I’d thought about not making that design any more, but I just couldn’t let Dr. Navarro rule my life thataway. Not to mention it was my best seller. I just wished I didn’t think of him every damn time I worked on one.
I gave up on the table and moved on to a corner cabinet. After a while, my mind drifted back to Dula and that lipsticked cocktail napkin. Not a good idea while running the table saw; I almost cut myself. I stopped and took a walk down by the creek to try and clear my head. I needed to be more careful if I wanted to keep all ten fingers. (There was a reason a furniture plant over near Franklin got the nickname “Finger Factory.”)
When I came back, I switched jobs to something safer—wet-sanding a small table—and I let my mind drift back to Dula. Just as I was finishing up, a thought slipped past like a wraith. Hadn’t I heard someone recently mention Wilkes County? Not the Ferguson murder, but in a different way? I stopped to think, but nothing came to mind. It wouldn’t come ‘til suppertime.
Conor was taking a bath and getting ready for an evening of supper and a little TV. I was alone in the kitchen and got busy chopping vegetables from the garden. I kinda jumped when Fiona came in from work and dropped her purse on the kitchen table.
“Sorry to scare you, Rabbit,” she said as she hugged me from behind. We smooched a little while our boy was busy upstairs, but then she wanted to talk about the latest murder before he joined us. As I started to fill her in on what little I knew, a terrible weight came down on me. “Why are there so many awful people in the world?” I asked.
“It’s just one in a million, darlin’.” She was trying to soothe me, but I knew she was upset too.
“Still, how could you live with yourself?”
“Well, some folks are mentally ill, and others, depending on how they were reared, grew up with some pretty crazy people—like you did.” She kissed me again. “But not everyone takes the fork in the road you chose. Some just want to hurt others back the way they were hurt.”
That stirred something in me, a mix of shame and regret. I knew I wasn’t as good as Fiona made out. I had plenty of dark thoughts lurking under the surface. I always tried to stuff them down deep, but what she’d just said put me on edge.
Fiona musta picked up on my mood, because she was awful quiet when we sat down to supper—one of Fiona’s fine cottage pies and the salad I’d pulled together. But pretty soon we were laughing about Conor getting some mashed tater on the end of his nose. He was getting to be such a little imp, I wouldn’t’ve put it past him to have put it there on purpose. I loved how his sense of humor was coming along. (I don’t believe I said anything funny—on purpose, anyways—till I was 17 or 18 year old.)
As Fiona leaned over and playfully wiped his nose, she said, “No telling what you might get up to next! You are one crazy son.”
And that’s when it hit me. Wallis’ son, Keaton, had moved to Wilkes County. And he’d been back for several months after being away for five year. And he knew a lot about our music. I didn’t want to think he could be the murderer—Wallis had become my friend—but the facts stared me in the face. Not to mention he was creepy.
But for the second time that evening, I pushed unpleasant thoughts away. Surely that was all just coincidence.
By the next day, though, the notion wouldn’t leave me alone. I was in my shop fretting over it when Shiloh asked me why I was frowning so.
“Just something on my mind. Nothing worth sharing.” He looked offended, like I didn’t trust him, but this wasn’t the kind of thing you told someone without thinking it through. “Sorry, Shiloh. Nothing personal, but it’s bigger than I can handle.”
“Then share it—you won’t be carrying the burden alone.” That sounded like one of his Zen sayings, which often made sense to me, or at least made me want to think more about them. But I needed to honor Wallis more than Shiloh. I shook my head.
“The noble-minded are calm and steady. Little people are forever fussing and fretting,” he said before going into the other room I’d built to help keep dust offa everything out front.
I tried not to bite, but after a few minutes I called out: “Okay, who said that?”
He turned off the sander and shouted, “You don’t think I could have come up with something that insightful?”
“I’m sure you could with time, Shiloh, but not on the spot like that.”
He laughed and said it was Confucius. I mumbled something like I knew who that was. (I had heard of him, just didn’t know the particulars.) We went back to our respective chores and worked together contentedly for the rest of the afternoon.
