High Strung

by Jacki Moss

  “I feel ya! I have been talking to you around a sixty-three-pound rescued Pit Bull sitting in my lap. Luckily I work from home,” she revealed. Leigh rarely revealed personal information to anyone. She had always been a private person, but since she had been in investigations for a decade, she had come to know from experience the less people knew about you, the better.

  “She’s Sophie.” Cafton heard what he assumed to be Sophie slurping Leigh’s face in slobbery recognition of her name. “I won’t bore you with the details, but she was this close to being killed by animal control.” Leigh took a deep breath remembering just how close Sophie was to being just another heartbreaking shelter statistic.

  “No happy tail rescue would ever bore me, Leigh. Please go on.” Cafton cherished animal stories that ended well, because he heard so many that didn’t. His veterinarian, Dr. Wakefield, whom Cafton simply adored, reassured him many times when he would come in with some poor, abused, neglected animal he’d saved that animal rescue was “doing God’s work.” He reminded Cafton to let people know caring for the animals was the very first job God gave man, so it was a noble endeavor.

  Cafton also respected Leigh’s use of the term “killed” instead of the misleading euphemism “euthanized.” That showed Cafton she fully understood the system. He staunchly believed in accurately naming the murder of healthy animals just what it was: killing or murder. He knew real euthanization is only performed on animals who are so gravely ill or injured they cannot recover, are in uncontrollable pain, and have no quality of life. Shelters, pounds, and animal control facilities use the deceptive “euthanize” term to hide the awareness that lives—beautiful, innocent souls of sentient beings—are being unnecessarily killed by the thousands every single day, out of convenience, a lack of space, neglect, abuse, or meager funding. It made Cafton furious and depressed when he thought about it.

  “Cool. I live in the country, like the middle of nowhere,” Leigh started. Cafton leaned back in the chair and snuggled Dagwood up under his chin.

  “I pass by this cretin’s farm almost every day when I go to town, and every day I saw this sad, filthy Pibble hooked to a huge logging chain that was wrapped around a tree so tight she could not get out of the sun. She was just a bag of bones, and pitiful.”

  “Oh, no. Poor baby.” Cafton winced.

  “You’re not kidding.” Leigh continued, “So I called animal control to ask for a welfare check on her, which they said they would do. When I called back two days later, they said she had food and water (that one day), and the piece of plywood leaning against the tree was shelter, so there was nothing they could do.” Leigh’s voice was shaking with remembered anger.

  “Oh, yeah. They would happen to show up the one day she had food and water,” Cafton echoed, knowingly. “The jerk had technically met the bare minimum standards. No law against chaining animals.”

  “Yeah. But I am nothing if not stubborn. I didn’t give up. I made saving that baby, one way or the other, my mission. Then one day, I saw the man out there with her, so I drove up the dirt driveway to talk with him, and to get a better look at her condition and her space. I didn’t get out of my car, because you never know how people will react to strangers, especially to women.”

  “Good thinking,” Cafton agreed, already feeling some amount of concern for Leigh’s safety.

  “I rolled down my window about halfway and asked him if I could buy the dog from him. Told him I’d be happy to give her a nice inside home. He got all hateful and said she was his guard dog, and if I knew what was good fer me, I’d skedaddle.”

  Leigh grunted. “Sophie, you have to move your lead butt over a bit, girl. My legs are going to sleep.”

  “Skedaddle?” Cafton knew that kind of backwoods yokel. That was at once a threat and a misogynistic insult, he indicated. Leigh agreed.

  “Yep. Skedaddle. I left, but I looked out for her every day, even when I didn’t have to go to town. One afternoon when I was coming home from town, there was a whole lot of commotion over at his place. Ambulance, sheriff cars, unmarked coroner’s station wagon, and animal control.”

  “Oh, geez. Was she okay?” Cafton could not have cared less about her owner, but he was already in love with Sophie.

  “No. The pound was picking her up to take her to kill her. The story was that asshole’s son came home and found the old geezer dead as a doornail in the yard with the dog’s chain wrapped around his neck!”

  “Oh, Lawd!” Cafton gasped, envisioning what must have been a gruesome scene for the man and for Sophie. “I remember that story in the news!”

