Hey Diddle Diddle, the Corpse and the Fiddle, page 2
part #2 of A Callie Parrish Mystery Series
"A homicide," Jane interrupted. "Everywhere Callie goes, there's a dead body."
Dean chuckled. "You're not accusing my favorite female banjo picker of killing Little Fiddlin' Fred, are you?"
"No. Callie's solved a couple of murders around here, but she's already promised me not to get involved in this one."
"Little Fiddlin' Fred wasn't shown on any of the advertisements," I said. "Was he supposed to perform?"
"Who's Little Fiddlin' Fred anyway?" Jane interrupted.
"Fred's one of the best fiddlers in bluegrass." Dean leaned even closer. "He just joined up with Second Time Around. That's a big step up because Second Time Around is an internationally known band. Played Europe and Japan last year. Fred came in this morning. His first gig with them was supposed to be the opening act tomorrow."
" 'Little Fiddlin' Fred.' Why do they call him that?" Jane asked.
"He's a dwarf. A member of the Little People of America," I added, just to let Dean know that I knew the proper term.
While we talked, deputies took statements from other members of Broken Fence, and as they finished, the musicians walked toward the back of the arena. Headed to the concessions or portable restrooms. Sheriff Harmon had cordoned off the back of the stage with yellow crime scene tape and was huddled at one end with Coroner Amick and Jack Wilburn, owner of the campground and promoter of the festival.
"Dean, did you hear the commercials on WXYW for this weekend?" I asked.
"Yeah. Are you thinking about that line they used that this festival would be full of surprises?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I was thinking. This isn't some kind of stunt like Candid Camera, is it?"
"No, Callie, that's really Little Fiddlin' Fred lying dead onstage with some kind of metal sticking out of his face."
"Did you say there's a piece of metal?" Jane said. "Callie found a broken needle in a corpse's neck last year."
Dean shook his head. "This isn't a needle. It's a short handle of some kind right above his top lip." He paused. "There's a first time for everything, and this is the first time Broken Fence has had a dead body onstage during our set."
"The first ever Sugar Pie Bluegrass Festival on Surcie Island," I said, "and the grand opening of Happy Jack's Campground."
"The first festival I've ever been to," said Jane.
"The first time Broken Fence has been on a trip in our band bus," said Dean.
"Band bus?" I squealed. Those guys had talked about wanting a band bus for as long as I'd known Dean.
"Yep." Dean grinned. "Finally gave up our day jobs, bought a bus, and gonna hit the circuit full-time this summer. First time out and we open the show with a dead body in Kenny's instrument case. That seems like a bad omen."
A forensics van pulled up. Technicians began processing the scene and photographing Fred's body lying against the heavy curtain at the rear of the stage as deputies interviewed people in the arena. They started at the back of the audience and worked their way up to the front row, which was only Kramer Hair, Jane, and me.
Having grown up in St. Mary, I knew the officer who talked to Kramer Hair. Deputy Smoak was a friend of some of my five brothers during their teenage years. I assumed he didn't remember me because he introduced himself.
"I'm Deputy Jim Smoak," he said, "and I need to ask you a few questions, so I'd appreciate it if you'd step over here with me." He led me away from my lawn chair. I left Dean talking to Jane.
The deputy asked for my name and address and wrote them on the paper on his clipboard. On television and in the mystery novels I read, there are generally two officers, one questioning while the other writes. But this wasn't television or a book; it was real life on a sea island off the coast of South Carolina.
"Miss Parrish, were you here from the beginning of the show?"
"Yes, sir. As a matter of fact, my friend Jane and I brought our chairs up from the campground and sat down at least thirty minutes before the show began."
"Did you see the bass player arrive?"
"Yes, sir. I watched the Broken Fence band members set up. They came onstage through the curtains at the back. I guess the steps must be back there." The officer nodded. "They did a sound check to make sure all of the microphones were working."
"Did you actually see the bass player take out his instrument? Or was it out of the case when he came onstage?"
"I watched Kenny unzip the cover, remove the bass, and leave the case crumpled at the back of the stage near the curtain. About the same place it is now. I didn't stare at it while Broken Fence played, but I think I would have noticed if anyone bothered it." I hesitated, then added, "And there wouldn't have been room for a body in there with the instrument. The case is exactly sized and shaped for a bass."
"When did you become aware that something was wrong onstage?"
I confessed that I'd been peeking during the prayer and been puzzled that the case seemed heavy when Kenny tried to lift it.
"Did you attempt to distract attention from the stage by exposing yourself during the prayer?"
"What?" Buh-leeve me, I wasn't expecting that question.
"You lifted your shirt during the prayer. Were you trying to draw attention to yourself so people wouldn't notice what was happening onstage?"
"No, sir." I knew who told him that. The guy with the Kramer hair. I explained that I was just hot and fanned my tank top for air, not realizing that anyone would be watching me during the prayer.
When Deputy Smoak finished writing, I read over the papers and signed my statement. "You can go to the food stands for something to eat if you want, but Sheriff Harmon doesn't want anyone to leave this area until all statements are taken." He laughed and added, "And Callie, keep your clothes on in public."
