Bernice pressed her lips together, as if she wanted to catch me in some kind of mistake but couldn’t think of what it might be. And then she sneezed. Bernice was horribly allergic to flowers, and mere talk of them could make her break out in hives. Which, I supposed, raised the question, why have flowers in the first place? I was very thankful her allergies didn’t dictate her decisions where the village was concerned.
“If you ask me,” Ferris Brown, a bait shop and fishing boat owner from the harbor, said, “I can’t tell you why Barley McFee would want to come back to Bellewick for this concert.” Ferris was in his seventies and had a long silver handlebar moustache, and his eyes were permanently in a squint from his time under the sun on the sea. “I do think it’s smashing good luck that he’s coming here, but I, for one, will be happy when this is over and I can work on the manor.” His eyes lit up as he said this.
“Yes, yes,” Bernice said, irritation in her voice. “We all know that you bought a manor house, but we must focus on the project at hand.”
Ferris’s face fell. Presha, ever compassionate, patted his arm.
Bernice tapped her pen on her clipboard. “It’s Barley’s homecoming concert. Where else would he have it other than the village he grew up in? We must make a good showing of it. That means we can’t let our minds wander to other things.”
Ferris smoothed his moustache; it was a practiced habit and reminded me of someone lightly stroking a cat. “That may be, but he would have found much more success if he held the concert in the capital of County Aberdeen in Aberdeen City. He still could have called it a Coming Home Concert, since he was returning to his own county.”
Aberdeen was the county seat of Aberdeenshire on the northeast coast of Scotland. A far more populated place than my new home.
“It is no matter that Barley could have a bigger audience in Aberdeen,” Raj Kapoor, Presha’s twin brother, said. The pair of them had immigrated to Scotland together and created successful businesses in Bellewick. Presha owned the local tea house, Presha’s Teas, where she served the spiciest chai I had ever tasted, and Raj had two businesses in the village, the local laundromat and the pub, the Twisted Fox. The pub was the most popular establishment in the village, which was one reason I was grateful I’d been able to buy the shop space right next to it for my flower shop. I knew my close proximity to the Twisted Fox raised my profile in the village. And it sure did guarantee plentiful foot traffic. Even if the patrons of the Twisted Fox weren’t buying while they enjoyed their fish and chips and pints, they were seeing my flowers artfully arranged. Many a resident had popped in after or on their way to dinner to purchase flowers for special occasions.
“The concert will be here,” Raj went on. “And we will do our very best to accommodate it. I know it’s a lot of work, but we must finish strong. We have come this far. In two days’ time, the concert will be over, and we will return to our everyday lives. We should enjoy this brief moment of excitement in our sleepy little village.” Raj always found the silver lining.
Bernice nodded. “Thank you, Raj. Now, the food trucks will be arriving this afternoon to set up.”
Raj nodded. “Yes, everything will be ready. The food trucks will be here in a few hours, and the Twisted Fox will have a stand at the concert as well, selling ale and beer. Nothing too hard. If they want whiskey and the like, they can walk to the pub.”
Bernice made a check mark on her clipboard. “Very good. Now …”
She was going to say more, but a black SUV limousine rolled up to the village’s arched stone gate and stopped. It couldn’t go any farther. Behind the SUV was a tour bus that said Barley McFee in bold letters on the side, next to an enlarged image of a redheaded, bearded man holding a fiddle under his chin and tapping his foot.
It was the kind of tour van I’d been accustomed to seeing in Nashville. A country-music star proved they’d hit the big time when they put their face on the side of a bus. Until then, no one in Nashville took them seriously.
Bernice looked at her watch and yelped, “He’s early! He wasn’t supposed to be here for another two hours. I’m not ready.” She looked down at her plaid shirt and jeans. “I’m not dressed! I had another outfit picked out!”
“Bernice, calm yourself,” Presha whispered. “The concert is not until tomorrow afternoon. Everything is ready for Barley at the guesthouse.” She glanced at Eugenia Wilson, the owner of the village’s only guesthouse, who nodded. Presha smiled. “See? He can go there and rest or practice. We can finish what we need to do. Now, pull yourself together if you would like to make a good impression.”