  “Yeah, oh, Lawd! Best they could tell, the guy had been beating the dog with the chain, and he tripped on that piece of lean-to plywood and fell. The dog was terrified and tried to get away. In doing so, she wrapped the chain around his neck, choking him to death. The irony is just sweet, isn’t it?” Leigh laughed.

  “Yes it is. Payback is hell,” Cafton wholeheartedly agreed.

  “When they found the old man, the dog was bloody and battered and still terrified, but she didn’t make a single aggressive move toward the animal control officers. She just cowered. They threw the noose on her and dragged her by their damn catch pole through the dirt, choking her, but she just rolled over into a ball in submission. She only yelped and peed on herself all the way to the truck as the ground peeled the skin off her back and sides. Then they picked her up by the neck choke pole and hind legs and crammed her into the cage… ’Scuse me a minute.” Cafton could hear soft sobs and Sophie licking away at what must be Leigh’s tears streaming down her face.

  “Her owner’s death was God’s way of getting rid of evil,” Cafton said, wiping tears off his own chin. “God put you there for a reason.”

  “Yep. Divine intervention. Karma, Darwinism, or just plain luck of the Irish. I don’t know which, and I don’t care. The family told animal control to take the dog and ‘kill it.’ I followed animal control back to the pound and asked to rescue the dog right then. They said no, that after the law enforcement investigation concluded, they would kill it.”

  “Bastards!” Cafton was outraged, totally enthralled by the story, even though he knew Sophie was now safely in Leigh’s loving care.

  “Long story short, after I won a lawsuit, I was allowed to adopt her. She is the sweetest, most grateful girl in the world. She’s a velcro dog—sticks to me like glue. Now both of my legs are asleep,” Leigh admitted. “Come on, Soph, let’s get you into your orthopedic bed underneath my desk.”

  “That’s quite a rescue. Good job. You’re a woman after my own heart!” Cafton blurted out before he could censor himself. He was feeling something he did not recognize. Joy, yeah, that was it. Joy. He had not felt pure joy since his mom died. He wanted more of it. More of Leigh.

  “Birds of a feather,” Leigh responded.

  ****

  She didn’t usually run into birds of a feather. She was an introvert and an empath. While extrovert birds of a feather may flock together, introvert birds of a feather don’t. They like their own nest, their privacy, their calm and quiet. Leigh was considered by some to be a loner, to them a bad, weird thing. Yes, Leigh was a loner, but not lonely. She was not strictly a loner, either. She cherished some very dear friends, and they cherished her. However, she did not need or want to be up in anyone’s business all the time, nor did she welcome anyone who wanted to intrude into her business. And one of her most dominant personality traits was having zero tolerance for bullshit, which drove a lot of her reclusive behavior. The world was awash in bullshit, in her estimation.

  Like Cafton, she was very private. Cautious. A homebody. Leigh didn’t go to parties, weddings, funerals, celebrations, big events, shindigs, rallies, or venues with large crowds or long waiting lines. She preferred her home, her castle, to anything outside. She favored a handful of very good friends to a gaggle of acquaintances. She was usually wary and unimpressed by people, but she liked Cafton. He was good folk. She could tell. He was someone she would le
t into her inner circle.

  ****

  Cafton felt it, too. He intuitively sensed the connection, the affinity. His introverted, empathic personality was seen by some as aloof or arrogant, but that simply was untrue. Nonetheless, he didn’t give a damn what people thought about him, so he made no effort to explain himself to most people. The people who were his friends knew him well and needed no explanation for his behaviors. Other introverts and empaths instinctively understood, as well.

  Cafton checked his notepad to make sure he’d written down her name. “Leigh, I know this is presumptuous, and I also assume the risk that your husband and/or boyfriend would and could find me and beat the slop out of me, but would you like to have dinner with me this weekend?” The phone almost slipped from Cafton’s sweaty palm.

  “First, I have neither a boyfriend nor a husband, so you are safe from either of them.” She grinned.

  Cafton felt a smile coming across his lips.

  “Second, I would like very much to have dinner with you this weekend.”

  Cafton grinned like a mule eating briars, but tried not to let it show in his voice. “Wonderful. Let me make a reservation, and I’ll give you a call back at this number in a few.”

