“When do you think you and Wallis will figure out the killer’s pattern? You’ve come so far, surely you two can take it the next step.”
“If I knew that, I’d be at Wallis’ right now.”
She chuckled. “I guess you would. It was just that you did such a good job of explaining the chronology of everything to Stoltz. It’s like ‘shave and a haircut, two bits.’ You’ve got the shave and a haircut part, now what is the two bits?”
Something she said gave me a start. I tried to follow that feeling, but it had already drifted away, like that awful country music.
Chapter 46: Abit
A gunshot made me bolt straight up in bed. Mollie lifted her head and looked over at me like what in the world is going on? (With Fiona gone, there was plenty of room on the bed for Mollie, and to tell you the truth, it felt pretty good to sleep with her back against mine.)
I lay back down, listening to see if I heard it again. The clock said five o’clock; too damn early to get up. Mollie didn’t have a bit of trouble getting back to sleep, making little snoring noises I envied. I lay there quiet-like, and eventually I came to understand that gun’s report was making sure I paid attention to something I’d dreamed about.
I lay there a while longer before I got up and made Mollie’s breakfast and cooked myself some scrambled eggs. I did a real good job of them; Alex had taught me how. The trick is to cook them pretty quick. Just as they start to thicken, move the curds off to the side and keep doing that ‘til they’re almost done. They’ll finish cooking on the plate, which I’d warmed on the woodstove. The mornings were already cool enough that a little fire felt good.
I sat down with my toast and eggs, eating some and sharing some with Mollie. Mostly I drank coffee, thinking about what I was going to do next.
“Didn’t expect to see you, young Abit.”
I guess not, given that Wallis was in his bathrobe—in the middle of the afternoon. I’d worked in my shop on some pressing orders, so it wasn’t ’til after my midday meal that I drove out to his cabin. I was worried he was sick again and asked if he was doing all right.
“I’m fine. Just the most comfortable thing I own. And with Keaton off on his own again, I didn’t see any good reason to get dressed.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said, even though I couldn’t imagine not getting dressed by that late in the day. I almost snorted as I pictured myself out in the woodshop, sawing a big board down to size wearing one of Nigel’s silky dressing gowns.
Wallis invited me in and went to put on regular clothes. He came out wearing his usual flannel shirt with ironed overalls and headed straight to the kitchen to put on some coffee. I needed anothern after my early start. As he put a mug down in front of me, he asked, “So what’s so ALL-FIRED important that you came all the way out here?”
“I need your opinion.”
“Fire away,” he said, frowning. He definitely had a case of the grumps today, but I reminded myself he wasn’t long outta the hospital after heart troubles.
“A gunshot woke me early this morning, but I believe it was from a dream, trying to grab my attention so I wouldn’t let something important slip by.” He seemed to understand what I was saying. “Later, while I was carving some oak leaves into a sideboard, I realized it had something to do with what my friend Della said to me yesterday.” I told him about the FBI, and he looked wide awake for the first time since I’d arrived. “She was telling this stuck-up agent about the chronology of everything. At the time I got one of those funny feelings, but I didn’t know what to make of it. Now I think the murderer is choosing ballads based on when they happened.”
Wallis jumped up and grabbed Traditional Tales of True Crime Ballads in the Southern Appalachians. He started leafing through the book real fast. He read for a while and then hit himself in the head. “STORM AND THUNDER, young Abit, you’ve done it!” He plunked it down on the table between us and took a big swig of coffee. “If I weren’t such a MUTTONHEAD I’d’ve seen it too. Looky here.”
He turned a few pages and pointed to a timeline of the murders near the front of the book: Omie Wise, 1807; Frankie Silver, 1833; Tom Dooley 1866. “It appears the author has chosen to cover the biggies—there’s only so much room in a book, you know—and now, thanks to you, what I’m thinking is this maniac plans his heinous crimes following the best-known ballads in the order they happened.”
“If we’re right about ‘Knoxville Girl’ and ‘Barbara Allen,’ what years were they?”