Bernice looked as if she wanted to argue with Presha—which made me think that other outfit must have been something—but before she could, the driver climbed out of the SUV limo, walked to the back passenger side door, and opened it. A redheaded man got out, and judging from the larger-than-life wrap on the side of the tour bus, it was Barley McFee.
Two things I noticed about Barley right away. One, he was much older than the figure on the side of the bus. Like two decades older. Wrinkles fanned his eyes and mouth, and gray streaks threaded through his red hair. The photo made him appear to be in his forties, but I could see now that he was much closer to sixty, perhaps on the other side of it. Two, I knew we weren’t in Ireland, but I swore the fiddler looked like a leprechaun. He had a full head of red-gray hair and a full beard, and he wasn’t much over five feet tall. The picture on the side of the bus had given no indication of his small stature.
Bernice removed her glasses from the top of her head and patted at her hair. It wasn’t much use. She had a curly bob cut, and it was sticking up every which way because she had been pulling on it for the better part of the morning. She shoved the glasses in the pocket of her coat and hurried over to Barley. “Mr. McFee, we are so happy you are here.”
Barley smiled, and his straight white teeth glistened in the sun. He could have been a poster child for a toothpaste commercial. “I’m happy to be here. Can’t say I have seen much of Bellewick yet because my stage is blocking the entrance into the village, but from where I stand here, very little has changed.” He grinned from ear to ear. “It’s surreal to be back, but I’m happy that I am.” He held out his hand. “And you are?”
Bernice wiped her hand on her coat and shook his. “I’m so sorry, Mr. McFee. I’m Bernice Brennan. I’m the chairperson of the Merchant Society of Bellewick, and I have been working with your manager to put on this great event.”
“Please call me Barley. I don’t stand on pomp and circumstance. Is Owen Masters here?”
“Your manager?” Her brow went up. “No, I have only spoken to him on the phone. I believe he plans to be here this afternoon. That’s when we had expected you as well …”
He grinned. “I like to keep the world guessing as to when I will show up. It makes everything much more exciting, doesn’t it?”
Bernice didn’t look the least bit excited about it.
“I would have thought he would make a point of arriving before me to make sure everything was ready.” Barley’s grin dimmed just a little, and then he shook his head. “I will catch up with him later, and I’m sure that everything will be positively lovely for the concert. I know how impressed Owen has been with your group of volunteers.”
Bernice preened under his praise. I shared a smile with Presha, and Ferris cleared his throat loudly.
“Oh!” Bernice straightened quickly, as if the noise had brought her back to reality. “Barley, these are the other members of the Merchant Society. We have Ferris Brown, Presha Kapoor and her brother Raj Kapoor, Eugenia Wilson—you will be staying at her guesthouse—and Fiona Knox.”
Barley shook all our hands in turn. When he shook my hand, he said, “Fiona, aye?” He still held on to my hand. “That’s a very pretty name.”
“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Barley,” I said.
He arched his brow. “You aren’t from Bellewick. I can tell you that. Do I hear a Tennessee drawl in your voice?”
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I raised my eyebrow, surprised. Because of television, most Scots could tell I was from the American South by my accent, but none of them had pinpointed it to my home state. “I’m from Nashville.”
He nodded. “Thought so. Music City. I love that place and recorded my last two albums at RCA Studio A. If you want to make music, Nashville is the place to be. Are you musical, then?”
I shook my head. “Not at all. I run the flower shop here in the village.”
“But I’m sure you know people in the music industry.”
My wannabe-country-star ex-finance’s face came unheeded to my mind. “I know a few,” I said.
“Fiona lives at Duncreigan. You remember the MacCallister family, don’t you?” Ferris asked.
“’Course I do.” He studied me with interest. “Are you a MacCallister, then? None but MacCallisters have ever lived at Duncreigan.”
