I started to shake and suddenly it was freezing, even with the ultrahot lights and the heat from the equipment.
Jack looked back at me and smiled. "Son of a bitch!" he said. Then he was standing, reaching down to pull me up.
"Cletus," he called, "we need to look and see if anybody's been fooling with the equipment. See who's been hanging around this afternoon. This couldn't have happened without someone noticing something." Jack was stronger and taller than he had been minutes before, and more certain of himself. The easygoing, peace-loving boy was gone, replaced by a self-assured man.
Sparks was impatient with the entire process. "Come on, get the other tower in here," he called to the stagehands. "Get this mess cleaned up." When the others ignored him, he became even more controlling. "Let's get moving, people. We're on in five."
Cletus stooped down by the broken amplifier, stretched out a hand, and pulled the broken chain away from the bits of equipment and examined them.
"Yep," he said, his eyes meeting Jack's. "Somebody cut on it."
"No kidding!" Jack couldn't seem to decide whether to be amazed at this or pleased that he'd figured it all out. He turned to me. "Let's go ahead and call your detective friend. He's gonna want to see this."
When a stagehand moved in with a broom, Jack stopped him. "You can't touch this. It's a crime scene."
"Aw, for pity's sake," Sparks moaned. "We've got a show to do."
"Well, we can just work around it if we have to," I said. But I knew that wasn't the case. Once the police arrived, we'd be twiddling our thumbs for hours while they took pictures and scratched their heads.
Cletus handed me his cell phone. "You'd better call," he said. "You seem to know them better than we do." He winked at me and smiled. "Tell him we need the V.I.P. treatment."
I dialed the number, knowing Weathers wouldn't be there, listening to the familiar recording: "This is Detective Marshall J. Weathers of the Greensboro Police Department's Criminal Investigation Unit. I am unable to take your call at the moment, but if you would leave me a detailed message, including the time of your call and your number, I will return your call as soon as possible."
I waited for the tone and tried to be brief. "Marshall, it's Maggie. I'm at the club. There's been an accident here, but it probably wasn't an accident, so could you come down?"
I hung up, handed the phone to Cletus, and turned back to Sparks. "Let's do it. Let's start off and work around the mess."
Sparks was all white hat and mustache, a short man with big pointy-toed cowboy boots and no sense of humor.
"Good enough," he said, and headed for his pedal-steel guitar. The rest of the band followed suit, picking up their instruments and plugging them into their amps. A techie pushed a heavy backup amp out to the edge of the stage.
"It won't be perfect sound," he said to Sugar Bear, "but they'll hear you fine."
Sparks started the count and the others began playing. I took the mike the roadie handed me, walked around the near-fatal mess, and stood just in front of the broken amp. I closed my eyes and began to sing.
"I'm standing on the edge of a broken heart,
I can't believe that we're falling apart.
Your touch has grown as cold
As the love that you stole
When you walked away from me."
Sparks brought the pedal-steel in under the melody, each note a sliding teardrop that broke just at the end of every syllable. The lights dimmed as couples moved together in a slow, steady circle around the dance floor.
Chris walked up to the mike right next to me, looked me in the eye and began the second verse of our duet.
"You're breaking my heart as you walk away,
I can't believe I'm your yesterday.
I tried for so long,
But you tell me it's wrong,
As you walk away from me."
Jack stepped in between us, his harmonica sweetly moving through the break as Chris picked up his mandolin and added a harmony to it. For a moment I lost sight of the danger, forgot about everything but the music and the song. But only for a moment; Marshall Weathers was the only reminder I needed to know that things weren't right. He stepped into the club and stood by the doorway letting his eyes adjust. By the time Chris and I came back in to sing the third verse, he was standing in front of me, staring at the ruined amplifier.
When the song ended, he walked up the side steps onto the stage and over to the smashed tower.
"Folks getting a little careless around here?" he asked. His thick mustache barely moved when he spoke, but his eyes seemed to be taking everything in. He was wearing tight faded blue jeans, a white dress shirt, and his lizardskin boots. He could've passed for a customer if I hadn't caught a glimpse of the gun that rested securely on his hip, hidden by his jacket.
"Cletus thinks somebody cut the chain," I said.
"Uh-huh," he muttered, stooping as Cletus had to pick up the twisted metal links.
