Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  Chapter 33: Della

  Since I didn’t subscribe to the Observer, I’d picked up an extra roll of quarters at the bank so I could buy copies at the newspaper box in front of Blanche’s laundromat. I suppose I could have studied the classifieds online, but I needed to pore over every square inch of them. I didn’t expect the whistleblower to make it easy on me.

  I hitched up Rascal, and we walked down to buy a paper. (No calls yet about his ad.) Blanche stared at me out the big plate-glass window, more than likely wondering why I was suddenly patronizing her newspaper box. I was surprised she hadn’t tacked one of her infamous signs on it, like those inside warning us about misusing her washers or misbehaving in general. I’d expected to see signs like WASH YOUR FILTHY HANDS BEFORE USING THIS BOX or THIS NEWS ISN’T FIT TO READ. Then again, maybe she had and the delivery guy kept tearing them off.

  To be fair, she might have been looking out to admire Rascal. Nah, she didn’t like dogs, which, as far as I was concerned, closed the book on her. Or maybe she was looking for Nigel. She may not have heard he’d left the country and hoped he’d come back to see her. I was with her there. After a few weeks without him, I was back to missing him.

  I had some time before I had to open the store, so I spread out the newspaper on the counter. I’d planned to study the classifieds while Rascal checked for invisible crumbs in both rooms, but I ended up watching him. After he’d eaten all he could find, he wandered over to where I’d piled up a blanket, turned a time or two, and sank down. He was going to make someone very happy.

  I finally got down to business with the classifieds, but I couldn’t find anything from the whistleblower. We carried on this routine for the next three days. After perusing the classifieds on the fourth day, I still couldn’t find any response to either ad. I figured I’d wasted my money, but so what? I hadn’t spent more than the equivalent of a few movie tickets, and this was a lot more fun than the films that came to the Hen Theater.

  I folded up the newspaper just as some customers filed in. Through the open door, I could see the postman putting a sizeable envelope into my box, considerably larger than the usual circulars and bills.

  Autumn 2005

  Chapter 34: Abit

  After that crazy night at Wallis’ cabin, I’d decided to wash my hands of all that murder business. I didn’t have the stomach for it. Fiona knew something was up when I was off my food for a coupla days. I told her I just had a bug, but it was more than that; I was sick at heart from all the hate and violence and fear.

  Instead I finished orders I’d put on the back burner. It felt good to make pretty dovetail joints, thanks to what Shiloh had taught me and a new jig I’d bought. I got lost in the beauty and smell of wood and felt happier than I had in ages.

  Later that week I got a call from a second-homer I’d promised an oak bed to. The husband told some long story about relatives coming over from Germany and wondered if there was any chance the bed would be ready in time for their visit. I told him that wouldn’t be a problem as I was almost finished. But then he explained the bed was needed in their home in Greensboro—not the one in Beaverdam. Could I deliver it by the following Friday? When I paused (I was trying to stifle a big sigh, but I’m sure he musta heard it), he offered to pay me $200 to deliver, plus mileage. Hard to pass up, so I said yes.

  That oak bed gleamed after Shiloh finished sanding it and rubbing it with a special oil concoction he’d made. By Thursday, I took some photos, wrapped it with padding, and loaded it onto the truck. The next morning, I headed out before dawn. My family was still sleeping; even Mollie only lifted her head to say goodbye.

  I caught an awesome sunrise on my trip east and stopped for coffee round Yadkinville, where I reread the directions and discovered the customer lived south of Greensboro, which made the trip even longer.

  I found their home (more like a mansion) with no trouble, and the husband helped me unload and install the bed. They asked me to wait while they made it up pretty as you please with a comforter and throw pillows. His wife was so happy she clapped her hands. I had to agree. I took a few more pictures for my book.

  He handed me a wad of cash, which he said included the balance due, estimated mileage, and the $200 delivery fee. Out at the truck, I realized he’d tipped me an extra $50, so I felt pretty rich with all that money in my pocket. Time to celebrate with a big dinner; I was starving.

