d gone along with having just one because she loved me. But I wasn’t blind to the shadow that sorrow cast over her life. Especially when Conor took such an interest in children he met when we were on the road. He wasn’t just a pint-sized showman on the stage; he seemed to know what to do with other kids, like he’d done with Vernon—talk nice to them and show them round wherever we were, even when he didn’t know much about the lay of the land himself.

  We’d tried to make sure Conor got to be with other kids, like those things they call playdates. He enjoyed a little girl named Henny at his school, so we called her mama to set one up for them. But we had a devil of a time ever finding a date that suited everyone. (It made me laugh to imagine, back when I was a kid, Mama on the phone, calling round to set up play times for me.) Anyway, having Vernon come over regular-like worked a whole lot better.

  We’d arranged to pick him up the following Friday evening at the cabin they’d rented near Newland. Marshall had made a nice home for the two of them, and Vernon seemed more relaxed on his own ground. He showed us a birdhouse he was building with Marshall’s help, and though it was a little outta square, I knew a pair of bluebirds would like to settle there and raise a family.

  One thing did irk me: I had a hard time with them naming him Vernon. It was almost as bad as Vester, but I got that noose round my neck more than thirty year ago, back when people did things like that. Fortunately, for now, Vernon seemed too young to mind. When he was with us, we called him Vern. That still sounded like an old man—but at least it was better.

  I wondered what his middle name was. It would be funny if it were James or John because he could go by the same initials I did, V.J. (for Vester Junior), back before I gave up trying to fight the name Abit.

  Chapter 28: Abit

  We had anothern.

  It’d been a couple of month since the last murder, though it’d felt longer. As word spread like wildfire, it burned up any calm we’d begun to feel.

  At supper that evening, Fiona passed me some cutlery and a paper napkin. In an instant that concert came back to me, the one when someone wrote “Tom Dula” on a napkin with red lipstick. I recalled the Dula murder had taken place somewhere out near Wilkesboro. The newspaper said the one we just had was in Ferguson, but I had no idea where that was.

  I ran from the kitchen to a bookshelf where we kept an atlas of North Carolina. I riffled through the pages, my fingers feeling thick and useless when the pages wouldn’t turn fast enough. I finally found Ferguson—it was in Wilkes County, due west of Wilkesboro. Then I grabbed my notes on the Tom Dula story and found that murder was in Ferguson too. I picked up the phone to call Wallis, but of course I couldn’t.

  “What’s going on, Rabbit?” Fiona called out.

  I returned the atlas to the shelf and slid my notes back into the box where I kept them. And tried to act normal-like. I didn’t want to upset her before I knew what I was talking about. “I just need to go see Sheriff Horne about something.”

  “Oh, Abit, please don’t go to the coppers.” When I grabbed my truck keys, she kept at it. “I’ve seen how peelers on both sides of the Troubles did terrible things with the truth, depending on who they were loyal to. You just never know.”

  “Shug, we’re not in Ireland.”

  “Well, I don’t want you getting that involved. You have a family to think of.” She crossed her arms like she did, and I knew she wasn’t budging.

  “Then why’d you help me with the computer, finding out more about the Tennessee killings?”

  She didn’t say anything, long seconds turning into minutes. Finally, she sighed. “I know I’m all confused about what’s the right thing to do. But everything’s getting too big for the likes of us. I’m scared, and I don’t want any of this to rain down on our family. Please don’t go to the coppers.”

  “Okay, for now, but if what I think is going on, Wallis and I can help with where the killer might strike next.”

  I was too antsy to just sit around and worry; I had to get out and talk with someone. No way could I make it out to Wallis’ in the dark, but maybe Della had time for me that evening. I gave her a call. ​

  When I pulled up, she came out on the landing at the top of the stairs to her apartment. She had on her bathrobe, so I knew I’d disturbed her. She gave me a hug and showed me inside.

  “I’m sorry I got you outta bed, Della.”

  She laughed. “I wasn’t in bed. I’ll be up for hours—Alex is coming in late tonight. I just got comfortable. You’re like family, so I didn’t bother to change and make a fuss.”

  But she had. There was fresh coffee and slices of apple cake on a plate. Turned out we needed those refreshments because we spent the next two hours on her computer, looking things up. Not having a computer and not feeling particularly comfortable round them, I was amazed at what it could cough up.

  At some point she stopped and looked over at me. “Abit, sit here and type in that ballad you were telling me about.”

  “I can’t type.”

  “Everyone can hunt and peck. Take your time. Just type in T-O-M space D-U-L-A.”

