"He died unexpectedly a few years ago."

  "Was he killed at a festival like Little Fiddlin' Fred?" Her tone was hard to determine. Not really shocked, but close to it.

  "Oh, no, Hylton had an aneurism, died in a hospital in Tennessee."

  Talking to Jane about Randall Hylton reminded me of some of his funny material. I've always thought there's more comedy in country music than in bluegrass, but some grassers do get a chuckle now and then. Hylton usually got belly laughs.

  Being a southern bluegrass gal, I've yelled out at festivals and concerts myself.

  "Can you do 'Big Foot'?" I shouted.

  I remembered the first time I heard Randall Hylton perform "The Legend of Big Foot." I was pretty shy back then, but I roared with laughter when he sang about a female Sasquatch putting the make on him, patting his thigh and batting her eyelashes. As the Great Pretender did the song, he looked and sounded just like Hylton.

  Jane leaned toward me again. "How many people are playing?" she asked.

  "Only one," I answered.

  "The music sounds like more than one person."

  "That's because he's thumb-picking," I explained. "It's a kind of finger-picking guitar style that originated in Mehlenburg County, Kentucky. Mose Rager, Merle Travis, Chet Atkins, and Randall Hylton were known for thumbpicking."

  "I never heard of any of those people except the Hylton fellow the Great Pretender is imitating."

  "Well, thumb-picking is well-known enough that there's an international championship contest every year."

  "Are you sure there's only one player? Are you fooling me? It still sounds like at least two guitars to my ears."

  "It's not your hearing. Thumb-picking weaves the music so intricately that it sounds like more than one instrument to almost everyone."

  "Who else plays that way?"

  "Do you remember your mother's old records by the Everly Brothers?"

  Jane sang, "Bye, bye love. Bye, bye happiness." Of course, she wasn't on key. She never is. Thank heaven she stopped singing and asked, "Is that who you're talking about?"

  "Yep," I answered. "Their dad, Ike Everly was a wellknown thumb-picker."

  "How do you know all that stuff?"

  "If you'd grown up with my daddy, you'd know it too."

  I leaned back, expecting to hear more of the Great Pretender, but Lewis Fox and the Whet Strap Boys took their places behind the Pretender, and I knew there wouldn't be much more thumb-picking.

  "I'm gonna go backstage and talk to that guy," I told Jane.

  "Backstage? I thought you said the back is closed off."

  "I mean I'm going to catch him coming off the stage on the steps they added at the side."

  The Great Pretender received a huge round of applause at the end of his show. Guess the folks were ready for some lighthearted, even silly, fun after the way the festival got started.

  A few autograph collectors were waiting at the bottom of the steps to talk to him. He kept his guitar hanging from the strap around his neck, set his guitar case on the step, and grinned. I hung back and listened as Lewis Fox and the Whet Strap Boys started off with "Rank Stranger" while the Pretender talked with fans. On closer look, he didn't resemble Randall Hylton as much. The gray beard and hair were either premature or dyed. His face was younger. Hylton died in his fifties. This guy looked to be in his midtwenties, maybe even early twenties.

  When the Great Pretender and I were the only two left at the steps, I said, "I really enjoyed your act. It was truly like seeing an old friend again."

  His eyes lit up. "You knew Randall Hylton?"

  "Not well, but I saw him lots of times and even went to dinner with him once in Columbia. Well, not just him and me. The South Carolina Bluegrass Society took him out to eat when he came to town to perform, and I went with them."

  "I've been playing guitar since I was six years old." He put his guitar into the hard case that he'd set on the step while he signed autographs. "I saw Randall Hylton when I was twelve, and he just blew me away with his thumbpicking and all the stuff he could do that I'd never seen before. I bought one of each of his tapes and CDs. Randall Hylton kept me out of trouble through my teens. I was too busy practicing my guitar and trying to master thumbpicking to get into drugs or alcohol."

  "You're really good. Randall Hylton would be proud to know he influenced you."

  "He died in March of the year I planned to catch up with him at some festival that summer and see if he'd listen to me pick and maybe give me some advice. I cried. I just went off by myself and played my guitar and cried about a man I'd never even spoken to." His eyes moistened as he said the words.

  Good grief! I never know when my training for working in the mortuary will come in handy. I reached up and put my hand on that tall shoulder and patted him, just the way I do the bereaved at work. He leaned over enough to let me know that it was okay to put my arm around him. I gave him a little hug, then stepped back.

  "I never eat before I perform, and I'm starving," he said. "Would you join me for a sandwich or something? I'd really like to talk to you some more."

  "I want to talk to you, too. Let me tell my friend where I'm going."

  "Oh, you're here with your boyfriend?" he asked.

  "No, I'm here with my female friend."

  He raised an eyebrow.

  "I didn't say 'girlfriend,' " I added.

  "Would be your business, not mine."

  I led him around to the front, introduced him to Jane, and told her we were going to the concession area.

  Jane said, "Take your time, girlfriend."