  “Sounds good. Bye.” Leigh sat quietly for a couple of minutes, slowly stroking Sophie’s chunky head that was back in her lap. “It’s like they say about rescue: it’s hard to tell who rescues whom sometimes,” Leigh whispered.

  Chapter 8—A Good Case of OCD

  At two-thirty a.m. the phone rang. Cafton knew it was Bynum, just after his show. He expected his call.

  Cafton rolled over in bed and answered the phone. “Good morning, By! How’s the tour going?” Cafton sat up and wrangled his pillows behind him so he could comfortably lean against his hand-carved Victorian mahogany headboard. He was eager to catch up with Bynum after having the front of his home cleaned from the fire bomb damage and re-opening the café for business. Most importantly, he was always uplifted when he heard from Bynum, but now, when so many things were chaotic, he was especially happy to hear from him.

  “Morning, Caf. Sorry to wake you,” Bynum responded. “Well, the tour’s going quite well, in most respects, even though this week started out crazy, then just got crazier by the day. The shows are great, well, mostly great. We wrapped tonight’s show, and then we caught a bite to eat here in the room, and are taking a few minutes to unwind. You know the routine.” Bynum and Mattie sat, holding hands, on the hotel room’s loveseat next to the sliding glass door that revealed a stunning penthouse view of whatever this town was.

  Bynum was rehydrating with some handcrafted, ice-cold sweet tea made with his favorite honey, in a tall, thin glass full of small, square ice cubes from the silver pitcher on the room service cart. This was his special iced tea recipe, a taste of home. He had the recipe and the address where the promoter needed to order the “B” Sisters Wildflower Honey, in Tennessee, as a rider to his tour contract. By writing it into his contract, he guaranteed his tea would be made just right and be ready for him at every venue and hotel throughout the tour. He slowly sipped it, the honey soothing his throat while the water replenished the three pounds of sweat he always lost during a concert under the blazing lights. This was his post-concert ritual.

  “Yeah, I do know the routine. I am always amazed you handle this so well. I’d be stressed to the max,” Cafton acknowledged, folding the duvet over to the other side of the bed.

  Cafton, an avowed, unapologetic introvert, had zero desire to stand in the spotlight, to travel near or far, or to experience exhilarating tour adventures. He had managed to survive his quota of “adventure” in his younger years simply trying to survive the curve balls life threw at him. Now, adventure was unwelcome. It was an adversary. Yet it seemed adventure found Cafton without him going about thrashing the bushes to find it.

  He preferred, no, required, to be at home, living a mostly predictable life. Predictability, stability, and calm were his foundation, onto which he added color and light to make his life fulfilling and joyful. Oh, and peaceful. Peace was sustenance to Cafton.

  Cafton thought predictability and habits got a bad rap among the shallow, frenzied masses. In his opinion, if you believed the media, the populace ran on—no, thrived on—chaos, adrenalin, the bleeding edge of novelty and drama, and that was the only appropriate condition.

  But for habit, Cafton reasoned, how would we know where to locate our toothbrush every morning? But for predictability, how would we know spring surely follows winter?

  Habit was the antidote to chaos.

  “It’s all in managing the details,” Bynum answered, explaining his chaos management process. “If you manage the details, most of the time, the big stuff falls into place. If the small stuff is managed, and the big stuff falls into place, that just leaves the oddball stuff, the quirky stuff to sweat. And boy, do we have some oddball stuff to sweat.” Bynum sighed. He was taking it all in stride with his usual grace.

  One of his many assets was the possession of a beneficial touch of OCD. Just enough to help him keep things in order, but not enough to make him a pain in the ass to himself or others. All tours were stressful, but the first few stops on the itinerary always tempted the industry gremlins to really misbehave. There were countless opportunities for difficulty, because the logistics of a tour bordered on a NASA deep space launch.

  Bynum’s mild OCD gave him insight about the big picture and the inherent minutiae. He ensured the minutiae were commanded by the tour manager. A tour manager with a rock-solid, pain-in-the-ass, case of hard-core OCD was a necessity. There were a million moving parts to a tour that had to be in place at just the right time, just the right way, or everything would blow up in your face. Blow up in your face, meaning you and your record label would lose copious amounts of money.

  It was a slippery slope that must constantly be shored up. If the record label went belly up, the people who depended on the label for their living would be hurt. That was an unacceptable outcome in Cafton’s world.