  I had to admit it felt like magic to hit Enter and see all kinds of things come up for that. Some were for Tom Dula the state senator in Oregon or Tom Dula the gardening expert, but eventually we found what we were looking for.

  “Abit, you need to get with it. You should get a computer at home and an email account.”


  “What for?”

  “Well, for one, you wouldn’t have to drive down here at night to look things up.” She was standing behind me and patted my back. “I love seeing you, but you and Fiona could email while she’s away at work.”

  “Why would I need to do that? She’d be home soon, or I could call on the phone if there were an emergency.”

  She bumped my shoulder. “You’re hopeless! Okay, what did you find?”

  We went back to work, and a little later I left with what I’d needed before talking with Wallis again.

  I didn’t get home ‘til midnight. Fiona was fast asleep, so I tiptoed through the house. I peeked into Conor’s room, where he was all curled up in bed, the bedcovers twisted round him. I straightened them and watched him sleep for a while. He woke oncet and mumbled, “Hi, Daddy,” and I forgot all about murders.

  Too bad that didn’t stop me from having wild dreams. Nothing I could remember, but they made my sleep uneasy. Around dawn, I had to untangle myself from my own bedcovers before I could get outta bed. Fiona was still sleeping, so I tiptoed downstairs to start breakfast. I was drinking my third cup of coffee when she came down. I thought she’d give me hell, but instead she hugged me.

  “I know you’re doing this because you can’t help yourself, but also for me and Conor—and all the others who could get hurt.”

  While she sipped her coffee, I brought her up to date with what Della and I talked about. When little Conor came downstairs, I started cooking French toast. He didn’t know anything bad was going on, at least not all the details, so we had a nice breakfast together.

  When I started on the dishes, Fiona came up behind me and whispered, “Go on, honey. I’ll do the washing up. I know you’re busting to get over to Mr. Harding’s.”

  I kissed them goodbye, and as I was going out the door, I heard Conor ask, “Where’s Daddy going?”

  “Oh, just to see an old man about some music.”

  Chapter 29: Della

  Not long after Abit had pulled away, Alex drove in from D.C. It was late in the day when he’d gotten out of town, and by then weekend traffic had ground to a virtual halt; the rest of the drive down had been slowed by a stalled truck and an accident. We stayed up past two o’clock, catching each other up on our news.

  When we went to bed, Abit’s tales and all the other upside-down news of the world kept going through my mind. I just lay there, worrying about not sleeping, which only made matters worse. I finally did fall asleep, because next thing I knew I smelled coffee. I opened my eyes and saw Alex holding a cup under my nose, trying to help me wake up so I could open the store before customers started honking their horns.

  By the time I came out of the shower, he had an omelet and toast waiting for me. We both ate quickly. I had to get down to the store, but I wondered what his hurry was. He said something vague about an appointment and that he’d be away until late. I didn’t have a clue what that was all about, but I was too busy to worry. I kissed him and trudged down the steps.

  As I made my way through Friday—stocking shelves, skipping lunch, solving tiny problems that only seemed big to customers—a soothing resolve came over me. No way was I going to pursue that real estate story. In my twenties, I would have jumped at the chance, but by this time in life, after witnessing so much crime, it felt hopelessly repetitive: a vicious cycle of greed and corruption in which the bad guys came out on top, more often than not. Oh sure, maybe some new law would be enacted to stop them, but somehow they’d find a way around it. Why bother? I asked myself. There would just be another and another after that.

  I’d hoped Jessie would get involved, like she’d said earlier, but when I’d asked her recently, she’d mumbled something about being too busy and not wanting to go against E.J. She seemed content to settle for local council meetings and the occasional fire.

  After I closed the store, I looked forward to a quiet evening by myself. Two things put that on hold.

  As I headed up the stairs to my apartment, I spotted a little dog shivering under the steps. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine pounds, and his fur was so matted, it was hard to make out his coloring—maybe beige and white, once upon a time. One ear looked chewed to bits, the other frayed on the tip. His little chest was going up and down like bellows.

  I went back into the store and found the few emergency cans of pet food I stocked—just enough if someone ran out and didn’t want to drive into Newland for their regular supply. I opened a can and put a couple of spoonsful in a bowl for the little fellow. It was gone before I’d pulled my hand away. I put a couple more spoonsful down—I didn’t want to make him sick—and got another bowl for water. I pulled an old blanket out of the Jeep, put it down in a sheltered corner, and patted it. He slowly moved into the middle of it, and I covered him just enough to help stop the shivering.

  “Well, little one, I hope you have a good evening. I’ve got a bottle of Malbec waiting for me.”