That evening, Fiona had the second shift, so oncet I put Conor to bed, I was alone with my thoughts. Instead of fussing and fretting, I just sat quiet with them, the way Shiloh would’ve. And sure enough, with time I knew what I needed to do.
Chapter 31: Della
Saturday morning, I closed the bedroom door quietly so Alex could sleep longer and turned to find the little rascal curled up on the couch. Last night he’d crept up there as soon as my back was turned, so why would I think he’d sleep all night on his makeshift bed on the floor? Besides, now that he’d had a bath, what difference did it make? I’d long given up trying to keep dogs off furniture.
After breakfast I cut out a bagful of mats from his coat, but my unprofessional trim made him look awfully raggedy. On his morning walk, passersby glanced oddly at him or offered something noncommittal like, “Oh, I see you have a new dog.” I found myself rooting for the little guy. Maybe his coat would grow out soon, and he’d look good enough for someone to adopt him.
Alex was still asleep when we returned. I was dying to show him the note I’d gotten in the mail—I was asleep when he got home—but that would have to wait. I let the dog off his leash, put down some extra food, and hurried to open the store. Another busy Saturday when my mind was elsewhere. Not just the money laundering and the recent murders, but more personally, I wondered why Alex was away until after midnight. Of course, I told myself, he’d always kept late hours, and his body clock traveled with him.
Around eleven o’clock, he joined me downstairs, looking beat. He remained mysterious about his day away, but we’d agreed years ago to give each other plenty of space. I wasn’t really worried about his philandering again, and his health had been fine since his treatment for prostate cancer several years ago. I knew he wouldn’t come down here to secretly go to the doctor; our medical care was far inferior to what he could find in D.C.
“Whose overgrown rat is that running around your apartment?
“Oh, that’s Rascal.”
“You’ve named it?”
“Well, he is a rascal. And having a proper name makes an ad more effective, easier to find him a good home.”
He mumbled something I didn’t quite catch, though I definitely heard already has. But he was wrong; I was in no position to take on the care and welfare of a dog. I’d always felt as though I’d neglected Jake once I bought the store. I’d given him a good life in D.C., but down here, I spent too many hours inside the store, afraid to let him hang out in back because of random visits by the health inspector.
I brought Alex a cup of perked coffee and showed him the mysterious note from my mailbox. The evening before, after retrieving it from my mailbox, I’d cleared off the kitchen table so I could study it with a large magnifying glass.
Whoever sent it had gone to a lot of trouble to tear words from a newspaper in different sized fonts. Seemed like a lot of drama and toil, but I guess a whistleblower couldn’t be careful enough. And I had to admit the note had style; it piqued my interest.
When I showed it to Alex, the look on his face cried Really? “Go on, take a closer look,” I said.
The note was oversized with a large photo of the burning building we’d feared had taken Nigel’s life. Just six words below that: SO MUCH BIGGER THAN YOU THINK!
“So what?” Alex asked. “You already knew that. What are you supposed to do now?”
Alex was righ
t. I didn’t have a clue about what to do with this strange proclamation from some mysterious—and perhaps disgruntled—whistleblower. But I also sensed something off with Alex, his usual reporterly demeanor missing in action. I took back the note, folded it, and returned it to the envelope. I asked him what he was up to today.
“Just got to run out again.”
“When will you be back?” My patience was stretching thin.
“When I come back to take you to the best dinner you’ve ever eaten at the Inn at Jonas Mountain.” Normally, I’d be delighted, but this sounded more like asking forgiveness than generosity. But then I thought, Oh, to hell with all the suspicion. I loved eating out, especially on Saturday night after a long work week.
Even on a busy day at the store, there were always lulls, and around three o’clock it was so quiet, I struggled to stay awake. I went in the back, put the kettle on, and picked up the magnifying glass. As a last-ditch effort to glean something from the mysterious note, I closely studied each word. I didn’t find anything special in the first five words, but on the sixth, I caught a break. Just a small one: THINK (the exclamation point had been cut out separately) seemed to be from a headline, and in a small font at the very top I could just make out the letters “BSERVER.” Had to be from the Charlotte Observer, which told me something. The person was from around here, generally speaking. Perhaps fairly literate, someone who actually read a newspaper from a town known for its banking and finance.
