Murder Ballad Blues

by Lynda McDaniel

  Just as I sat down at the computer, I heard it ping. Fiona. We talked like that, back and forth, for some time. When I asked her why she was up so late, she said she was still on home time. Home. Not Ireland but here. That felt almost as good as a kiss. And she didn’t say I told you so or anything like that about Daddy.

  But she did have more to say: When I was in nursing school, I read a book about the benefits of a lousy childhood. It made a difference for me. That speaks to both of us. Without all that happened, you wouldn’t be Rabbit—or Abit or even Vester Junior. You wouldn’t be the person who Della and Alex love, who Shiloh appreciates, who I love and Conor adores. And Mollie too. You might still have become a musician and a woodworker, but you wouldn’t have the depth of feelings that the harsh ways of your parents and teachers and preachers carved into you.

  She knew me better than I knew myself. I wrote back: I miss your music.

  Oh, darlin’ we’ll be home soon—and you’ve got the band. Are you jamming?

  Not that music. Yours. The sounds you make as you fix supper. The sweet words you whisper to Conor while you bathe him or help with his schoolwork. All those lovely things you murmur to Mollie. And me.

  Not long after that we said good night. I felt full again.

  Chapter 57: Della

  “I’ve got something for you,” Stoltz said when I answered the store phone.

  “Hmm ... sounds interesting. Can you come to the store?”

  “I’m needed here. I’ll be here ‘til late. Maybe you could come after you close?”

  On the way over to Ferguson, I felt as though Abit were in the car with me. Yeah, we’d buried that hatchet, but something felt off about driving up to see Stoltz. I kept telling myself I needed his FBI contact person—and that I hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t.

  When I arrived, I played it cool, though friendly.

  Stoltz looked tired, the skin under his eyes bruised from overwork. He’d met me on the porch of the makeshift office and offered no smiles or niceties, what I took to be his official FBI persona. We just stood there making small talk.

  Until he kissed me. The big kind, with pounding hearts and arms encircled.

  “There. We got that out of the way,” he said when we broke apart. We both nodded, tensions eased. We knew this, whatever this was, couldn’t go anywhere. After a moment, he said, “Okay, I’ve got that name you asked for. Our last meeting was rather rudely interrupted by your amateur sleuth.”

  I hated that term, but I wasn’t about to nitpick now. He walked inside toward his desk, pulled out a notepad, and while he was writing said, “I don’t mean to sound like a chicken shit, but don’t tell her who gave you this.”

  “History?”

  “Wife.”

  I could feel my eyebrows go up. “So what happened to fidelity in the FBI motto ‘Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity’”?

  “EX-wife. I still forget to say that sometimes. It’s only been six months. But she’s nice and smart and she’ll listen to you. Do you go to D.C. often?”

  “Yeah, my ex-husband lives up there.” I didn’t bother to tell him he was my current boyfriend, or whatever you call it. That kiss didn’t mean a thing.

  He tore off the piece of paper and walked back to where I was standing. He pushed it into my hand, and folded my fingers around it. “You know, I shouldn’t do this. I don’t really know anything about your research, but I trust you, and I’ve come to see that there is trouble in Peyton Place.” I smiled. We stood there not knowing what to say next. Stoltz broke the ice. “So you go up and visit him in D.C.?”

  I didn’t want to get into all that. Instead, I stepped closer and kissed him. Like the last one. It was the last one. “There. We’re even. And done with all that.”

  I drove home thinking more about the phone number than the man who gave it to me.

  Chapter 58: Abit

  “That’s what everyone makes me.”

  Seemed mac cheese was all anyone who wasn’t a vegetarian could think to serve Curtis for dinner. When he said that, I recalled it was the only main dish he could order at Adam’s Rib. I felt bad, but I’d made it because it was Conor’s favorite and one of my better recipes.

  Curtis noticed. “That was rude of me, Abit. I didn’t mean it the way it came out—just an amusing observation. I’m not one of those card-carrying vegetarians, all up in your face. And I happen to love mac cheese.”