"Don't you want to wear gloves when you do that?" Sugar Bear asked, his curiosity overcoming him. Sugar Bear has a thing about the law. He avoids them at all costs, figuring that one of these days he'll get arrested for intent to possess illegal drugs.
Weathers looked up at him and seemed to stifle a grin. "Nan. If there were fingerprints on this bit of chain they'd be long gone by now, smudged off by all the people who've probably handled it since it fell. Besides, it's really hard to lift a print off a thing like this."
Sugar Bear looked disappointed, as did just about everyone else, including me.
"Y'all might want to clean up this mess," he said. "Somebody could get hurt." He turned and looked at Cletus, who was standing on the edge of the crowd. "How about you tell me what happened and we'll go from there," he said.
Cletus nodded and spoke into his walkie-talkie, giving instructions to the other security staff.
"All right," he said, his voice a thick, bull-like monotone. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee in my office."
Marshall started to follow, then stopped and returned to the spot where I stood. "Give us a couple of minutes, all right, Cletus?"
Cletus nodded. "You know where I am," he said, and stalked off.
Marshall took my elbow and leaned down to murmur in my ear. "Let's go outside a minute."
I walked away with him, feeling his comforting presence by my side and wishing I didn't want him to stay. I wanted to lean into him, to feel his arm slip around my waist. I wanted him to make it be all right.
As soon as the back door closed behind us, Marshall turned and kissed me. It was a long, slow, deep kiss, full of promise and expectation. His hands encircled my shoulders and slid down my arms, and then he pulled me closer, until I could do nothing but melt into him.
I kissed him right back. I felt our bodies join together and suddenly there was nothing I wanted more than him.
He pushed away and looked down at me, his eyes delving deep inside me, probing for confirmation of what we both felt.
"What was that for?" I whispered.
"What do you think, Maggie?" He tilted my chin up again and brushed my lips with his. "Don't think I'm walking away from you," he whispered. He kissed me again, his hands moving to pull me closer again. "Now," he said, his voice soft against my ear, "I'm going to put a uniformed officer inside the club. I don't think anyone will try anything else tonight, not here at least, but I'd feel better with someone watching you. I'll be back to pick you up at closing time."
The alarm went off in my head and I panicked. He'd be back? So would Tony Carlucci. Now what was I going to do?
"You don't need to do that," I said. "I'll be okay."
"Maggie," Weathers said, his mustache tickling my ear as he whispered. "No arguments. I'll be back at two thirty."
He pulled his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and called to have a patrol officer watch the club and me. As he spoke I felt myself spiral further and further away. I couldn't tell him about Carlucci. He'd never understand that. And I couldn't call Carl
ucci. I didn't know his number. I had no idea how to find him. And even if I could, what would I say? Thanks for watching my daughter, but never mind? I'm going off with that man you say is a loser? And furthermore, what did I care what Tony Carlucci the Thug Private Investigator thought? And then, to top it all off, there was Jack. What was I going to do about him? He'd saved my life and all I'd done lately was hurt him. Tony Carlucci was right-Harmonica Jack did love me, or at least he thought he did, and I'd done a powerful job of ignoring that fact. But how long could that go on?
My ears were ringing. I was confused and frightened and living my life at the hands of others. I was going to have to do something, but what? I wandered away from Marshall, leaving him with his ear glued to the phone, issuing instructions and barking orders. I walked back inside, past the technicians and sound men, past the stagehands and backstage hangers-on, right up to Sparks.
"I'm leaving," I said. "I'll be back in time to finish the last set."
Sparks pushed his ten-gallon hat back on his head and favored me with a malevolent glare. "You can't do that," he said.
But I wasn't listening. I was walking away.
Chapter Twenty-six
I don't think anyone expected me to take a powder. Sparks didn't yell out after me. The boys in the band didn't say a word as I walked away, assuming that I was going to get a drink or stop by the ladies' room. When I stepped outside the front door and stood with my back against the wall, it was just like any one of a dozen or so nights that I'd come outside for a breath of fresh air and a glimpse at the traffic that raced up and down High Point Road.
"Ain't too busy tonight," the doorman drawled.
"Nope," I answered.
"You guys on break already?" He laughed. "Wish my job were as easy as yours!" He turned to make change for a trio of women and when he did, I spotted a regular customer making his way across the parking lot.
"Billy," I called, "will you do me a favor?"
