Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  “Don’t kid yourself. He’s not crazy about me, either. Wonder why he’s so ornery?”

  Curtis looked over at Stoltz and shook his head. “Let’s talk about this later.”

  I did what I did best and went back to the food and beer.

  After dinner, Curtis and I found the Cedar Rock Trail that led to the top of Stone Mountain. The views were amazing, and we could talk more freely. When I asked how he became an FBI agent, his lip curled a little. “Well, it sure wasn’t because my daddy paved the way like Agent Stoltz’s did. Someone told me his father was a real J. Edgar Hoover Junior. Strict, weird, and mean. Stoltz was probably treated that way when he was growing up—like drill sergeants who think they have to humiliate in order to make someone stronger.”

  The evening had turned cooler, the air soft against our skin. I didn’t want to dwell on our troubles anymore. For almost an hour, we walked without talking. I’d found that either soothed the soul or brought up things you needed to recall. That evening it did both.

  When we walked back, I could see Stoltz and Della at the picnic table, their faces up close to one anothern, like teenagers telling secrets. I didn’t know what had gotten ahold of her. As we approached, they started chortling. That stuck-up FBI guy could actually laugh.

  Della drove us back to the FBI office, and Curtis and I suffered again in the backseat, not saying a word. When she pulled up to where our vehicles were parked, I got out, pissed off that no one, namely Stoltz, had even mentioned the chronology. Like we all just knew each other from Kiwanis or church, getting together for a little outing.

  I felt disgusted and wanted to get away from them all. Even Della. I was about to slink off to my truck when I stopped, my heart hammering. I surprised myself when I spoke, my voice beginning high and breaking like a boy’s. “Before you all run off, I wanted to talk about the chronology of the murder ballads.”

  Stoltz stared at me. “Yeah, Agent Maynard spoke to me about that.” He paused, and I knew what was coming. “I think it’s a classic case of deductive reasoning.”

  When Della started in with, “What he means is ...” I interrupted. “Thanks, Della, but this is my concern, and I’ll ask Agent Stoltz myself what he means.”

  It was like someone farted in church. Everyone looked round, not saying a word. Finally, Stoltz began to explain.

  “Deductive reasoning is like tunnel vision—everything stems from one premise or hypothesis. In this case that the murders are related to murder-ballad stories. Given the M.O. of the homicides, not a bad start. But you go too far with your conclusion that the killer mimics those ballads in a definite order. What about ‘Knoxville Girl’? How does that fit into your chronology? And what makes you certain that the next one is a specific choice you can pinpoint? It could be twenty different ballads.”

  “Because I just know—and because it’s in Traditional Tales of True Crime Ballads in the Southern Appalachians.”

  “So?” he asked, all smug.

  “With so few books on this subject, Wallis Harding and I reckon the killer is using the same list we’re looking at.” When he didn’t acknowledge that, just kinda shook his head, I added, “Look, I get it that you can’t go to your boss with something that Abit Bradshaw said, but this is worth you thinking about.”

  “I appreciate your concern about these crimes,” he said, his tone a little nicer. “These are your people, and I can tell you have a big heart when it comes to their—or likely anyone’s—welfare. But I can’t see the merits in going with a list of songs, for Chris ...” He stopped himself.

  I jumped in. “Okay, what have you come up with better?”

  “We’re still working on that.”

  “Oh, great. And we’ve got ten days ‘til he’ll strike again.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “You don’t know that’s not true. Just tell me a better plan, and I’ll go back to my holler and never bother you again.”

  “Well, that’s something to work toward. You act like we’re not doing anything. I won’t stand here and justify our work. We have profilers studying these crimes both here and Quantico. We’ve explored every angle—from how the victims might be related to how the killer knew them. We’re talking to everyone within a reasonable radius in these remote areas, and ...” He stopped himself. “Like I said, I don’t owe you any explanations.”