He scratched his stubbly beard, which was growing back in after his stay at the hospital. “Oh, those are too BLASTED old,” Wallis said. “Long ago—from the Old Country. Fifteenth, seventeenth century. Let’s not bring them into this; besides, I’m still not sure how ‘Barbry Allen’ fits in.”
I was irked he’d brought that up again. “You SON OF A BISCUIT, quit dismissing ‘Barbara Allen.’ She’s in there somehow, I just know it.”
I expected him to get mad, given the mood he was in, but his mouth twitched at the corners and he nodded at me, acknowledging his approval of my made-up swearword. That made me laugh.
He waved me off and jabbed his finger again on to the page. “So if we stick to these all-American ballads, look at the chart. At least this author—and we have no reason to argue—has listed the next in line as ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ and ‘The Peddler and His Wife,’ 1892 and 1895, respectively.”
“I’ve never heard of ‘The Peddler and His Wife.’”
“Oh, I have, but that’s not the point. The point is this author lists it, and if the killer has this book too, which is likely since there’s not all that many books out there about murder ballads, the odds are good the next victim—or victims—relate to one of these ballads.”
“Yeah, but which one?”
“That, young Abit, is the $64,000 question.”
Wallis said he could give me one more hour, and by the end, we knew we were on to something. The next murder would be over in Winston-Salem if it were fashioned after “Poor Ellen Smith” or up in Harlan County, Kentucky if he chose “The Peddler and His Wife.” I didn’t say this out loud, but I hoped it was the first one, because the story in Kentucky was a double murder.
“The Peddler and His Wife” told the story of a Jewish couple—what would be a traveling salesman and shopkeeper today. In 1895 the man and his wife were both shot while riding in a wagon, robbed for their gold.
In 1892 Ellen Smith was shot in the heart by her former boyfriend, Peter DeGraff, while in the garden of the swankiest hotel in Winston-Salem.
“Which one would you choose, if you were trying to catch this guy?” I asked. “My bet would be on the next one year-wise—‘Poor Ellen Smith.’”
“I don’t know,” he said in that mountain way that reeked of contrariness.
I bit. “Okay, what would you do?”
“I’d tell those G-men to stake out both sites. Sure, ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ is next chronologically, but it’s in a big city, right downtown. This killer don’t seem like the type to go traipsing round a metropolitan area.”
“What about Chattanooga?”
“Well, those murders weren’t in town but out in the nearby countryside. Still, to be on the safe side, I’d tell the G-men to cover both. I bet you could help them find some Jewish merchants in Harlan County. Remind me where in the SAM HILL that is.” He was so hepped up he didn’t bother to wait for me to tell him. “I plan to go to the library and find out what hotel in Winston-Salem is the finest today. Then you take that information over to them, and tell them BLASTED BANDITS they need to pay attention to you. Us. We are right about this.”
For maybe only the second time in my life, I’d wished I’d had a computer and could get on the internet. I coulda helped Wallis find that hotel in no time. But he was stuck in his ways and probably wouldn’t’ve listened anyway. He could read ads in the Yellow Pages at the library or one of those fancy travel brochures they keep on hand. Too bad that wouldn’t work on finding Jewish peddlers.<
br />
When Wallis and I finished up, I hurried home to get Mollie. She was good about staying round the farm, so it wasn’t like she needed to be let out, but I missed her. And she was such a people dog, I knew she was feeling as lonesome as me.
When I drove up, she bounded over. We wrestled a while and then I fed her. Being back at home made me long to write Fiona on the email. So much had happened since she’d been gone. She’d called oncet, but I knew that musta cost a fortune; I think her daddy paid for that call. I wanted to talk to her now—even if just in writing.
Chapter 47: Della
I finally heard from DEEP POCKET. The last message I would receive from him arrived in a small envelope—just two letters cut out of a newspaper and glued to an index card: DC. Short, but I knew exactly what he meant.