After the initial rush, though, I heard a voice in my head repeat Alex’s question: SO WHAT? What can I do with this? Thanks a lot, whistleblower, for just stirring up trouble. No way could I start an investigation as the Mountain Weekly food columnist. Gone were my credentials and my bravado for such undertakings, even if my curiosity was as strong as ever.
All that was forgotten on the trip up the Blue Ridge Parkway, decked out in its lush wardrobe of summertime green embroidered with sprays of wildflowers.
Even after so many years living in the mountains, I still felt conspicuous in Alex’s Mercedes as it puttered up the parkway. But the smooth ride soothed my jangled nerves, as did the bottle of Champagne we ordered at the inn. No special celebration other than it was Saturday night and neither one of us had to work the next day. I ordered the mountain trout dinner, and Alex tried the chicken scallopini.
We talked some about the message I’d received, but neither of us had any fresh ideas about what to do next. I decided to let it go, the proverbial brick wall. After dinner and a couple of cups of coffee, I was good to drive. We got home safely and, as they say around here, hit the hay.
I awoke Sunday morning with an idea floating through my head: place a classified ad in the Observer online. So much for giving up on my hard-to-figure whistleblower. But then again, why not give it a try? Roll the dice and see what happened. And while I was at it, I could place an ad about Rascal.
I got up, turned on the Rancilio, and headed over to my computer. The Observer offered several choices of where to place my ad—legal, real estate, or just wanted. I hedged my bets and chose both “legal” and “real estate wanted.” Editing my words a time or two delivered a cheaper yet more effective ad: NOT FAIR, MR. BIGGER THAN YOU THINK! TELL ME MORE. Rascal’s ad included a photo and some details along with my phone number.
It was a long shot the whistleblower would ever see the ad, let alone reply, but I felt better for trying. I paid for an entire week to boost my chances on both ads. I told myself that if I hadn’t heard from the whistleblower after seven days, the hunt was over.
I wasn’t clear on which way I hoped it would go.
Chapter 32: Abit
“Wallis is in the hospital.”
I nearly fell off the stoop when Keaton opened the cabin door and delivered the bad news.
Earlier, I’d decided to put my suspicions about him on hold and head over to the cabin to talk with Wallis. I wanted to go deeper into how the old ballads matched up with the current murders.
Keaton just stood in the doorway, not asking me in. He looked all uppity in his big-city clothes—suit pants, white shirt, tie—an odd sight in a rundown cabin. Then again, what else could he wear but what was in his closet?
When I heard Wallis was sick, though, I put all that behind me. “What happened? Did he fall? Where is he?” I rattled on, torn up about my friend.
“His heart. He’s had heart trouble for years. I took him to the hospital in the middle of the night on Thursday. Over in Spruce Pine, where his doctor practices.”
Keaton seemed genuine in his concern. We chatted a while, though he never did invite me in. I just stood there while he told me about the tests Wallis was having and that he’d be in the hospital at least a week. I asked Keaton if he planned to visit Wallis that evening.
“No, I’m going to Boone to do some research at the university; then I’m attending a music recital. But I’m sure he’d be glad to have your company.” Like he was relieved I’d be doing what he shoulda been doing. I could tell he wanted me to leave.
“Whatcha researching?” I asked just to piss him off.
He looked down his nose at me. “Oh, something for my latest project.”
That could mean anything. My mind started racing again.
Wallis’ cabin was dark when I came back. I’d worked my way through the woods, sticking close to the stand of laurel that surrounded his cabin. I’d parked a ways away so nobody would see my Chevy truck. It stood out with those beautiful wraparound curved windows in the back, the way they made them in 1950.
