by Kasi Blake
Chapter 15
I carefully cradled the Tupperware container of two dozen devilled eggs on my lap as Jason pulled to a stop before the low, white ranch house. The clock on the dashboard of his truck was just clicking to six p.m. – we were exactly on time. The evening was crisp and bright, with a quarter-moon crescent shining boldly through the night sky. Orion’s belt was studded with its glistening trio of stars.
We walked the short path to the front steps, and the half-hearted bark of a dog sounded as we knocked at the door. There was a call of “come in!” but I found the knob wouldn’t turn under my hand. There was bright, merry laughter from inside, and then the door pulled open. Meredith, Jason’s talented lead singer, stood waiting, a green-print apron over her flowing skirt.
“There you are, welcome,” she greeted. “I forgot to unlock the door!” Jason hefted the half-case of wine in his arms, moving to tuck it against one wall. The home was a study in comfortable formality. We had come into the elegant dining room, filled with a sturdy, dark-oak table set for ten. Gold-chased plateware, glass salad bowls, and jewel colored napkins adorned each setting. Behind the table stood a large curio cabinet, also of heavy, carved oak, featuring curved glass sides and a collection of sapphire-blue dishes.
Meredith’s husband came out to greet us. He was nearly six feet tall, bordering on thin, his ebony-dark skin pointing to his Masai birth. He offered a wide smile as Jason introduced us.
Jason’s eyes moved over the collection of pots simmering on the stove. “I hear your famous ribs will make an appearance tonight?”
Simel’s smile widened. “Indeed,” he agreed. We could hear a soccer game playing from the TV in the next room. Simel’s fondness for the sport was almost legendary with the band, and I had half expected to find a TV set up in the dining room. He turned to the fridge, covered with photos of family members. “Would you like something to drink? A beer? Water?”
I shook my head. “Nothing yet, thanks.”
There was a knock on the door, and others began to arrive. The rhythm guitarist was tall and slender, in his late forties, with a dark-haired wife he’d been with for nearly twenty years. The lead guitarist was shorter, more muscular, with a girlfriend whose cooking skills were top-notch. Last came the drummer, easy-going, smiling, with his girlfriend who had joined him only in the last month or two.
There was laughter and cheery conversation; I felt welcomed and drawn in by the merry group. Clearly they had been playing together for a while and were comfortable with each other. The two guitarists talked animatedly about how they had been taken advantage of by dentists who maintained a “drill, fill, and bill” focus in life. Apparently both had been pressured to have unnecessary dental work done in order to fund the dentists’ children’s passages through Harvard and Yale.
I could commiserate. Back ten years ago I had been required to switch dentists, and began using a new one out on Route 9 in Westboro. On my very first visit there he insisted that I had two cavities and needed a crown. This despite me having a cavity-free record for the previous decade. I was concerned at the time – perhaps my last dentist had been lax? Maybe he had been ignoring serious issues in my mouth? I let this new dentist do the work he recommended. However, I felt so uncomfortable with his atmosphere during the crownwork that I did not want to return. So I switched dentists again, to yet another one in Westboro that a friend of mine recommended. For the ten years I had been with him since that, I had never again had any cavities nor other dental work needed. It made me wonder if that one dentist on Route 9 had been of the “drill, fill, and bill” variety – and that my teeth had been quite fine as is.
Meredith announced that the food was ready and we moseyed around to the kitchen, waiting our turns to take portions from the fragrant-smelling containers. There was warm garlic bread with gently browned tops, freshly made meatballs simmering in a tomato sauce, the rose-colored ribs, and the rhythm guitarist had brought a large, white bowl of Caesar salad. Soon we were settled at the heavy table, three bottles of wine among a pair of silver candelabras.
Meredith leant forward, a smile on her face. “So, Morgan, any news on the murder in the woods? You were talking to friends of the victim as last I recall.”
I shook my head, taking in a forkful of the salad. It was just the right combination of crisp lettuce and creamy dressing. “I seem to be stalled,” I admitted. “It was easy enough to meet up with Sam, the farmer, over at Tony’s Pizza. And you might have thought that it would be Richard, the lawyer, who would be the hardest to pin down. But no, we had lunch with him over a week ago at the Pleasant Valley Country Club. He was quite willing to talk and answer any questions we had.”
Meredith’s brow creased. “So who are you having a challenge with then?”
“It’s Charles, the banker,” I stated. “He wants to meet us at the Blackstone National Golf Course. They have a mid-priced restaurant there, the National Grill. But it’s been over a week now and there seems to be one excuse after another. We were supposed to meet several times and it never quite works out. Even this afternoon he backed out at the last minute. It makes me wonder if he’s got something to hide.”
The rhythm guitarist looked up, his pale grey eyes matching the light grey of his t-shirt. “Charles? Charles Stone, of OmniBank?” he asked. I sought for the guitarist’s name in my memory, and finally dredged it out. Paul. I remembered his Facebook posts now, rich with images of sunsets taken from his back porch.
“Yes, that’s the one,” I agreed.
“Well, that should be easy, then,” he pointed out, taking a bite of the crisp garlic bread. “Charles will be at Blackstone National tomorrow, participating in the turkey shoot.”
I blinked at that. “They’ll be shooting turkeys? At a golf course?” I knew they had wild flocks of turkeys that roamed the greens – I’d seen them many times while driving past the course. It had never occurred to me that they might allow hunting on their lands.