  We were having our Sunday midday dinner together. That was a special time for Fiona and Conor and me when we sat round the table and shared stories and music. I was awfully glad to have some good company.

  Curtis had come over early to help me pull together the meal. Not much to do besides the spinach salad; I’d made the mac cheese already, and the day before I’d run into town to get a pumpkin pie at Coburn’s.

  It wasn’t even noon when we finished our prep, so we drank some coffee and talked for a while before dinner. Curtis was easy to be round. We’d moved on from the bad stuff in our pasts and talked about what we liked. We both loved music, even if his favorites were rock and hip hop and mine bluegrass and old-timey.

  “Music lifts me outta my world,” I told him. “That used to be especially important when I was younger. But now, even with the comfort of a family, who doesn’t need to rise above everyday life?”

  I grabbed my mandolin and played “Foggy Mountain Special” for him. I could tell he liked its lively rhythm, and I was pleased with how good I’d gotten my tremolo (or as Bill Monroe called it, tremble). I told Curtis about each of our band members and what instruments they played. I added Vern, who joined us sometimes on stage, keeping time on his hambone.

  And I told him about that harmonica the drifter had left for our boy. Conor always had it in his back pocket, ready to practice any chance he got. I had to put my foot down about him playing it with the band, though; harmonica does not go with bluegrass. But when we played “Wabash Cannonball,” he got to let that old harp rip.

  Curtis was into collecting something called pullback motor cars. I’d never heard of them, but he showed me some pictures on his cell phone. Some kind of wind up car he’d gotten first when he was a kid. Then I mentioned my hub cap collection, which was different but kinda the same.

  We were going back and forth like that when his phone rang. I could tell it was Stoltz from the look on his face and all the yessirs. When he hung up, he said, “The agent checking out Harlan County got a tip from the sheriff about a strange man poking around Harlan County, asking if any Jews lived there.”

  “Oh, man! That is exactly what Wallis and I were saying.” I was both excited and scared.

  “Stoltz told me to invite you to our meeting up at the office.” He grabbed his jacket. “That’s a big deal, you know, Stoltz inviting you again.” He took one look at my face and added, “But don’t get any ideas about being part of the team. He’d never go that far. And this could just be local folks taking it out on a Jewish stranger making his way through town. You’d be surprised—then again, maybe you wouldn’t—at how often sheriffs get called about things like that.”

  We threw the mac cheese and salad into the fridge and grabbed our coats. I quickly made Mollie a treat ball to keep her busy while I was gone. I felt bad how much I’d left her alone lately. As I was stuffing a big biscuit into it, I changed my mind. I’d take her with me; I could do with the company on another long drive. I started to put the treat ball on the counter, but Mollie gave out a little yap. I dropped it into my pocket for the ride. Then I went back to get the pie; I figured those FBI guys needed it more than me.

  “I forgot to mention,” Curtis said as we walked toward our vehicles. “We name our operations, and Stoltz got Operation Murder Ballad approved by headquarters. You and Wallis can both take some comfort in that.”

  “I won’t be taking any comfort ‘til we get this guy. But thanks for sharing that.”

  Curtis sped on ahead of me in his SUV. My old truck wasn’t up to that, so I took it easier. By the ti
me I got over to the Ferguson office, they were already meeting. I stood in the back, just listening. The latest was some stranger had asked a Jewish woman if there was anywhere he could bed down. Turned out she ran a small store while her husband did some traveling sales for a hardware company. I didn’t like how closely they matched the story behind “The Peddler and His Wife,” and I reckoned Stoltz didn’t either.

  The wife was known to be kindly, offering her barn to passersby, the way Fiona and I shared ours. Apparently after she did that outta her good nature, she thought more about how he looked—a dark hat covering much of his face, his head down, just mumbling his words. She got worried and called her husband, who called the sheriff.

  Stoltz explained how one team was heading to Harlan County while anothern went to Winston-Salem, where they planned to stake out some expensive hotel. Again, just like “Poor Ellen Smith,” who died in a garden behind whatever hotel was the fanciest in 1892.

