Hey Diddle Diddle, the Corpse and the Fiddle, page 7
part #2 of A Callie Parrish Mystery Series
The curtains parted, and Andy stepped in holding out a cup of coffee. "Fixed it the way Jane said you like it. Do you really always use cream and four scoops of sugar?"
"Sometimes three, sometimes four." I took a sip from the mug. Perfect. "It keeps me sweet."
"Everyone else has gone to the music arena to see Second Time Around. Jane and Dean said to let you sleep, but I thought you might not want to miss the show."
"What time is it? Have they started?"
"Almost eleven, but we can catch it from the beginning if we hurry."
I handed him the coffee and began climbing down from the bunk. Andy set the cup on the floor and reached out to help me. Daddy calls me Pollyanna because I always try to see the positive side of any situation. Now I was glad the sheriff didn't let me get my clothes from the camper. I would have removed my underwear and put on a sleep shirt. As it was, I still wore my blow-up bra beneath my T-shirt. Right above where Andy put his hands to lift me down.
I washed up in the tiny bathroom and redressed in the same clothes. When I came out, Andy handed me a sausage biscuit wrapped in a napkin. "Compliments of Dean-- Jimmy Dean, that is--and the Golden Eagle's microwave," he said in a John Wayne voice.
When Andy and I reached the stage area, most people were sitting about where they had yesterday with their chairs in nearly the same spots. Familiar faces in familiar places, except for Jane and Bone. Her chair had been moved to the second row with Dean, Van, and Arnie. Bone's chair was gone.
I heard mumblings among the audience. Some complained that everybody should get their money back. Others were still excited to see Second Time Around. There was also speculation about what the band would do without a fiddler.
Cousin Roger introduced the band. "And now, bluegrass lovers, the group many of you came especially to see. Put your hands together for--Second Time Around!"
He waved toward the steps at the side of the stage. The musicians climbed up and took positions. Comedians run on and off a stage, but bluegrass pickers move rather somberly, careful not to bump or drop an expensive instrument. Second Time Around's been playing a good while. Their name came from the fact they originally played under another name, split up, played with other bands, then re-formed their original five-piece group: guitar, banjo, mandolin, bass, and fiddle. Today there were only four of them. No fiddle player.
They jumped right into "Waiting at the Station" without any stage patter. From that, they segued into "Hot Summer Nights." The audience roared approval with applause and yells.
"Wey-ull," the banjo picker said, "we're not going to talk much about what has already happened here. We came to play some music for you. The next song we're gonna do is an old Country Gentlemen favorite, 'Uncle Pen.' Problem is that we gotta have a fiddle for that number, and as you know, we sadly lost our new fiddler yesterday."
Silence. I don't know what he expected the audience to do. They certainly wouldn't cheer or boo.
"But the show must go on, and we've got a fill-in for you. Please welcome"--he waved toward the steps-- "Aaron Porter."
A fiddle in one hand and bow in the other, a lanky man in a black suit climbed the stairs. He wore a purple silk shirt and a lavender necktie with fiddles painted on it. He had a head full of jet black hair, obviously tinted because nobody with as many wrinkles as he had could have that shade naturally. That's not a criticism. I, for one, am glad that the good Lord led people to create the rinses, tints, and dyes that enable us to change our hair whenever the mood strikes. I noticed that Aaron's head tilted a little toward his left shoulder even before he tucked the fiddle under his chin.
The crowd went wild. Aaron Porter was the original Second Time Around fiddler, all the way back to the first band. He was also the tall, dark-haired man I'd seen standing across from me the night before. Not expecting him to be at the festival, I hadn't recognized him then in his jeans and denim shirt. I should have known him by his fiddling.
Aaron Porter had begun his career playing jazz saxophone in New Orleans, moved to zydeco fiddle, then switched to bluegrass about the time Second Time Around's first band formed. Word was out that he'd retired in Virginia and wouldn't be playing anymore. Little Fiddlin' Fred was to have replaced him, but the legendary Aaron Porter now stood onstage taking the place of his replacement. Was it fortune, coincidence, or some less pleasant reason Aaron Porter just happened to be here to take Little Fiddlin' Fred's place?
I pushed that nasty thought out of my head. Good music makes a body feel good. Erase that. It makes a body feel great! Bluegrass music takes a person away from problems, even though song themes are often sad. Second Time Around seemed determined to make this part of the festival memorable for their performance, not for the deaths of two bluegrass musicians.
"Uncle Pen" was the hardest, fastest, tightest performance I've ever heard.
Cousin Roger ran back onto the stage, looked up at the sky, and said, "I see Charlie Waller up there applauding right along with this crowd."
"Who's Charlie Waller and where is he?" Jane asked.
"He was the lead singer with the Country Gentlemen. He's deceased. Cousin Roger was looking up at the sky like Waller was watching down on us." I paused. "Who knows? He might be. They talk about a rock 'n' roll heaven. Maybe Bill Monroe, Carter Stanley, Lester Flatt, Charlie Waller, and the other greats like Maybelle Carter who have passed on are in bluegrass heaven."