  Chapter Seven

  Sitting at one of the picnic tables beneath the plastic

  awning at Bob's Best Barbecue, I pulled a couple of napkins from the dispenser and tried to sop the perspiration from my face in a ladylike manner. It was seven o'clock, but the sun wouldn't go down for another hour or so. Gastric Gullah was still empty.

  The Great Pretender had suggested food, but all I wanted was a cold drink. (Okay, I confess. I ate a few more Moon Pies while I was reading that afternoon.) He went to the window and ordered. When he returned, I accepted my cup with thanks and sipped the iced tea as he dug into a barbecue sandwich and Pepsi.

  "Mr. Pretender," I began and laughed. "May I call you Great, or do you go by another name offstage?"

  "Andrew Campbell," he answered between bites. "Call me Andy. And what shall I call you besides Blondie?"

  "Just call me Callie," I responded, wishing that I looked better. At my best I'm not bad-looking, but I couldn't be too pretty at the moment after sitting in the heat through his act and wiping all my makeup off with the sweat.

  "Callie. That's an unusual name. Is it for real or a nickname?" He dabbed barbecue sauce from his lip with a napkin.

  "It's a nickname."

  "For what?"

  If it's possible to blush on top of a sunburn, I'm sure I did. Probably turned as bright as a ripe tomato.

  "You don't want to know," I said and sipped the last of my iced tea through the straw.

  Andy took the cup to the serving window for a refill, but he asked again when he returned, "What's your real name?"

  "It's embarrassing," I answered and took another swallow of tea.

  "You never have to be embarrassed around me," he said in that melodious voice.

  "My daddy was drunk when he named me. I have five brothers and he was trying to think pink, think feminine. He named me Calamine Lotion Parrish."

  The Great Pretender Andy laughed so hard that cola sprayed from his mouth onto the table. He grabbed napkins and wiped up as he continued to chortle.

  "I'm sorry. I can see why you might not want to share that with everyone, but you can tell me anything, anytime. What did your mom think of your name?"

  "She never knew. My mother died when I was born. I grew up with my dad and a house full of brothers."

  Andy's face crumpled. "I am so sorry," he said and reached to pat my hand. I didn't say anything. After another bite of his sandwich, Andy continued, "Where are you from, Callie? You seem familiar to me."

  "I grew up in St. Mary, moved away for a few years, but I'm back living in my hometown again. I work for Middleton's Mortuary."

  Andy choked a little, took another long drink from his Pepsi, and said, "You're a mortician?"

  "No, in Funeralese, we call my job cosmetizing. I do makeup, hair, nails, and whatever is necessary to make the deceased look pleasant for the bereaved."

  "Wow! You really do talk Funeralese. I've got an uncle who runs a funeral home in Lexington, South Carolina, and he talks just like that. When I was in high school, I used to get paid minimum wage to sleep on the premises when they had a body, but I sure wouldn't want to do that for a living."

  "Are you from Lexington?"

  "Yep. Grew up there and it's still my home base, but I'm hoping to stay on the bluegrass circuit from now on." He leaned toward me. I couldn't help noticing his dark brown eyes through the wire-framed glasses. "You said you saw Randall Hylton in person. Tell me honestly what you think of my act. You don't think any of it's disrespectful to him, do you?"

  "No, I don't, and the act is good. I enjoyed it very much, and I'm sure his fans as well as folks who never saw Hylton in person will appreciate it, too."

  "I've been working on writing songs and creating new jokes, but I love doing Hylton's material, and I haven't written anything good enough to put with it. I--"

  Andy was interrupted by the dark-haired woman I'd seen arguing with Kenny and later being hugged by Bone. This lady was all over the place! She leaned over Andy's shoulder. He stopped talking and looked up at her. I hadn't seen her too clearly before, but this time I took a close look.

  Pretty with long, curly black hair and dark, bright eyes, she had gorgeous cheekbones. Her figure looked young in her jeans and crimson off-the-shoulder blouse, knotted just above the jeans to accent her slender waist, but the crow's-feet around her eyes and smoker's wrinkles around her red-lipsticked mouth showed her to be at least ten years older than me. I'm almost thirty-three, and I'd guess she was midforties.

  Good grief! I hadn't cared about Bone, but I was interested in Andy and resented the interruption. Who was this woman? Was she following me around, waiting for me to talk to a man so she could steal his attention? Ridiculous! I'm a lot of things, but I'm not usually paranoid.

  "Melena," Andy said as he stood and turned to embrace her. Buh-leeve me. The last thing I need is some guy who has a girlfriend, but the next thing he said was, "I'm so sorry about Fred."

  The woman wiped her eyes with a napkin, but I noticed there were no tears. Really she just meticulously patted gently to avoid mussing her makeup.

  "I just don't understand how anything like this could happen," she said. "Everybody loved Fred."

  Andy offered the woman his seat and suggested he get her a sandwich. She declined the food, but asked for a cup of black coffee. It was hotter than a Fourth of July bonfire and she wanted coffee?