  I decided to backtrack and get on U.S. 64, where I’d have better luck finding home cooking instead of the fast food along the interstate. Not long after, damned if I didn’t see a signpost for Randleman, the site of our first murder. I got a funny feeling, like it was an omen, and drove in that direction.

  I stopped at a barbeque place outside of town and asked my waiter about the murder. He shook his head, claiming to know nothing about it. A man at the next table leaned over and kinda whispered, “It’s just past town a bit, going south. Turn left at a house for sale and go a short ways down. You’ll see the crime tape.”

  I plowed into my pulled pork dinner like a workhorse with a whip to its flank. It included turnip greens, pinto beans, cornbread, and I finished things off with homemade blueberry pie and coffee.

  I didn’t feel too confident about the directions and worried about Fiona needing me home before she left for work. But I’d gotten such an early start, it was only a little after noon; I had time to spare. I found the turnoff just fine and pulled up to where the crime tape hung in tatters. It was a sorry sight, abandoned and forgotten. I figured five month ago the river bank was run over with cops and lookers, but now, everyone had moved on with their lives, except those still grieving.

  There was nothing much to see, but I sat a while on a rocky bluff overlooking the river and listened, paying my respects and hoping to get some kinda nudge about what to do next. I imagined the poor women—both Omie Wise and the one this spring—taking their last breaths here among the fragrant cedars and pines where birds chattered about how good life was. I sat a while longer before hitting the road.

  I figured as long as I was in the truck, I might as well swing by Ferguson, not quite a hundred mile due west and on my way home. I didn’t have any trouble spotting that crime scene. The cops were still there, their black SUVs and vans and tents scattered across the site. I couldn’t get close, so I went up the road and parked. I sat there a while, but again, nothing special came to me.

  Since I’d made good time to Ferguson, I decided to swing by Kona, just to complete the tour of these godforsaken places. I’d begun to feel like the trip was a bust, but at least I’d gotten it outta my system while getting paid for the drive. (And I knew Shiloh would appreciate his share of the tip.) I came up on Kona, just a slip of a place on the North Toe River, and drove through town. As I was looking round, wondering where in the world the crime took place, I had to slam on my brakes. Up ahead, Keaton was getting outta his SUV. What in the world was he doing here?

  I stayed back and found a shady place to park. I watched him go into a café and waited. After thirty minutes, my truck was getting hot, and I worried about Fiona. She’d be wondering where I was, but I didn’t see a pay phone anywhere. I started to pull outta my parking place just as Keaton left the café with a Styrofoam cup of coffee; I could almost taste how bad it was, old and stewed on a burner since breakfast.

  I followed him to a pretty little holler with a white church surrounded by Mountain Ash and bull thistle and the odd mullein popping up here and there. No one else was anywhere round, so I had to be careful he didn’t see me. Luckily there was a sheltered place I could park and watch where he was walking. He marched off in one direction, like he knew just where to go. That was when I spotted the crime tape, flapping in the breeze.

  I felt so sad for Wallis I couldn’t watch any longer. I cranked the truck and hurried home.

  Chapter 35: Abit

  I couldn’t remember when I’d had a good night’s sleep. That night I kept going over the world of hurt Wallis was likely facing, that on top of h
is bad heart. I got up early and put on coffee. Fiona was sleeping in after a late night at the hospital, so when Conor got up, I made us breakfast, wrote Fiona a note, and loaded him and Mollie into my truck. I felt unsettled and needed to get out and do something.

  Coburn’s wasn’t open yet so I kept driving. I never liked knocking on Della’s apartment door unannounced when Alex was there. They didn’t have much time together as it was. I pulled up in front of Blanche’s laundromat to use the payphone.

  “I don’t want to go in there,” Conor said.

  I started laughing. I’d made my peace with that woman, but I knew she musta looked like the wicked witch from one of his storybooks. I’d taken him in there oncet when we had a bunch of blankets to wash, and she scolded him a coupla times before I had to have a talk with her. After that, she just watched him like a hawk.