Jane laughed. "Did you say, 'have passed on'? I thought you hated that term."
"I do on the job, but I'm not at work right now."
The next song was "Sea of Life" with Aaron Porter on vocals. Second Time Around had the audience in the palms of their hands. The music got better and better, lifting the small audience to new heights. The applause seemed endless and deafening, though the crowd probably didn't add up to fifty people. The only way Aaron Porter could have been more impressive was if he'd balanced his fiddle on his nose like Roy Acuff used to do on the Grand Ole Opry.
By the time the band finished, my head and heart were so full of music that I couldn't think of anything at all, much less murder. I was overwhelmed like I am when I go to a Claire Lynch concert, and she is my absolute favorite singer!
Second Time Around was a hard act to follow, and I guess none of the bigger, better-known groups wanted to fill that spot, so Cousin Roger introduced the Pine Tree Sisters.
Jane and Broken Fence stepped up behind me. "I'm going with Dean," she said, and they headed toward the concession area.
Chapter Ten
"
Whass up?" Bone said to me as he unfolded two lawn
chairs and set them beside me. Melena stood beside him, Styrofoam coffee cup in one hand, a denim bag in the other. It wasn't exactly a purse, more like a medium-size tote. He motioned her toward the chair.
"Welcome to the hootenanny," I joked as they sat down.
"Yeah, the Pine Tree Sisters aren't exactly Bill Monroe, are they?" Bone said as he slumped down in his seat and stuck his legs out in front of him.
"More like the Kingston Trio in drag," Melena said. "Maybe they'll do 'Hang Down Your Head, Tom Dooley' next."
The three young women onstage wore old-timey buttonup shoes, floor-length gingham dresses, and ruffled pinafore aprons. Bouffant curls that I'd bet were extensions or synthetic hairpieces blossomed out from white bonnets. Their three guitars provided instrumentation, and old folk songs filled their repertoire. There are people who love their music. I'm not one of them.
"I was thinking about going to the camper for a nap, but I'm waiting for my friend Jane to come back," I commented.
"Where is she?" Melena asked.
"Went for a walk." I don't know why I didn't tell them Jane had gone off with the Broken Fence band. I guess I didn't really think it was any of Melena's business.
"Isn't she blind?" Bone asked. "Can she manage with just a cane on this strange turf?"
"Oh, she does very well, but she's with Dean Holdback."
"Broken Fence?" Melena asked.
"Yes, Dean's the tall one."
"Have you heard these girls before?" Bone nodded toward the stage.
"Yes, and when they do their tribute to Stephen Foster, I'm leaving whether Jane's back or not. Their version of 'Oh, Susannah' has no resemblance to bluegrass."
"Don't tell me if it ain't 'Dueling Banjos' and 'Rocky Top,' you don't think it's bluegrass." Bone grinned. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and rubbed it out with the toe of his boot. Guess the sand had scuffed up his penny loafers the day before.
"I've told you not to do that," Melena scolded, bending over to pick up the butt. She dropped it into her Styrofoam cup. Must have had a little coffee left because it made a tiny plopping noise.
"Yeah, and the signs say I can't smoke here, but I do anyway, don't I?"
I ignored them and answered Bone. "No, I don't think bluegrass has to be 'Dueling Banjos' or 'Rocky Top,' and nobody else does these days. Now some folks think a song had to be in O Brother, Where Art Thou? As for me, I grew up with a daddy who listened to Flatt and Scruggs, Bill Monroe, and the Stanley Brothers."
"And what did your mom listen to?"
"I have no idea. She died when I was born."
Bone looked down. I was surprised the nincompoop even knew when he committed a faux pas. Then again, I was just as guilty for speaking so flippantly about death in front of a woman whose husband died the day before.
"Sorry," Bone mumbled and glanced up at the stage. The Pine Tree Sisters began another Stephen Foster number. "You ladies come over to the trailer with me. I wanna show you something," Bone said.
Good grief. Like I wasn't on to him already. "What do you want to show us? Your etchings?" I asked in a sarcastic tone.
"Callie, I wouldn't invite my sister along if I planned to show you my etchings." He slipped me a wicked grin with arched eyebrows. "Although I do have some excellent etchings if you're interested." He winked at Melena. "Sister, you wouldn't mind staying here while I show Callie my etchings, would you?"
"I didn't realize you two were related," I said.
Melena stood and said, "Come on, I'll protect you from my little brother."
I looked up at the stage. This set would probably last another half hour, and I wanted to learn more about Melena and Little Fiddlin' Fred. What was the connection between them and Kenny Strickland? I wasn't investigating, just curious. Well, really just nosy, as usual.
"Okay," I said and followed Bone and Melena to the path to the camping area. "Were Kenny Strickland and your husband good friends?" I asked Melena.