  Cafton probed further, “Oddball stuff like Chad?”

  “Yep. You got it,” Bynum confirmed.

  “Did he ever show up?” Cafton had slid into his slippers, headed downstairs, and put the kettle on for some Earl Grey. He was torn between wanting Chad to show up so the concerts would go off smoothly and wanting him to be a no-show so they would have an irrefutable reason to kick him off the tour.

  They had signed Jump Steady, Chad’s family band, because of their talent and cutting edge, crossover appeal. What they didn’t know before signing them was that baby brother Chad was high maintenance. His drama, temper tantrums, and unquenchable need for attention were a drain on everyone. His mere presence, given his unending antics, was exhausting. No one, including his three brothers, had the time or desire to coddle his incessant disruptions, demands, and self-important drama.

  “Yeah, he finally showed. He and his girlfriend du jour, Chrissie, caught up with the bus at the Tennessee/Alabama rest stop with the rocket.” Bynum was also weighing if Chad was worth keeping or dumping; he would have the final word, since this was his tour. “They came screeching up just as the bus was about to pull away. But that was just the start.”

  “The start of the craziness?” Cafton scraped the white pith from the inside of the peelings of a fresh orange with his bottom teeth, like he would with artichoke leaves, and ate it. Mmmm, pithy. He nimbly pulled the orange sections apart and laid them out in a row in his teacup’s saucer, next to a white linen napkin with MM embroidered in black on them.

  “Oh, yeah. First his foolishness to kick off the bus ride to New Orleans. Then the morning after the show, when we are packing up to leave, I get a knock at the hotel room door. It’s two New Orleans uniformed cops and a plainclothes detective. The detective tells us to come down to a conference room, because there’s been a murder.” Bynum shook his head, still in disbelief. Mattie squeezed his hand in support.

  “They wanted to talk to you about a
murder? Yep, that’s craziness, all right. Like you would commit a murder,” Cafton scoffed. Bynum was the least likely person in New Orleans or anywhere else to commit murder. He was the gentlest soul Cafton knew, so it was okay to joke about the absurdity of Bynum being questioned for murder.

  “Not just me. All of us.”

  “Sheesh. That had to be disturbing,” Cafton commiserated.

  “Oh, yeah. They were all big badge and ill-tempered about it. At first I thought we were being punked, but no, they were serious as a heart attack. They said that after one of the Mardi Gras parades that passed right by our hotel room, someone found a head on one of the floats. A head, Cafton. Just a head.” Bynum shivered like someone stepped on his grave. “Mardi Gras gives me the creeps anyway, and now this. All that voodoo stuff, and people who look like death eating a cracker strolling around like it’s an Easter parade, and knee-crawling drunk people doing Lord-knows-what everywhere.”

  Bynum was on a roll and needed to get it out of his system, so Cafton didn’t interrupt.

  “Even in our fancy hotel, Caf, people were out on the balconies watching the parade, drunker than Cooter Brown. We were three stories up and had a perfect view of the floats, but I sure wasn’t about to lean all over the balcony like some did. It’s a miracle they didn’t just tump over the rail and land on the sidewalk below. And women were raising up their shirts showing their, uh, exposing themselves to the world.” Bynum glanced over at Mattie, making sure he phrased it delicately enough. “Men were peeing off the balconies trying to hit the floats but dousing the people below. Other folks were vomiting over the balcony rail, splattering people on the sidewalk with second-hand booze, barbeque, and beignets. It was pure-T madness. Disgusting. All of it. Just disgusting.” Bynum wound down. He was still scandalized by all he had inadvertently witnessed. That was a lot for an upright, wholesome, Tennessee man to see, let alone accept.

  “Yep. That’s why I avoid New Orleans during Mardi Gras. Other times, it’s great, but Mardi Gras can be, ’scuse the pun, murder.” Cafton shared Bynum’s aversion to pandemonium, vulgarity, and filth. “My favorite time in New Orleans is April, before it gets hotter than hell’s hinges, just as things start to bloom. Love it down on the Mississippi waterfront eating beignets,” Cafton recalled, but he had to admit, as much as he loved beignets, he simply could not abide the chicory coffee usually served with them. It tasted like tree bark, probably because it was tree bark.