  He got this smirk on his face that was like a match to kerosene. “I’ll grant you that you don’t owe me an explanation for what you are doing. I’m talking about what you aren’t doing. I’ve mentioned this before, but you’re not listening. You’ve closed your mind. What are you waiting for? Anothern? More dead bodies? You need to take a good look at our idea so you can catch someone before he kills again. The folks round here are dealing with a world of heartache. This is your chance to catch this monster now.”

  Stoltz’s face turned a shade of red I don’t believe I’d ever seen before. I reckoned he was fixing to arrest me. We stood like that for the longest time. Just him and me. Everyone and everything else seemed to have slipped away.

  Finally, he let out a big sigh. Next things I knew, Curtis was scooting off, waving and offering a weak thanks as he almost ran to his SUV. I waited for what came next. I knew I’d ruined the picnic, but that wasn’t high on my list.

  Stoltz mumbled his thanks to Della, turned, and headed for his office. Della and I were left alone in a dark parking lot.

  “Well, I knew you were working on speaking your truth, and I believe you did,” she said, smiling. “And I’m glad you did. Your ideas are better than anything Stoltz has come up with. I hope he’ll come to see that. Soon.”

  “I’m sorry I ruined your picnic.”

  “You didn’t ruin it, honey. I had a great time. And I loved seeing you stand strong.”

  “Well, you out did yourself.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t any trouble. I’m glad you could join us.”

  “Would you have rather been alone with him? Is that why you made such a nice picnic?”

  “Hey, you might be taking this truth business a little too far.” But she chuckled and squeezed my shoulder. “I was just being friendly to someone who can help me out with a big story.”

  “You were flirting, Della.”

  “I was not.” She looked dead serious now.

  “I may have been a shy boy when I was growing up, but I know flirting when I see it.”

  “Oh, go on. I was just paving the way for the help I need. And you too.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Not maybe. Definitely.” She looked so hurt, I agreed with her just to make that awful evening end.

  As I drove off, I could see her in my rearview mirror, staring after my truck.

  Chapter 53: Abit

  The next day, I went into town and stopped by Coburn’s. Oh, who was I kidding? Coburn’s was the only reason I went to town. I’d decided, just like every time I ever disagreed with someone I liked, I’d been out of line. I wanted to see if Della was still my friend.

  When I pulled up at the store, Agent Stoltz’s SUV was sitting out front.

  I could see Della through the front window laughing, her head thrown back in a full chortle while her hand rested on his arm. I snuck back to my truck and waited for almost half an hour before Stoltz pulled on to the highway. I walked to the store, opened the front door, and for the first time ever, felt I might not be welcome.

  “Okay if I come in?”

  “Of course it is, Abit. And why are you asking permission? Don’t tell me you’re sorry about speaking up. That negates what you accomplished.”

  “When is Alex coming back?

  “Why are you asking that?” I could sense her good cheer fading.

  “Because he needs to get back here to save you from yourself.”

  “Oh, stop that. And since when are you my keeper? Seriously, who are you to stand over me and criticize? I know I’ve gotten in your business a time or two, maybe more, but I was always looking out for your w
ellbeing.”

  “That’s what I’m doing.”

  “How?”

  “Well, I love you. And I love Alex. And I don’t know what’s going on.”

  “Nothing is going on. Even if it were, that would never affect our love for you—or, I hope, the other way around.”

  “Yeah, but I love you together.”

  I turned and slipped outta the store, back to the quiet of my truck and home.

  Chapter 54: Della

  That night I replayed my squabble with Abit over and over. First while staring at the ceiling, later in my dreams. By morning, I felt sad and embarrassed. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what had come over me. Of course, loneliness was never far off; I think I was born lonely. But my current state had a sharper edge. Alex was gone again. The summer had been wet and gloomy. I felt old and forgotten in my apartment above a store in the middle of nowhere.

  My dark mood hovered close the rest of the day. I wanted to lock the doors and stay away from everyone until it passed, but I had a store to run and a story to run down.