  I wasn’t sure why Stoltz had invited me, especially after the meeting broke up and I was left standing in the back while everyone else headed out. I could tell he wasn’t about to let me ride along, like Curtis had warned, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

  “Glad you could make it, Bradshaw,” Stoltz said as he patted me on the back. He was smiling. I guess he was used to this kinda thing, but to me it was serious business. “I wanted you to see for yourself that your theory has been a big help.”

  You’d’ve thought that would be enough for me, but I needed more. “And that’s it? I’m supposed to go back home now? Why did you have me drop everything to come all the way over here? A coupla hour drive or more, round trip.”

  “That’s just how it is in the real world, Bradshaw. What did you want me to do?”

  “You could’ve written a thank-you note,” I said, sarcasm dripping offa every word. “Would’ve saved me a lot of time and trouble.”

  Stoltz laughed, but then he saw the look in my eyes. “Well, son, there’s nothing more you can do for us. I just thought you’d like to know the latest—thanks to you and Mr. Harding.”

  “You need me there. I know these people. You’re from Charlotte, for God’s sake.” I said the name of that town like it was a curse word. Nothing wrong with it, as cities go, but it didn’t prepare him or his agents for dealing with folks in Harlan County.

  “Listen, Abit, we have procedures. Some civilian can’t just step into the investigation.”

  “I’m not just some civilian—I figured it out.”

  “You think you figured it out.” He turned to join the other men. I gave up and started to leave when Curtis came running in, holding a bunch of paper. “Jonathan just faxed me the numerology report.”

  “Dammit! Am I in charge here or are you two Keystone Cops running this operation? Maynard, I told you I wouldn’t authorize that report. Is it coming out of your budget, which, oh by the way, you don’t have?” Stoltz’s face turned that deep red again.

  “Okay, you can yell at me later, sir,” Curtis said. “For now, look who’s on the list.”

  “Well, who?”

  “Right there, sir. It jumped off the page at me.”

  Chapter 59: Abit

  Marshall White.

  I nearly choked when I saw that named circled in red.

  Just like Wallis, Curtis had gotten a funny feeling about exactly seventy-three days between killings, and he’d worked out its numerology. Or make that a computer had. Curtis explained that according to this guy Jonathan, real numerology involved a lot of calculations, and they figured Marshall, like a lot of folks, was just playing round with it. Luckily, Jonathan had the experience to know how an amateur would grab on to something like that and then work from there.

  Even after Curtis explained everything to Stoltz, my head was spinning. Marshall White. A serial killer. I hadn’t had a clue. “How’d you even know that name, Curtis?” I asked. “You haven’t heard our band.”

  Stoltz answered for him. “Agent Maynard has one of those legendary memories that will serve him well in his career.”

  “Not exactly legendary, at least in this case. The other day you were telling me about your band members. I was just lucky his name showed up on page two of all these.” He held up a messy stack of pages and went on. “Another question, Abit. I checked out the two murder ballads you and Mr. Harding came up with as the next possibilities, and I did a little research. Both strongly feature the banjo, White’s instrument.”

  “That they do. But Marshall doesn’t like to play murder ballads any more than me and my wife do. He always voted against playing the ballads. I just can’t figure it.” But as I said that, something came to me. I thought about it for a moment and added, “I’m not sure about this, but now, looking back on things, I can see how Marshall acted kinda protective of the music. Like he thought nobody could play them as good as him. Or that nobody else should play them.”

  “Hold on, now,” Stoltz said, trying to get the conversation back under his control. “There’s always the chance White’s name showing up is just a coincidence.”

  Curtis and I shook our heads. No way. Curtis looked down at his notes. “Do either of these ballads, ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ or ‘The Peddler and His Wife,’ feature the banjo more than the other? I’m hoping one does so we can focus on that locale.”

  I shook my head again. “They’re both strong on banjo.”

  “We’re planning to cover both locations,” Stoltz said. “Though that’s not easy; lots of other crimes going on with more definite needs.”

  “All the more reason I need to go to Harlan County,” I said. “I know the lay of the land better’n any of you.”