  "Callie"--Andy motioned toward me--"this is Melena Delgado. She's Little Fiddlin' Fred's wife."

  "Widow now," the woman corrected and patted her eyes again.

  "Yes," Andy said, "I didn't think of that. It's hard to believe I talked to Fred this morning and now he's gone."

  Melena's eyes widened. "You saw him this morning? What time?"

  "Early. Right after I got here, probably around eight."

  "Oh." She continued wiping around her eyes where there were no tears that I could see. "I wasn't here that early." She smiled.

  "I'll get your coffee," Andy said, obviously a little uncomfortable. I couldn't blame him. I know from my work that people mourn in many ways, but this woman showed no grief. She didn't seem to need much comforting, but I offered my condolences anyway.

  "I'm so sorry about your husband," I said.

  "I just don't understand it. He was murdered, you know."

  "No, I didn't know, but I assumed it was homicide from the way the police have taken over the back of the stage and asked us not to leave until further notice."

  "I'm from the Low Country, over at Adam's Creek, but I came down from Burlington, North Carolina, where we live now, to surprise Fred and see his first performance with Second Time Around tomorrow. I wasn't expecting the shock when Happy Jack told me Fred is dead."

  "Everyone was stunned," I said.

  "He was killed with a tuning fork." She turned and smiled at Andy as he placed a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of her and sat down beside her.

  "With what?" Andy asked.

  "A tuning fork."

  "Does anybody ever use one of those anymore? Everyone's got electronic tuners these days," Andy said.

  Melena sipped coffee. I couldn't understand how anyone could drink hot steaming liquid in the heat. Jane and I drink coffee in the summertime, but only indoors with airconditioning.

  "I don't know many people who even own a tuning fork these days, but the one used to kill Fred had been sharpened, so it wasn't meant to be used for tuning anyway," Melena said. "The distance between the prongs was almost exactly the space between his nostrils."

  "Sharpened?" I echoed her word.

  "A tuning fork is shaped like a U with a handle on it," she said. Like I wouldn't know that. I have a couple of tuning forks myself, but I nodded as though I'd never seen one.

  "The prongs of the U had been sharpened and rammed up his nostrils through the nasal cavity," she continued. "He died instantaneously, like when mercenaries kill by slamming the nose so hard that it shatters the bones into the brain."

  Andy's eyes widened behind his glasses. "How do you know that?" he questioned.

  Melena sipped her coffee and ignored him.

  "He asked," I said, "how do you know that Fred was killed with a tuning fork and the prongs had been sharpened?" My tone sounded as sharp as the prongs may have been.

  Melena's eyes darted around, and for the first time since she'd joined us, she appeared stressed.

  "Uh, I don't know," she said.

  "Then why'd you tell us that's how he died?" I didn't mean my words to be a demand, but they were.

  Andy put his arm around Melena's shoulders and cut me a disapproving look. "It's okay," he softly consoled Little Fiddlin' Fred's widow, sounding exactly like an undertaker.

  "I'm just so glad that Fred didn't suffer," Melena stammered. "I don't know exactly how I know about the tuning fork. I must have overheard the sheriff or one of the forensics people talking about it." Her shoulders shook slightly, as though she were shivering.

  A yellow and black butterfly flitted by. Melena reached out and closed her fingers over the wings. She opened her hand, and the butterfly flew away.

  "A male monarch," Melena said.

  "A male?" I questioned. "You mean you could actually see his little--"

  Melena giggled. "Oh, no, I didn't see his boys. The wing markings are different on males and females. Not on all butterflies, but on monarchs and a few others."

  I couldn't see my own face, but my expression must have been total amazement.

  Melena explained, "I was studying to be an entomologist when I met Fred."

  "Sharpened?" Andy said and took the last bite of his sandwich.

  "What?" Melena asked, as though a butterfly had erased her husband's murder from her mind.

  "For someone to sharpen the prongs of a tuning fork and force them into a person's head is an unusual way to kill somebody," Andy said.

  "I just hope they catch him soon." Melena sipped her coffee. "So we can all get out of here."

  I tried. I promise I tried, but I couldn't resist. Otis and Odell would have been so proud of me. "Mrs. Delgado," I said, "they've sent your husband to Charleston for an autopsy, but if you need a local funeral home to handle sending him to North Carolina for burial after the postmortem, please call Middleton's Mortuary in St. Mary. We're very near, and we'll be glad to take care of everything for you."

  "I hadn't even thought about where to have the funeral. Are you a Middleton?"

  "Oh, no, I'm Callie Parrish, but I work at Middleton's, so I can assure you that Mr. Delgado would receive the best care." I almost said that the charge for the casket would be less because Fred would fit into a child's unit, but thank heaven I caught myself. Thoughts about Melena being a rather tall woman and Fred being so little invaded my mind, but I'd read enough to know that little people--the politically correct term for midgets and dwarfs--frequently marry fullsize spouses. Anyone who doubts that should watch the Maury show. Besides, I'd heard that Fred had a reputation as a ladies' man and loved all sizes.

 

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