“No,” I said, thinking at least I wasn’t in name. I wasn’t going to explain my complicated family tree to a man I had just met when I had yet to tell my sister. “Ian MacCallister was my godfather.”
He squeezed my hand hard and then let it go. “That makes more sense. I didn’t think Ian had any children to claim.”
To claim? His phrasing struck me as odd. “You knew my godfather?” I asked, looking at him with interest.
“Ian and I were old school chums. I was very sorry when I heard that he passed on. He was a good man and a damn good soldier in our Queen’s army. It was a loss for Bellewick and for the entire United Kingdom.” He studied me a little more closely. “The last name is Knox, is it? I remember Ian running around with a young man named Stephen Knox when we were in school.”
“That’s my father,” I said. “Do you know him too?”
“I—” Barley started to speak, but then shook his head. “No,” he said. “Only the name.”
I wanted to ask him more, but Presha piped in, “Fiona’s parents are on their way to Scotland right now.” She glanced at the gold watch on her slender wrist. “They should be landing soon. Maybe you and Stephen can meet and swap stories about Ian.”
Barley’s eyes cut in her direction. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
I opened my mouth and wanted to ask him what he meant by that, but the door to the van opened.
“My band is here,” Barley said, and walked away. Bernice and the rest of the Merchant Society walked after him. All of them except Presha, that is, who stayed back with me.
“Did you find his reaction to my father’s name odd?” I asked.
“So odd. There is something going on there, Fiona,” Presha whispered back.
“That’s what I thought too.” I frowned.
Presha patted my arm. “Do not worry yourself over it. Whatever history he had with your father is long over.” She went to catch up with the group, and I followed.
I wished the past had indeed been put to bed, but I was soon to learn it had not.
Chapter Three
Two men and one woman stepped out of the trailer. They all were dressed in jeans and graphic T-shirts under denim jackets. Both men were tall and dark-haired with matching dark beards. They looked if they could be brothers, and the woman had beautiful dark skin. Her hair was pulled back from her face in intricate braids that went from black at the roots to red to orange at the ends. It gave the effect that her hair was on fire. It must make quite an impression under the bright stage lights.
“Ah,” Barley said. “My band has surfaced. I hope they got some sleep while on the road from London. That was our last concert stop. It’s a long drive.” He smiled at me. “But nothing like driving from tour spots in the U.S. Once I had a concert in Detroit and then one in Dallas two days later. I thought we would never get there. Since then, I fly whenever I’m in your country and let the band and crew deal with life on the road. I’m too old for road life now.” He laughed at his own joke.
“You didn’t ride with them?” Presha asked.
“Goodness, no.” Barley laughed. “I have far too many other engagements that I must keep. I flew in this morning. Private. I only fly private anymore.”
I supposed that explained why Barley had arrived by limo and the rest of the band was on the tour bus. It was interesting that they still seemed to have arrived in Bellewick at the exact same time. I wondered how the band felt about Barley flying private alone when they had to ride for hours in the giant bus.
“Let me confer with my band, and then we can chat more. I’m sure there are things you want to go over with me about the show tomorrow. I think this homecoming concert is going to be everything that the fans have been wanting.”
Bernice nodded. “Take all the time you need.”
Barley smoothed the sleeve of his jacket and flashed his winning smile before heading in the direction of the band.
“Do you have any idea what I had to put up with?” the woman with the braids yelled in a Scottish accent. “Ten hours in that bus with those two.” She pointed at her bandmates. “I shouldn’t be riding with them. I should have flown with you. You were making a point by having me ride in the bus. Point made. You’d better have a plane ticket for me on the way back.”
Barley held up his hand. “Kenda, don’t make a scene.”
“I’ll make all the scenes I want! You don’t know what you have put me through by making me ride up with these two. The entire bus smelled like old gym socks and microwave meals. I almost threw up from the stench.”
“But you didn’t throw up,” Barley said soothingly.
“I almost did. I can’t believe you did this to me after everything I have done for you.”