  “No way in hell. If you know Marshall White, that’s all the more reason you need to stay away,” Stoltz shouted.

  “Sir, I agree with you on that count, but I’d like to have him close by to advise,” Curtis said. “He could stay safely with the husband and wife. If this Marshall guy goes off the deep end for some reason, Abit may prove invaluable with our negotiator.”

  Curtis told me to follow him. Stoltz shouted at both of us, “Hold on, hold on. I need to think about this.”

  We stopped and waited. I was about to pipe up with another plea when Stoltz caved. “Okay, you can join them in Harlan County, but stay out of their way.”

  “Their way? They’d still be scratching their heads if it weren’t for me and Wallis.”

  Curtis grabbed my arm and tugged me away. I saw Stoltz point a finger at me and shout, “Don’t get a big head, Bradshaw. And I mean it. Stay out of everyone’s way—unless they ask for your help. Maynard? Get with Agent Fitzgerald and make sure Bradshaw has what he needs.”

  Curtis and Agent Fitzgerald ushered me into an office. They gave me a map with directions and made me take a cell phone, and this time I wanted one. From stuff Della and I’d gotten ourselves into, I knew these things never went the way you hoped.

  When I got to my truck, Mollie’s big ole face was staring out the driver’s window. I wished I hadn’t brought her along; she’d already been cooped up way too long. I told Curtis I needed to swing by home (it was on the way) and drop her off; I’d meet them there. Curtis and his buddy hopped into an unmarked SUV and sped off.

  As I drove home, I was in that kind of shock that lets you do things you’d never think possible. I’d had it come over me before, like when I was carrying Conor to the emergency room when he broke his leg and that time I took Millie, our dog before Mollie, to the vet for the last time. You just go into motion, somehow knowing what to do, not thinking about anything but what lay before you. I didn’t notice the beautiful countryside. I didn’t hear a bird whistle. I just drove.

  Oncet I got Mollie settled in at home, I took backroads up and over toward Harlan County. We were having strange weather—the sun winking in and out of angry clouds in a way that felt eerie. Then again, everything felt thataway.

  Curtis had given me good directions to the homestead where the “peddlers” lived. When I got to the en
d of them, I could see the house and barn up ahead. But I couldn’t see Curtis’ SUV. What with my detour to drop off Mollie, I was surprised I’d beaten them. I pulled into a wide spot where a stand of pines formed a sheltered circle. I planned to stay well out of the way, and I didn’t want to scare the couple. I just needed to be nearby where I could be on the lookout for any trouble. I cut the engine and waited. And waited.

  Where in the hell is Curtis?

  Then I heard a woman scream, and it wasn’t no mountain lion.

  Chapter 60: Abit

  I used the cell phone to call Curtis, but a no-service message flashed. I tried again. Same thing. I couldn’t just sit there, not with someone screaming for help.

  I snuck out of the truck, leaving the door open in case it creaked, and inched toward the barn, where the scream came from. As I got closer, I could hear a woman’s voice begging for mercy. My heart cramped when I pictured what she was up against. A crazy man that no pleading, no treasure could sway. He just wanted to kill.

  A man came running from the house, likely the husband. I motioned him back with everything I had. I knew I looked like a wild man myself; I could’ve just as easily been the killer. But he did what I asked.

  I peeked through a knothole in the side of the barn. The woman stood still as a corpse in Marshall’s chokehold, begging for mercy. He pointed a gun to her head, just like in the ballad. That was what she got for her kindness.

  A couple of sawhorses blocked my path to the barn. I eased past them, careful not to trip over them and make a racket. I held my breath and peered round the barn door. Just then a hawk shrieked, loud and lonesome. Both Marshall and the woman looked my way. Seeing me standing there startled Marshall; he let her go and fired his gun.

  I felt something whiz past my head. I’d turned away just enough for it to miss me. I pulled those sawhorses over to block the doorway and ran. And ran. I heard Marshall stumble and curse as he followed me, but I was faster. My legs were longer, and I was in better shape. He’d spent too much time sitting, playing his banjo.