"They knew each other, but so far as I know, their only connection was at performances. We didn't visit socially." Melena pulled a glass mason jar from her tote and peered into it while we walked. She smiled. The bereaved act in mysterious ways. This was the first time I'd seen a recent widow carrying around dead lightning bugs. At least, that's what I thought they were. There were no holes in the lid of the jar. As a child, my brothers helped me catch lightning bugs, and I remembered that when I forgot to set them free, they died if no one had punched holes into the cap.
Bone cut off my questions with "Hurry up" and a faster walk. The travel trailer he headed toward wasn't quite the smallest one I'd ever seen, but it came close. I'm not expert at estimating length, but it probably wasn't more than thirteen or fourteen feet long. Bone opened the door, and cool air whooshed out at us. Melena and I followed him in and sat at a table booth to our right. She tossed her Styrofoam cup into a little trash can under the table.
Bone opened an overhead cabinet above the stovetop. He brought out a package of small paper cups, the kind dentists use when they want you to spit, and a large familiar-shaped bottle. He placed three cups on the table, then set the full liter bottle of Original Mint Green Scope beside them. Melena grinned, screwed the top off the bottle, and poured about an inch of the green liquid into her cup. She handed the Scope to me and said, "Here, help yourself."
Puh-leeze. What kind of weirdos were these people? They showed little reaction to the murder of Melena's husband, who also happened to be Bone's brother-in-law, and now they sat down to share mouthwash?
While I gaped in wonder, Bone poured himself a cupful. Melena sipped, but he threw his down his throat like a shooter. They were drinking Scope.
"No, thanks," I said.
"Come on, a little one won't hurt," Bone said and poured about half an inch of green liquid into my cup.
"Okay," I said, "but I'm not going to swallow it."
Melena and Bone laughed. "Like the president who didn't inhale?" she said.
I picked up the bottle and read the label. "It says here not to swallow it."
Bone burst into raucous guffaws. "Take one little sip, Callie."
One little sip. The burn made me gasp and a bit of the fiery liquid slipped down my throat. "Gin!" I shouted and spewed the rest out.
"What did you think it was?" Melena asked and took another small drink.
"I should have known better, but I honestly thought it was mouthwash. Figured you two were crazy."
"It's mint gin," said Melena, "looks like Scope, so if it's put into a Scope bottle, nobody gets busted for open containers under the car seat or for liquor at dry festivals. If we had mouthwash in that bottle, we'd wind up with some major problems if we swallowed the glycerin in it."
Bone laughed and said to Melena, "You and your science." He turned to me. "If you don't like gin, how about an Orange Blossom Special?"
"What's that, besides a great song?"
"Orange-flavored vodka in a Citrus Listerine bottle."
"I'll pass on that, too. I really thought you two had flipped out drinking mouthwash."
"I wasn't trying to trick you." Bone poured more into his cup and tossed it back. "I assumed you'd know I was offering you a drink. Guess that explains your confused look."
"I'm not a teetotaler. I drink sometimes, but gin has never been my choice."
"Bet you're bourbon and Coke," said Bone.
"No, I like--" I didn't get to finish the sentence because someone banged on the door and flung it open. A short brunette woman wearing short shorts and a halter top stood on the step with a large garment bag. Behind her, a slim, gangly fellow in running shorts tried to balance several pieces of luggage and a box.
"Whass up?" Bone greeted them. "Come on in."
The brunette stepped through the door, followed by the man. Melena stood. "I'm going back to catch the last of the Pine Tree Sisters," she said.
The woman reached out and touched Melena's arm. "We heard about Fred," she said. "I'm so sorry." She airkissed Melena beside her cheek.
"I think I'm in denial," Melena replied. "I just can't believe he's gone. I guess it will really hit me when the authorities let us leave here and release Fred's body to the family. Well, to me as his wife. I'm just glad he didn't suffer. It'll seem real when I start dealing with plans."
"It's just terrible," the woman said. She turned toward me. "I'm Sarah."
"Callie Parrish," I said.
"Sorry," Bone said. "My manners aren't always the best thing about me." A villainous leer. "The best thing about me is much better than my manners. Callie, allow me to introduce you to"--he gestured toward them as he called their names--"Sarah Phillips and Ron Reuben. They're one of the surprises for the festival." He handed each of them a paper cup and added, "Want to freshen your breath?"
Melena and I stepped out as the couple held their cups out to the Scope bottle. She headed toward the path to the music arena, and I walked beside her. "Too bad about last night," she said. "Did you know Kenny very well?"
"Not well enough for him to be in the motor home. I don't understand it at all."
"Well, I don't understand why anyone would murder my Fred."
"I don't mean to offend you," I began, knowing that any statement beginning that way usually would offend, "but I work with bereaved people on my job, and nobody seems to be reacting to these two deaths the way I expected. I'm surprised that bands are playing at all today."
"Until we can leave this island, I'd rather listen to anyone--except the Pine Tree Sisters--than sit and worry."
"You missed a really good performance by Second Time Around, but I guess seeing them today would have been painful, knowing your husband was supposed to be up there with them."