He did know me, and somehow he knew I used to have contacts in D.C., or maybe that Alex still did. What he didn’t know was I had a direct connection to a couple of FBI agents, who I planned to ask for help when the time was right. Until then, I needed to get the story straight in my own head. And I didn’t want to get in Abit’s way. He needed their full attention—or whatever he could garner—for the serial murders.
I was in the back of the store, closing up when I heard the bell over the door ring. Dammit. I hated latecomers. I stuck my head out front and laughed. “Well, speaking of the devil.”
“Why am I the devil? And what’s so funny?” Abit asked. Mollie trailed in after him just before he closed the door, which brought Rascal running in from the backroom.
“Oh, just that one minute I was dreading another late customer—or the health inspector—and the next I was happy to see you.”
“What’s going on that’s so unhealthy?”
“I’m not supposed to have Rascal down here.”
“Well, as Wallis would say, FUDGE the health inspector. That dog belongs here.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking.”
“What does that mean?” Abit asked, that crooked smile of his creasing his face.
I looked down at the little guy playing with Mollie. “Oh, just that I don’t think I’ll place any more ads about him.”
I wanted to get out of the store before someone else showed up late. I ushered Abit and the dogs outside, locked the front door, and headed up the stairs. “What brings you to town?”
“I want to learn the email.”
“Okay, first thing you need to learn: there’s no ‘the’ in front of the word. It’s just email.”
Abit chuckled. So different from the lanky kid I’d first met who would have given up right there and then. I’d loved that vulnerable man-child, so full of wonder and hurt. But even more, I loved how he’d forged a life remarkably different from what everyone expected.
Mollie and Rascal settled on the couch in the living room while we worked in my office/guestroom. I pulled up my email and asked for Fiona’s address. I was worried Abit hadn’t understood that you didn’t just send a message out into cyberspace, but he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded, well-worn piece of paper.
“I got this from her about three month ago, and I’ve been carrying it round with me.”
“What were you waiting for?”
“3,600 miles.”
Abit gave the keyboard a serious frown. I reminded him that hunt and peck worked just fine. “Alex still does a variation of that and look how much he types. I’ll leave you to it and go rustle up some supper. And dinner for the dogs.”
“Mollie’s had hers,” he mumbled.
“Won’t hurt her to have a small encore.” I started to leave him alone—then turned back. “See that line called subject line? You’d better type something like ‘Hi from Abit’ or Fiona will think something awful has happened to you if she sees my email address. I know how she worries about her family.”
I made a quick pasta with fresh tomatoes and basil and a salad. We could rummage in the store for dessert. (I enjoyed that as much as my guests.) I called Abit to dinner.
“Could you come look at this thing?” he shouted back.
“You don’t want me reading your little love note.”
“Nah, just make sure I did this right.”
He had. He hit send and stared at the screen as the message disappeared across the ocean.
“What time is it in Ireland?” I asked.
“Half past eleven o’clock. She should still be up, given how late she works some nights here. She has trouble going to bed early.”
We were about halfway through dinner when I heard a chime announce a new email. When I was a reporter and sat at my computer all day, I turned that annoyance off. But now I rarely used that computer, and I liked knowing whether Alex or some other friend had written me. We raced to the computer. His face lit up when he saw Fiona’s name.
I left him to read in private. As I closed the office door, I heard a knock on my front door, and the dogs did too.
Chapter 48: Abit
I nearly dropped my teeth. Curtis Maynard was sitting in Della’s living room, drinking a cup of coffee outta one of her fine china cups. The FBI had come a-calling.
“Abit, you’ll catch flies with your mouth hanging open.” That Della; she always had some wisecrack. Curtis laughed, put down the cup, and walked over to shake my hand.
I still hadn’t found any words when he said, “I wanted to talk further with you, but I didn’t know how to reach you. I remembered the way to Ms. Kincaid’s store and drove over. Lucky for me you’re here too.”
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what he needed to talk to me about. I settled into one of Della’s chairs and waited. And waited. We were all looking at each other kinda strange, but I didn’t begin to know how to start this conversation.