I’d gotten Maizie, a neighbor girl, to babysit Conor while Fiona was at work. We’d had her stay with Conor a time or two, and they seemed to get along fine. After she said her howdy-dos with Conor and got settled in, I told her I’d be back as soon as possible. “Oh, and don’t say anything to Fiona, okay?”
She looked at me funny and I blurted out, “Oh, I’m not stepping out on her or anything.”
We both blushed like teenagers caught in the backseat. I felt bad drawing Maizie into my lie, but if Fiona knew what I was up to, she would’ve had my guts for garters (one of her favorite sayings).
I wasn’t worried about Conor mentioning anything. He was still young enough to think mostly about what lay right in front of him. If he did, I could just say I had to make a delivery. Kinda lame. Who needs a sideboard delivered at eight o’clock at night? Then again, I wouldn’t put it past some of those second-homers.
I’d feared Keaton, with his city ways, might’ve deadbolted the door. I tried the knob and let out a big breath when it opened. Oncet inside, I headed straight for Wallis’ work corner. I had this nagging feeling Keaton was hiding something, and I needed to see if Wallis had letters, clippings, anything that would tell me more about where Keaton had been for five year and why in the hell he chose to settle in Wilkes County. The same county as our latest killing—and not that far from the othern.
I couldn’t believe the mess. Papers everywhere. I put my flashlight in my mouth and dug round with both hands in different piles. Toward the back of the table I came across a few yellowed clippings, and one of them told about Keaton winning some kind of award for a book he’d written on Appalachian culture. I looked on Wallis’ bookshelf to see if the spines had the Harding name, but I couldn’t find one. To be honest, I was so nervous, the flashlight was bobbing up and down and making me feel queasy.
I took it out and held it in one hand while I rummaged round best I could with the other. I felt something thicker and heavier below the stacks of papers: English Roots of Appalachian Music. Sure enough, it was Keaton’s new book, which I figured he could have written while in prison for five year. There was Keaton’s name in big bold letters on the cover. I leafed through real quick-like and saw a whole chapter on murder ballads.
As I put the book down, lights fanned across the front window. I peeked out and saw two headlights accompanied by the grind of a four-wheel vehicle coming up the drive. It had to be Keaton; Wallis wasn’t in any shape to be driving
himself home, not to mention his pickup was sitting out front. Maybe the hospital called and Keaton had gone to bring him home. Or worse.
I fussed with the papers a little, trying to put them back the way they were. I wasn’t too worried; I figured no one but Wallis would ever notice anything out of place. I’d met people who had desks that messy and yet knew where everything was. But they were always the person who’d made the mess in the first place. I didn’t think Keaton could make any more sense of it than me. I crawled on all fours over to the bedroom closer to the work area.
“Damn hicks. I’d like to kill those halfwits,” Keaton growled as he slammed the front door. He kicked a stool, which made me flinch. Luckily not enough to knock anything over.
Keaton went into the other room, what I figured was his bedroom ‘til he moved to Wilkes County. I thanked the heavens I hadn’t chosen that room to hide in. Then he flipped on a light, and I could hear his footfall getting closer. When it stopped, he musta been standing right at the tables. Oh, no. He did notice the mess was different. I heard what sounded like a book or two coming offa the shelves. Then footsteps away, the front door slammed again, an engine roared before the SUV ground its way back down the road.
To be safe, I stayed in my cramped position for ten more minutes before straightening myself out and running for the front door. But then my curiosity got the better of me. I went back to the bookshelf, curious about what he’d taken. I could see Keaton’s book peeking out under the papers where I’d replaced it. As for the bookshelves, I hadn’t had a good enough look at them to notice anything missing. The books round the blank space Keaton left were John Parris’ These Storied Mountains and “Movers & Makers: Doris Ullmann’s portrait of the craft revival in Appalachia,” some kinda exhibit catalog. I sure would’ve liked to look through both those books. Especially Doris Ullmann’s. Her photographs lined the hallways at The Hicks, and my heart always stirred at the way she captured the dignity of work and creativity of mountain folks. But there was no time for leafing through picture books. I needed to get out of there and go home, where I belonged.
Murder Ballad Blues Page 10