  I ruffled his hair, which needed a trim, though I’d never make the little fella do that now. I had no idea why he hated having his hair cut, but he made a fuss every time. “Don’t worry, I’m just going to call our friend, Alex, from that payphone.”

  Alex answered on the first ring, like he was expecting a call from someone else. He said he was sorry, but he couldn’t meet me ‘til Monday. That messed up another work day, but hey, I’d take any time I could get. I needed someone to talk over my ideas with, and Alex got me better than even Della.

  Not to waste a trip into town, I drove over to Tate’s Dry Goods. I’d noticed this morning when Conor came downstairs how high-water his pants had gotten. We’d bought him new clothes before school started again, but he was growing that fast.

  “You know, Conor, you’re getting too big for your britches. Let’s go to Tate’s and get you some new ones.” He didn’t know that was where Johnny Ray Meeks used to work, so that wasn’t a problem. And it was fixing to rain, which made it cool enough for Mollie to sleep in the truck for a short while.

  Most kids don’t like shopping, at least that’s what Fiona told me, but Conor didn’t get to do it often enough to mind. Not that he was crazy about picking out new clothes, but I bribed him with a visit to the toy department afterwards.

  As we came out of Tate’s, damned if I didn’t see Keaton walking toward his SUV with a big coil of rope. That guy was everywhere! A shiver came over me, something Fiona would’ve said was a sign. But this time, it felt more like a natural reaction to all the worrisome things going on.

  Conor and I got in the truck and gave Mollie a treat for waiting on us. I tossed two new pairs of jeans behind my seat and cranked the engine. Conor studied his new Matchbox truck all the way home.

  Monday morning, after Conor was off to school, I told Fiona I needed to visit Wallis in the Spruce Pine hospital. It was her day off, and I could tell she was grateful for the luxury of time to herself.

  I’d been putting off going to see Wallis because of Keaton, not to mention how much I hated visiting people in hospitals. But I also hated not visiting them. When does someone need a friend more than when they’re inside such a cold, weird-smelling place?

  I opened the door to Wallis’ room and stuck my head in. He was dozing, looking all shriveled in his bed. And rough. His hair was a tangle of white fluff, though they had given him a clean shave. I stepped in quiet-like, but he musta heard the door close behind me.

  “Huh? Who’s there?” he said, fumbling for his glasses. I handed them to him, and he settled them on his face. He looked up at me and smiled. “Young Abit.”

  “I hear you’re getting out soon,” I said, even though I didn’t know that to be true. I figured that was always a good thing to say in this situation.

  “SON OF A GOAT, you’d better believe it.” He pulled the covers off as though he were about to get up and leave right then. His spindly legs looked pitiful sticking outta that hospital gown. “The food here tastes like a CRUD MUFFIN. You don’t have any snacks on you, do you?”

  I’d picked up some grapes, something Fiona told me she always took when visiting folks in the hospital. I held out the brown paper bag, and his face lit up. When he opened it, he looked awfully disappointed. But he thanked me and began munching on some, offering me the open bag. I took a few to be polite.

  Wallis settled back down, pulled the covers up, and surprised the hell outta me when he asked, “You know, I’ve been wondering why you asked me what Keaton had been up to the past five years. What are you up to?”

  Oh, man, I didn’t see that coming. I’m a terrible liar, but I put on my best straight face. “Just curious. He looks like someone who’s seen more of the world than me, and I wondered where he’d been to. Why?” Della’d taught me it’s always good to answer a tough question with one of your own.

  Wallis studied me a while, and I tried not to swallow too hard. I ate another grape.

  “Okay, just wondering, what with all this talk about ‘Knoxville Girl’ five years ago and now Tom Dula over in Wilkes County.” He left it hanging there like a bad note at a concert.

  “Have you had time to ponder the killer’s choice of ballads?” I asked. Keaton wasn’t off the hook with me, but I had to shift things away from him.