Paul’s smile stretched wide, and at my side Jason gave a low chuckle. Jason’s voice was warm. “No, no, a turkey shoot isn’t like that. It’s a style of golf tournament. In some cases participants all pay their entry fee with an actual frozen turkey, and the meat gets donated to a local food bank. In this case it’s the opposite. Everyone who participates pays a fee to play, and the winner gets to take home a turkey for Thanksgiving.”
“Oh,” I murmured, my cheeks flushing. “I suppose I have read too many stories set in Revolutionary War times, when they had actual turkey shoots. Sometimes they would tie the poor animal to a post, at a far distance off, and shooters would pay to take a shot at it. Whoever killed it was allowed to keep it.”
Paul took a drink of his malbec. “In any case, I know Charles will be playing at Blackstone tomorrow. If you show up there, hopefully you should be able to corner him after his game is done. He probably wouldn’t want to make a fuss with all his friends around. You could find out what you wanted to know.”
I nodded in agreement. “That’s a great idea; thank you so much.”
Paul waved a hand expansively. “I believe in karma,” he stated. “Not necessarily that if you’re evil in this life that you come back as an ant. But more that what you do each day in this current life affects how people around you treat you and how smoothly your own life goes.”
He looked across at the lead guitarist. “Take for example last Monday. We had cancelled our normal weekly practice, but Todd here misunderstood and showed up at my house right on time. I could have been annoyed, of course. I could have told him to head back home, so I could lounge and watch some TV. But instead, I was happy to see him. I told him, sure, we could practice for a while and enjoy each other’s company. We worked on some songs, mixed up some drinks, and had a great time.”
He took another sip of his wine. “It’s those moment-by-moment decisions that shape our lives. Maybe the next time we play one of those songs we’ll be that much better because we invested the extra practice time. Maybe our frien
dship is that much stronger because we relaxed and talked together, just the two of us.”
He gave a small frown. “Sometimes it’s a little depressing to see what gains people’s attention. I will post an image of a spectacular sunset – a gift of nature – and I’ll get a few likes on it. Then someone else will post a nasty rant full of swears and hostility and that post will get a flood of them. Why are people so eager to notice the negative?”
I spoke up. “I liked your sunset,” I pointed out. “There are people out there who do appreciate beauty.” I thought about it for a moment. “Perhaps some people feel so trapped by life that all they can do is vent and complain about it and attract others who feel the same way. And maybe people who enjoy nature and beauty, and are serene in their lives, find little need to post about it on Facebook or to spend time there watching for other posts to like.”
I pursed my lips for a moment. “So maybe the unhappy people spend hours on Facebook sharing their unhappiness and finding satisfaction in reading about the unhappiness of others. It makes them feel less alone. Conversely, maybe those who are content and joyful, who love nature, spend their time out enjoying life. They aren’t as drawn to immerse themselves in the Facebook world.”
Jason smiled over at me. “I imagine you’re right,” he agreed. “I would much rather be out hiking in the woods with you any day, instead of sitting in front of a computer screen writing or reading other people’s posts.”
“Certainly I do check in on my friends,” I admitted. “They live all over the world now. Facebook is an easy way to see who needs help with something, who has reached a goal, and who I can simply offer a warm thank-you to. But in terms of my entertainment for an evening, I would much rather put a log on the fire, pour a glass of tawny port, and curl up with a fascinating book.”
Meredith smiled at me, her cheerful face dimpling. “So what are you reading?”
I gave a low chuckle. “Well, this book definitely counts as fascinating,” I explained, “although not necessarily cheerful. It’s called An American Tragedy and was written back in 1925. It’s about a young man who gets an impoverished farmer’s daughter pregnant, but then falls in love with a rich debutante. He decides the only way out is to drown the pregnant woman so he and the heiress can live happily ever after.”
Meredith’s eyes lit up. “Wasn’t that the plot for A Place in the Sun?”
I nodded. “Exactly; the movie was based on this book. The book is fairly dense – over eight hundred pages – and I’m currently up to the wrap-up of the trial. The book explores the interlocking layers of people and situations. The man was chasing his American dream, of having a beautiful wife and wealth beyond reckoning. The pregnant woman sought her own American dream – a husband, a home, a white picket fence and her kids running around merrily in the yard. Little is cut-and-dried in the book. The man doesn’t set out to cause harm, but events snowball around him until he feels trapped. He just can’t see any other way out.”
Paul shook his head. “There is always a solution,” he countered. “One just has to keep brainstorming new options until the right one appears.”
“I suppose it also depends on a person’s creativity levels,” I pointed out. “If a person simply cannot see beyond the box they are currently in, they can feel as if they have no options. All they can do is scream their anger at the gods.”
Paul’s eyes lit up. “Like those posters on Facebook.”
A grin creased my cheeks. “Exactly like them,” I agreed. “It’s easy to sit back and spew anger about what life has done to you. But look at us! We have ample clothing, we have delicious food, and we have warm homes to live in. Millions of people on our Earth dream of having even a small portion of what we take for granted. To complain about the few issues we have in life seems churlish. If anything, we should relish the opportunities for joy we have, and if there is a hurdle in our lives, we should approach it with fortitude and find a way to rise above it. Few problems were ever made better by kvetching and griping about them. The people who roll up their sleeves, take a deep breath, and do something constructive are the ones who find success in their lives.”
Jason chuckled. “And they probably aren’t spending their time posting about it on Facebook,” he pointed out.
I turned and gave him a toast. “Probably not.”
His eyes were warm, chocolate brown, and shimmering with hidden depths. My pulse quickened in response, and I was suddenly quite grateful that it was the weekend. Judging by the heat in his gaze, we might not be getting to sleep until very, very late.