Finally, Curtis said, “I got to thinking about what you told us the other day, and I believe you might be on to something interesting. At least worth hearing more about.”
“That wasn’t the impression I got earlier,” I said. Della frowned at me, her sign language saying lighten up. “Not that that was your fault,” I added real quick-like. “Agent Stoltz was the one.”
“Well, you sure yessired him enough, maybe too much. You suck up to Agent Stoltz like that and it tends to backfire.” I cringed at Curtis’ description of how I’d acted, reminding me of Fiona’s damned complex father stuff. “I mean, he’s not always right—he just acts like he is. In a word, he’s a bully.” He stopped. “Oh, never mind all that. I shouldn’t be talking out of school. I just wanted you to know I thought your ideas had potential and ...”
He kept talking but I was off thinking about that word. Bully. It hit a nerve, opening a flood of memories I’d tried to keep buried. I musta been lost in thought because I heard Della say something kinda loud.
“Abit, I asked you a question.”
“Sorry, what was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked if I could get you something. Water? Coffee?”
They were both drinking coffee, so I figured I’d better catch up.
Oncet we got back to talking about the murders, Curtis said he couldn’t share much (on account of some FBI oath), but he did agree the cases appeared to be the work of a serial killer. Well, that was so obvious it hardly seemed worth the drive over. But he went on to explain how our murder-ballad idea had piqued his curiosity. I filled him in on some details I’d left out while Stoltz was giving me the evil eye. When I mentioned the chronology of the ballads, Curtis’ eyebrows dove together.
“What?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you mention this the other day?”
“Wallis and I just discovered it.” I went into how I’d gotten the notion from Della and then confirmed it with Wallis. “The next likely ballad choices are ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ and ‘The Peddler and His Wife.’ And as I told you and Stoltz, they happen every seventy-three days.”
“Yeah, we noted that too. Strange number. It must mean something to the killer.”
“Wallis said the same thing,
though neither him nor me have a clue what to make of that.”
I looked over at Della, feeling bad Curtis and I were firing questions back and forth, leaving her out. She could always read my mind and waved me off in a way that said she was fine just sitting this one out. Like the dogs—who were sound asleep at her feet.
“I think it’s some kind of numerology,” Curtis said. “A lot of people just play at it, but the real deal is fascinating—and complicated. Basically, the letters in names are assigned a number, and those letters are like a puzzle that can be put together in different ways. It takes a computer program to do it from this angle—start with a number and discern names or other clues from it—but I’m going to look into that.” Then he stopped talking and looked troubled. “Abit, you know the people around here and their mindset a lot better than me. What do you suppose the payoff is for this serial killer?”
I just shrugged. I couldn’t get my mind round a guy wanting to kill people. I was about to say he was crazy when Curtis asked, “Does he love or hate country music?”
“It’s bluegrass, or in the case of the murder ballads, more like folk music.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Never mind that, for now. It’s clear this killer knows a lot about murder ballads, though I’m not sure what his choice of music says about him.”
“We don’t even know for sure it’s a man, though I’m with you—it likely is. I hope we can get some clues from this numerology report. If we get the report.” Della did her eyebrow thing and he went on. “My request needs to pass through Agent Stoltz, and I’m pretty sure he won’t go for it.”
“Why’s that, Curtis?” Della asked.
“You know about chain of command, ma’am. Everyone’s life is ruled by it, but in the FBI, if you’re young and black, well, you don’t get listened to very much.”
I knew how folks round here talked about Black people. When I first learned to drive, Mama and her church folks told me to be careful, and to never, ever drive through Lantana, the part of town where Black folks made their homes. It was a good shortcut on the way to Crossnore and Newland, so I never paid them any mind. One wintry February day, I cut through Lantana, and sure enough, the Merc conked out. The cold slapped me in the face when I opened my door and whipped round as I looked under the hood. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong and had no choice but to knock on a door.
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