Barley tried to wrap his arm around Kenda’s shoulder, but she shrugged him away before stomping back toward the bus. Barley followed her. “Kenda!”
She gave him a crude hand gesture in reply.
“She doesn’t look happy,” Presha said.
I shook my head. “No, she doesn’t.” I glanced at the others. “Does anyone know the band members’ names?”
Bernice pressed her lips together. “The band has been together for close to ten years now. The two brothers are Jamie and Lester MacNish. They play guitar and bass, respectively. The woman is Kenda Bay. I have heard that she and Barley were an item for some time. Kenda plays backup fiddle.”
“So she is his second fiddle?” Ferris asked, laughing at his own joke.
I raised my eyebrows. Barley had to be thirty years older than Kenda. Lots of older men dated younger woman, especially, it seemed, when it came to celebrities of Barley’s level. “Are they still together?” I asked. I couldn’t help it. My curiosity always got the better of me.
“Doesn’t look like it,” Raj said.
We looked on while Kenda waved her arms and shook her fists at Barley.
“He’s got a fiery one on his hands,” Ferris said.
Bernice, Presha, and I all gave him a look.
He grunted. “You womenfolk are too sensitive anymore.”
“And you should know better and speak with more respect,” Presha said.
Ferris dropped his eyes. Had anyone else said that to the old sailor, he might have said something rude in return, but Presha had the ability to speak with authority in a way that let others know they’d met their match. I wished I was more like her.
The MacNish brothers stood a little ways away with pained expressions on their faces. They didn’t move a muscle. They appeared to be frozen in place by Barley and Kenda’s very volatile argument.
We couldn’t seem to look away from the dispute between Barley and Kenda as it unfolded in front of us. Barley tried to hug Kenda, but she pushed him away. He said something that we couldn’t hear as Kenda slammed the bus door behind her. Shaking his head, Barley strolled back to us like he didn’t have a care in the world. The five of us from the Merchant Society looked at the stage like we hadn’t been openly gawking at the drama.
“It seems that we are having some issues with the music set,” Barley said as he rejoined u
s. His face was still flushed from his argument with Kenda, which belied his calm. “Could you show us where we will be staying tonight? The band needs to meet and pick out music. Not everyone is happy with the choices. Could you show us the setup here later this evening?”
“Yes, of course,” Bernice said. “Eugenia?” She smiled at the guesthouse owner, who smiled back with a nod.
“Eugenia will be able to host everyone from the band and your manager, Owen. You will find the guesthouse as nice as any place in Edinburgh,” Presha said.
“The rooms are all ready for you,” Eugenia said. “I am so honored that you will be staying in Thistle House the next two nights. It’s quite an honor to have Barley McFee in my guesthouse. I told my family in Edinburgh, and they thought I was telling a tale.”
Barley laughed. “Well, I am happy to help you impress your family. I’m always happy to help any way that I can.”
“That young woman seemed to disagree,” Ferris said.
Bernice looked like she wanted to wring Ferris’s neck when he said that, but Barley simply laughed. “Kenda is one of those emotional young artists. Everything is the end of the world. Please don’t worry about her. We are all professionals. Even though some of us can be more hotheaded than the rest, we will be on the stage on time and ready to play tomorrow. I never keep my audience waiting, and I don’t plan to start now. It’s rude, and the musicians who do that, in my opinion, are only trying to make a point that their time is more precious than the people in the audience. Nothing could be further from the truth. The musician is the least important person there because he would not exist if there weren’t people in the audience to support him. It’s what I want to teach all the young people in my band.”
Ferris opened his mouth like he was going to make another comment on this. Bernice wasn’t about to let that happen, and she jumped in. “I know you and the band need to practice and rest. I can also meet with your manager when he arrives to go over the stage setup, if that would be easier for you.”
Barley looked over his shoulder. “That might be best, and if you could show the bus driver where to park within walking distance of the stage? I like to sit in the quiet of my trailer between sets.”
Mums and Mayhem Page 2