  Upstairs, I opened the wine and plunked down on the couch. After a couple of glasses, I was ready to face dinner. Just a salad and some leftover Tagliatelle Bolognese Alex had made on his last visit. (I’d frozen the leftovers for an evening just like this.)

  I was carrying my plate to the dining table when I heard something that sounded like a rat scrabbling through the walls. As it grew louder, I began imagining a rodent the size of a cat. Then I realized the sound wasn’t coming from the walls but the front door. Great! They’re asking to come in now.

  I opened the door and the little rascal from downstairs trotted in like he owned the place. A woosh of chilly night air followed him and softened my hardline stance. “Okay, you can stay tonight, but tomorrow we’ll see if someone’s missing you.” He didn’t look well cared for, so I doubted I’d have an easy time finding his owner.

  I couldn’t let him up on the couch, even though he was eyeing it like a pro. He was dirtier than I’d realized in the fading light downstairs, and once inside, a strange smell emanated from him.

  I hadn’t bathed a dog since my buddy, Jake, now more than seven years ago, but for some strange reason I still had an old bottle of dog shampoo under my bathroom sink. I opened it to make sure it wasn’t moldy; all I smelled was oatmeal and aloe. I drew a warm bath and went to get him.

  “Okay, you, follow me.”

  He jumped off the couch and came to me.

  “Now hop into the tub.”

  He looked at me for a second or two. I nodded my head toward the tub and after a pat on his behind, he jumped in. It didn’t take long to clean the little guy, though tomorrow I’d need to cut out those mats. I went downstairs to get his blanket and bowls. While down there, I remembered I hadn’t checked my mailbox.

  As these things have a way of happening, just when I’d given up on that real estate wild goose chase, I got a message in the U.S. mail.

  Chapter 30: Abit

  Wallis’ drive was empty as I approached his cabin. I hung round on his porch for a while, but after a time, I gave up and walked back to my truck. I was easing on to the road when I saw his pickup heading my way.

  He pulled up next to me, and we rolled down our windows. “I just heard, young Abit. I was over helping Keaton settle in when a neighbor brought the news. Come on back to the house. We need to talk.

  “GOB-BLISTERED WORMFOOD!” he shouted when we got inside. He pointed to a chair for me and plunked down on the couch, a saggy old thing that almost swallowed him. “It’s a terrible injustice to our beloved music. I just know these murder ballads and murders are all tangled up together, but who could be this mean? Or should I say crazy?”

  I didn’t quite follow his way of thinking. I hated the way the murder ballads were being acted out, too, but Wallis had skipped over the fact that these ballads were about awful murders in the first place. I waited a beat before saying, “I’ve been studying the ‘Tom Dooley’ story. It fits with the recent murder, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it fit? Like a halter top in a whorehouse. This
whole Ferguson thing is right outta the Dula story. You do know that the real name is Dula, right? The way local people pronounced Dula made outsiders misspell it. Anyway, he was a randy SO-AND-SO, and the murder of Laura Foster was brutal. With a mattock, if you can imagine, which is a lot like a pickax—just like the poor woman two days ago.” He folded his hands over his lap and added, “Oh, this makes me sick to my stomach.”

  I felt relieved Wallis and I were of the same mind, but I worried we still didn’t have what we needed. “Do we have enough information to go to the sheriff and not be laughed outta his office?”

  “In a word, no. It still doesn’t pass the WHAT THE FUDGE test.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “We can’t answer how linking our murders to murder ballads helps catch the SON OF A MONKEY. That’s what we’ve got to figure out before you set yourself up for public ridicule. Those lawmen types don’t take to us civilians telling them their business.”

  Back home, I made myself go out to the woodshop. I was all keyed up and thought working on a dining table I’d promised for next week would help. It didn’t. I’d mentioned early on how I tended to put off working on the dining table orders “for some reason,” but that wasn’t exactly true. I did know why.

  It was the same kinda table I’d made for Fiona, back when we broke up, before we married. She’d left me for one of the doctors at her hospital. To add to my misery, Dr. Gerald Navarro pulled up in his Porsche one day, swept into my workshop, and in a voice that wouldn’t melt butter ordered a dining table for her. “Fiona speaks so highly of your woodworking skills,” he’d offered like a preacher’s blessing, as if I’d been just her handyman. All those troubles came up because of my fear of having young’uns of our own.

  Everything worked out in the end, but to be honest, that doctor never really left me. Deep sorrow does that. A stubborn ache in the heart that hangs round like a living thing, ghostlike ‘til something wakes it up. I reckon some things you never get over; you just learn to live with them. Not that his memory took anything away from the love I felt for Fiona and Conor. Not a bit. But some days that old pain sure cast a fine dusting of hurt.