"I thought you didn't remember me."
"I remember you, and I remember your friend Jane, too. She's blind, isn't she? I don't guess I should ask what she saw."
"She's blind, but she's very in tune with what goes on. Sometimes she seems to hear more than I see."
Smoak and I walked over to Jane. She sat alone because another officer was questioning Dean up near the stage. I told Jane I'd get us something to eat while she spoke with the deputy.
"I want root beer or Dr Pepper," Jane said. Like I didn't know her preference in soft drinks.
There was no question where I needed to go first. Jane and I had arrived early in my brother's Winnebago motor home, parked in a good site on the side of the campground nearest the performance arena, and left the air-conditioning on. I hoped to slip into the Winnebago, use the restroom, and have a few minutes of cool comfort, but a deputy stood guard just beyond the portable johns on the path to the campground.
Portable restrooms are wonderful things for shy people at public performances where there are no bathrooms, but puh-leeze, I'd rather hide behind a bush than go into one of those tin can outhouses. But since the deputy wouldn't be any more likely to let me go into the bushes than go to the Winnebago, I had no choice.
As usual, there was a fan at the top of the little metal building, but it was still stifling hot, a little smelly, and made me think of being locked in an abandoned refrigerator. Portable restrooms used to make me think of vertical caskets, but since I got locked in a casket last fall, I now know that caskets are even worse for living people than portable johns.
The deputy nodded at me when I stepped out of the little cubicle. I headed back up the path to the concessions at the back of the listening arena, opposite end from the stage. Lots of times at small festivals like this, the foods are hamburgers and hot dogs prepared by civic groups like the Lions or Optimists to earn money for local charities, but Happy Jack had arranged commercial concessions.
Bob's Best Barbecue out of Charleston and Marie's Grill from Beaufort both had movable stands they set up at carnivals and fairs. Bob's operated out of a trailer and Marie's from the back of a customized truck.
Between the two was an unpainted plywood stand, obviously built on the spot. An extension cord ran from a nearby power pole and hung from a hook in the ceiling. A posterboard sign proclaimed this stand, such as it was, to be Gastric Gullah. I'd never heard of the establishment, but South Carolina Low Country descendants of West Africans are called Gullah and have maintained much of their culture, especially since many of them were somewhat isolated on sea islands. I understand a lot of the Gullah language, though I don't speak it well. I love Gullah food and definitely would have wanted something from Gastric Gullah, had it been open.
The smell of barbecue was heavy. The hog population is depleted considerably on the Fourth of July in the South, and a lot of barbecue is eaten all through the summer, but it wasn't my choice on this unseasonably hot April day. I stepped up to the line at Marie's Grill.
Dining awnings were erected over six picnic tables identical to those I'd seen at each campsite when I'd parked the Winnebago. I don't know how much good canvas ones would have done in the heat, but these were the plastic kind, and the shade was deceptive. No cooler under that plastic than out in the open, maybe even hotter.
When I asked to borrow my brother John's motor home and bring Jane to a bluegrass festival this wasn't what I'd expected. I'd known it would be hot, but the heat was record breaking for April, and I could hardly wait to get to the front of the line. The man behind me nudged my back. Like I could make the line move faster. Buh-leeve me, if I could have hurried things up, I would have. I tried to ignore the nudger, but he tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around. It was Kramer Hair.
"Whass up?" he said.
"I beg your pardon?" I answered in a witchy schoolteacher tone, uglier than anytime I ever spoke back when I taught kindergarten.
"I'm sorry if I hurt you," he said. His hair wasn't his only Kramer characteristic. He was about the same size and had similar features. He wore baggy khaki pants with front pleats and an orange and blue Hawaiian print shirt with the top three buttons open. He'd missed the opportunity to complete his ensemble with flip-flops and instead wore penny loafers with no socks. Penny loafers with shiny silver dimes.
"Oh, no, that little bump didn't bother me at all," I said.
"That's not what I meant. I'm apologizing for not calling you after I got your telephone number."
"What are you talking about?" I said. "I don't know you."
"We met at the Myrtle Beach Convention Center a couple of Thanksgivings ago. You gave me your number, and I promised to call, but I never got around to it. I've got a sister, so I understand how that hurts a woman's feelings."
What kind of come-on was this? Thanksgiving at Myrtle Beach is a big annual indoor bluegrass festival, and I've been there a few times, but I hadn't given this guy my number.
"Listen, mister. I've got five older brothers, so I know all about pickup lines, and yours isn't one of the better ones. I've never seen you before."
"Don't get all huffy about it. You'd really like getting to know me"--he smirked and winked--"if you know what I mean."
Thank heaven I reached the counter just then. I turned my back on the nincompoop, bought two hot dogs and drinks, then headed back to tell Jane about the fellow in line at the refreshment stand.
Chapter Three
"
You'd better thank me for this," I said, handing Jane
her chili dog and Dr Pepper. "I had to put up with the biggest creep I've ever met at the concession stand. The one who told the deputy that I exposed myself."