  I tried. But after struggling through work that day, I wanted a break from everything. I got Mary Lou to handle the store for the next few days.

  On the first one, I pulled the blinds, turned off my phones, drank hot tea, ate scones, and loved on Rascal. I only took him out early and late, when I knew no one would be around. The second day, I spent more time on the real estate scheme. I was counting on Agent Stoltz to come through with a contact so I could unload this pile of research into the right hands.

  By the third day, I woke in a lighter mood. The sun streamed in my window at six o’clock and woke me too early; after so many dark, rainy days, I’d forgotten to pull the blinds. But I welcomed its bright rays. The birds seemed to feel the same way.

  I fired up my Rancilio and enjoyed a dark, rich latte with chocolatey overtones. A day-old brioche loaf made perfect toast. And fresh applesauce on yogurt tasted as good as an ice-cream sundae.

  As I got ready to go out in the world again, I looked in the mirror and said out loud, “You’re not dead, you know. Not even close.”

  I knew a lot of people who as soon as they approached their sixties started saying things like, “I’m giving all my books away and don’t plan on getting more.” Or, “I don’t need anything for my birthday; I need to get rid of stuff, not acquire it.” That used to depress me; now it just made me mad. I’m no spendthrift, but the idea of never buying anything new—something meaningful or pretty or creative—felt like packing your bags for the funeral home.

  The same for love and sex. My father’s mother had proudly proclaimed that the Kincaid women didn’t remarry. No, according to her our lot was to lead abstemious, prudish lives. Well, count me out of that family tradition. I wasn’t dead and so what if I’d had fleeting feelings for someone besides Alex? Big deal. We didn’t run away together; our feelings didn’t even run away. But I’d enjoyed feeling alive, noticed, appreciated.

  I made myself another coffee. As I sipped it on the couch, Rascal curled up next to me. I started to feel better—until my old friends the angel and devil began making noises again. I’d always liked the devil better; he seemed more fun. But this time the angel caught my attention when she asked: Does your behavior over the past week remind you of anything?

  No, I said, again out loud.

  How about the way Alex acted so many years before?

  I nearly spilled my coffee. My first reaction was Not in the least. Really? That was absurd. But as I sat there, stroking my little dog’s rather glorious new coat, I drifted back to those troubled times. I thought about how I’d always assumed Alex had gotten too full of himself when he’d won the Pulitzer. Was it possible he’d felt lonely and lost the same way I was feeling now? Back then I was often out of town on investigative stories, just as he is now. He always contended he’d made a terrible mistake, but I’d dismissed that as simply the confession of a scoundrel. Maybe he was, but maybe things weren’t the way I’d imagined. He’d been a fine companion for years.

  Then I felt silly. All this fuss over a little banter and coy behavior. Nothing had happened to be ashamed of.

  Rascal let me know he needed to go out. As we walked down the stairs from my apartment, I heard the devil ask: Then why won’t you let the past go? Now they were both ganging up on me.

  That night, alone in my bed, I went over all that again. And again. Those two had opened the door to an awful period in my life, unleashing long-buried rancor I didn’t know I harbored. But when I asked them for help, they went utterly silent.

  Chapter 55: Abit

  We didn’t have many good restaurants close by that stayed open past three o’clock, so even though Curtis was a vegetarian, we ended up at Adam’s Rib. He was a good sport and found macaroni cheese on the menu along with a big salad. I got the roast chicken special. We both drank the beer on tap—Coors. Nothing like the British brews Nigel had spoiled me with, but it went down good enough.

  By the third one, we were swapping stories so sad they’d’ve made a murder-ballad songwriter weep. Curtis’ father had been a mean SOB and his mother just prayed all the time that things would get better but never stepped in to help Curtis. Whatever happened to “pray to God and row to shore”? I wondered to myself before asking, “Are you sure you haven’t read my file?”