  “I’ve had nothing but time to think on it—when they’re not sticking me with needles or wheeling me somewhere scary for a test. I was able to determine that the ‘Omie Wise,’ ‘Frankie Silver,’ and ‘Tom Dooley’ killings were exactly seventy-three days apart. That’s bound to be important, but I can’t tell you why.” He started staring at me again. I wasn’t sure I’d dodged his bullet, but I was breathing a little easier.

  “Well, I sure don’t know about such things. What I do know is the Tom Dooley murder took place twenty-five day ago. If you’re right ...” Wallis gave me a sharp look. “I mean thanks to you, we now know we’ve got forty-eight day to stop the next murder.”

  And just like that, Wallis went from suspicious to all worked up, in a good way. “Yeah, but how? We don’t know SQUAT about how to stop this MOTHER TRUCKER, and that’s the only reason all this research matters.”

  He was nearabout shouting now, and that musta sent a message down to the nurses’ desk because all of a sudden, a big guy came in and told me not to excite Mr. Harding or I’d have to leave. Wallis started nodding his head up and down like a teacher’s pet. When the door closed behind the nurse, his face went back to normal, and he started in again.

  “This is what them fiction writers call the ticking clock. We’ve only got so much time, so we’ve got to get busy.” He pointed to a stack of three books on a little table. “Keaton brought these the other night. He was fixing to go to some recital up in Boone, but they had a typo in the newspaper notice—the wrong DADBURN date, if you can imagine.” So that’s what Keaton was so mad about. I just shook my head like I couldn’t imagine. “Gimme that other one, the one on the bottom, the one by Alan Lomax. No one knows more than him.”

  I handed him Folk Songs of North America; I remembered studying it some at The Hicks. While Wallis looked through that one, I opened one of the other books. It covered most of the important murder ballads and told a lot of sad stories. What with that and the fact that I hated hospitals, my skin began to feel like bugs were crawling over it. I got up to leave.

  “Don’t go, young Abit. Not yet. I’m just getting to the good stuff. He set aside the Alan Lomax book and asked for the one called Traditional Tales of True Crime Ballads in the Southern Appalachians. I’d sworn to myself I wouldn’t bring up Keaton, but a question was burning a hole in my gut. “Didn’t Keaton write a book about mountain music and murder ballads? Why don’t you use that one?”

  Wallis looked funny at me again. I stared right back at him, holding my breath. Finally, he nodded, like I’d passed his test. “I helped him write that book. HORSE HOCKEY, I wrote it! He did some of the research and editing, and I figured he needed the book credit more than me. So I need information I don’t know. Now hand me that other book.”

  He read to himself for a while, nodding and mumbling things I couldn’t make out. “Here now, I
want you to listen to this,” he said, his finger running along each line in the book as he read aloud. “It says here that in the 19th century, there were all kinds of songs about violent death. They used old tales from ancient ballads back when there were knights with swords and ladies who dropped their underwears in front of the wrong guy.”

  “It doesn’t say that!” I said, laughing.

  He laughed too but then got real serious. “Well, nearabout. Instead of all that lady and lord HOGWASH, they started writing these ballads right where they were living. These ballads became like newspapers, telling what had happened but making it even juicier and gorier, sometimes adding a moral lesson.”

  He quit talking and read to himself a while. Then he started lecturing like a teacher. “This is about us—in the Southern mountains. I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that a lot of our music came from Scotland and Ireland, and because our kinfolk settled in the hollers, it says here ‘we kept to ourselves and stayed pure.’” He looked up from the book. “Ha! I’d never use that word for round here, but I know what it’s saying. We didn’t marry a bunch of Norwegians or Swedes or Italians. But we did hold on to all that personal honor BULLPUCKY left over from the knights, along with the idea that it was okay to resolve our problems with violence. Brother, does that ever ring true. Even a dispute over where someone dug his fence posts can result in a shooting. Oh, looky here. He calls our ancestors moonshiners and feudists. The only thing I’d disagree with there is that he said ‘ancestors.’ We’re still a-doing it!”