Since I hadn't told Jane about Kramer Hair, I expected that comment to pique her interest, but she was more concerned with her hot dog than my words. She sniffed. "You got extra onions, didn't you?" she asked.
"Of course, mustard, chili, and extra onions. Just the way you like it."
She held the hot dog to the side and raked the onions onto the ground. She fingered through the chili and picked out every little piece of onion. When she was finished, Jane wiped each finger with her napkin and began eating.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "You always want onions."
"Not today." She grinned. "Dean and I are having dinner together, and I don't know when the sheriff will let me go to the camper to brush my teeth."
I sat down and unwrapped my own hot dog. "Dinner?" I asked. "I don't think we'll be let out of here by suppertime. The only three food stands are Marie's Grill, Bob's Best Barbecue, and something called Gastric Gullah, which isn't open yet. Your dinner date will probably be another hot dog or barbecue, and you know you hate barbecue."
"Callie, you brought me to this miserable oven of a festival. Now I've met someone I enjoy talking to, so why are you being so catty? Did you have something going with Dean in Columbia? Do you want him yourself?"
"Dean's a nice guy, and I don't have a problem with your talking to him, but don't get too interested. Jane, there's a big gold band on his left hand and through the years I've known him, I've never seen him come on to any female."
"I know about the wedding ring. I felt it."
"Been holding hands with a married man?"
"While you were gone, he helped me find the restroom. He guides by holding hands, instead of touching my elbow like you."
"Sorry," I snapped. "Next time you need help, I'll hold your hand." I lightened up. "Where's Dean now?"
"He left with a guy named Jack who needed his help with something."
"Probably Happy Jack Wilburn. I'll bet he's fit to be tied. The weather was bad enough to ruin this festival before Little Fiddlin' Fred got killed. Now the sheriff won't let in any more customers. I think the Sugar Pie Bluegrass Festival is doomed."
"You don't know the half of it. I heard someone tell Dean that Sheriff Harmon is not letting anyone leave the campground or festival area, and he's set up a roadblock at the bridge and isn't letting anyone else on the island. I'm sure that's going over great with people who live here and won't be able to get home from work."
"Not too many people live on this island. It's small and was totally undeveloped until Jack Wilburn built Happy Jack's Campground."
"Even one person would be too many if I was the one person Harmon blocked off the road to my home."
I laughed. "Jane, you don't even go to your job. You work from the comfort of your home." Because of her blindness, my friend experienced difficulties with dependable transportation to and from work. She's a night person anyway and has earned her living the past two years working evenings as Roxanne, a 900 number telephone sex "conversationalist," as she calls herself. I don't think much of Jane's job, but she thinks even less of my touching dead people working as the cosmetologist at Middleton's Mortuary in St. Mary, our hometown about twenty minutes away.
We ate silently for a few minutes before I added, "I'm sorry if I seem negative about you talking to Dean. I know you're grown. I just don't want you to get all excited about somebody who's probably just being . . ." I almost said, "kind," but I caught myself and said, "nice." Jane would have interpreted the word "kind" to mean that Dean felt sorry for her.
"No problem-o. Just don't get in my face because I like Dean. I'm definitely grown." Jane paused and thrust her chest forward, emphasizing the magnificent cleavage that had magically popped out while she was in middle school. At thirty, well, almost thirty-three, I was still waiting for the magic pop-out and covered that I was boob-challenged with inflatable bras from Victoria's Secret.
I finished my slaw dog and Coke, then offered Jane some premoistened wipes to clean her hands. Their lemon scent would help with the onion odor on her fingers.
Being in the mortuary business, I shuddered when I glanced at the back of the stage and saw that Little Fiddlin' Fred's body still lay there. Forensics technicians were doing their thing, and I know they don't move murder victims as quickly as we try to pick up our mortuary clients, but the weather was way too hot for a corpse.
I was surprised to see Deputy Smoak removing the crime scene yellow border that had encompassed the entire stage area. He tossed the wadded tape to the back of the stage and, pulling a new length off the yellow roll, he ran it across the full width of the stage about halfway between the mics at the front and the body at the back. Surprising. But the next thing that happened was astonishing.
Happy Jack Wilburn drove up in a big supercab Dodge truck loaded with wood. He and several musicians, including Dean Holdback, placed a set of premade wooden mobile home steps at the front of the stage and began unloading plywood and two-by-fours. After considerable sawing and hammering, they created a plywood back wall across the entire stage directly in front of the yellow crime scene tape. Now the stage was only half as deep, and the audience couldn't see what was going on behind the plywood partition. The men moved the steps around the corner to the side of the stage.
Grasping the center vocal microphone, Happy Jack pulled it close to his lips. He cleared his throat and said, "I apologize for the heat and the tragedy. Sheriff Harmon says to tell you that you can go to your campers now, but nobody will be allowed to leave the campground yet. The music starts back right here onstage at six o'clock this evening, and we're going to dedicate this festival to Little Fiddlin' Fred."