  “Do you have a file?”

  I laughed. “Well, not yet, but if I keep up all this snooping round, it can’t be far off. If that happens, can I call on you to help?”

  “Grease my palm, brother. Grease my palm,” he said, chuckling. Then he got a serious look on his face. “So I take it your parents were a lot like mine.”

  “From what you just said, I’d say we could be cousins.” He put his arm against my arm. “Well, you never know what’s going on in families.”

  Curtis’ eyes turned sorrowful. “That’s for sure. Sad growing-up stories like ours are a dime a dozen. Have you ever thought about how strange it is that so many men delight in beating the crap out of their children? What’s with that? I guess it’s some kind of passed-down rage, generation after generation, that works its way into fists and on to little bodies.”

  “I can’t figure it, either. I can tell you that kinda rage has stopped with me. Little Conor has never seen my fist, not that he’s done anything to bring it on. Do you have any children?” Curtis shook his head. “Well, you’ve broken free of your daddy’s unholy hold in your own way and made it to the FBI.”

  “We’ll see. It’s not easy being there—even though it’s an organization that stands for the law.”

  I held up my beer glass. “Let’s toast to the big surprise the FBI has in store when you rein in the murder-ballad killer.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” he said. Just as we clinked bottles, his cell phone rang. He answered and started nodding and saying yessir, okay, yessir. When he hung up, he said, “Stoltz wants to see me ... and you.”

  Chapter 56: Abit

  “We need to get over to Harlan County and Winston-Salem, Agent Maynard.” That was Stoltz telling us what we already knew. “And Bradshaw, I brought you over to make sure we’re all clear on your hypothesis.”

  Stoltz’s change in attitude threw me. All I could figure was he’d either finally seen the light or had failed to come up with anything better. I did know he believed in the seventy-three days between killings, which meant only a matter of days till the murderer would strike again.

  I managed to stand up in front of all those agents and explain what Wallis and I were thinking. I started to relax some when folks at the meeting nodded and asked questions I could answer. I added that I didn’t know a fraction of what they did when it came to catching criminals, but I believed Wallis and I were on to something important.

  When I finished, Stoltz took over again. “Maynard, I need you to work on the details. Get more from Bradshaw—any logistics he may know.” (I hadn’t let on I didn’t know much about eastern Kentucky, though I was pretty sure I knew more t
han anyone else in the room.) “I’m sending personnel to each location to scout it out. I’ll let you know what they report.” Then he looked at me. “If you’re right, we have only a few days.”

  At last something was happening, though I felt a little sick knowing my ideas had better work out or more people would die. Soon.

  On my way home, I swung by Della’s. It was late, but I knew Alex was still away, so I wouldn’t be bothering them. I knocked, and when Della opened the door, her face looked a little scared. I felt sick all over again.

  “I want to send Fiona an email,” I said, still standing on the stoop. “I want her to know I’m helping Stoltz, and we’re making progress. And I’m not afraid of him like he’s my daddy.”

  She stood there so long with her arms folded, I was afraid she was gonna say no. Then she moved her hand, as if to say come on in.

  “Della, I’m sorry ...”

  “Well, I’m not sorry,” she interrupted.

  “Okay, I’m glad you’re not ‘cause you didn’t do anything to be sorry about.” That seemed to take the fire outta her. She nodded, so I went on. “But I am sorry I butted into your business. I think I got scared.”

  “Well, nothing to be afraid of, Abit.” She let out a big sigh as she walked toward her office. “I think we’ve worn out this topic. Let’s go send that email.”

  It took me forever to write, but I wanted Fiona to know that I got what she’d been talking about, what with Daddy hounding me from the grave. I waited a while for her answer, but I knew it was awfully late in Ireland. I talked with Della a while longer before heading for the front door.

  “Don’t you want to check one more time before you leave?” I turned to go back to her office and saw on the table near the front door that Della’d wrapped up some cake slices for me to take home.