Billy, a young farm boy in his early twenties, was only too happy to give me a ride downtown to my car. He laughed and flirted and never once asked why I needed a ride. When he dropped me off beside the BB amp;T Bank parking lot, I pecked him on the cheek and ran into the deck, my keys in hand.
I started up and drove out of the parking lot, onto the almost empty downtown streets. I circled around, past the police station and back out Elm Street, heading away from the business section and crossing over into the wealthy residential area of older Greensboro.
I was trying to piece everything together in my mind. Nosmo King was dead. Three million dollars was missing. Nosmo was shot with Vernell's gun, in Vernell's truck, and Vernell himself admitted he had no alibi, and all the motive in the world. In fact, the only reason for not believing Vernell had killed Nosmo was my own stubborn belief that he wouldn't do something like that.
But things kept circling around to Vernell. Everything pointed to Vernell and I had to wonder why. Why shoot Nosmo King with Vernell's gun? Wouldn't it be easier to use another gun, a gun not attached to Vernell's body? Why go to all the trouble to make it look like Vernell was the killer? Who would want Vernell and Nosmo out of the way?
I pondered on that one as I found myself winding around through Old Irving Park, approaching Vernell's concrete palace from the less obvious back entrance to New Irving Park.
Nosmo's girlfriend had motive and means and quite probably opportunity. She was next on my list, but first I wanted to look through Vernell's house one more time, without interruption. I glanced at my watch. It was ten thirty. I could do this and see Pauline before closing time. I could be back at the club before Tony and Marshall returned for me, and if my luck were running right, I'd figure some way out to deal with the two of them and avoid any painful consequences.
But who was I fooling? Three men would be waiting for me when I returned, and not one of them would be easy to handle.
I pulled up in Vernell's driveway, cut the lights, and slipped around to the side entrance. When I came within five feet of the door, the security lights flicked on and a strange robotic voice barked "Key in your security code or ring the doorbell." I punched in Sheila's birth date and waited.
"Accepted," the robot said.
I stepped through the door, closing it firmly behind me and locking it. This time there would be no slip-ups, no unwanted intruders like Tony Carlucci.
I stood in the mud room, just off of the garage, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dim light that shone in from the kitchen.
"If I were Vernell Spivey, and I was trying to hide something like my important papers or money, where would I put it?" There just had to be some way to figure out what the connection was between Nosmo and Vernell.
The stove in Vernell's kitchen glowed with the light from the hood overhead. I walked in and stood by the huge pine table, looking around at the excess Vernell had poured into his new home.
The range was a Viking, but Vernell couldn't cook. The refrigerator was a subzero, but when I opened it, all I found was beer and a shriveled lemon. The tiles on the backsplash were hand-painted. The window treatments were custom-made, something Vernell and I could never afford in all of our married life.
I looked around and realized that Vernell's palace was an interior designer's dream, and that there was not one personal item or picture from his life present in any of the rooms downstairs. Vernell and his second wife, the lovely nymphet, Jolene the Dish Girl, had bought and paid for their lives together, without so much as one idea of what true life really meant. I shook my head. Where had all of Vernell's money gone? Had he ever really had any money?
I looked across the hallway, into Vernell's darkened study. I remembered the stacks and stacks of bills that Vernell had left unpaid on his desk. At the time I'd assumed he was merely irresponsible, not unable to pay them.
I walked out into the huge marble foyer and began climbing the steps to the second floor of Vernell's home.
Vernell and I had started out poor, so poor we lived in a repossessed trailer that had been gutted by its former owners. Somehow, I remembered those days fondly. We were still in love then, puppy love, the kind where you can't see obstacles, only possibilities.
I was pregnant with Sheila, sick as a dog, and still I couldn't help but feather our nest. Vernell would drag in used bits of wood and Formica, rebuilding me a kitchen, hand-laying the tiles to form the floor. He worked for a mobile home lot as a repo man. The pay was terrible and the hours were long, but the promotions came quick. Before we knew it, Vernell was a salesman and the little bit of money he brought home bought the crib and curtains for Sheila's room.
I looked around Vernell's stone palace and shuddered. It was cold and loveless. The trailer in southeast Greensboro had been dog-ugly but filled to the brim with love. But that didn't last.
"I don't know what it's all about anyway," I muttered. I stopped at the top of the stairs and looked both ways up and down the hall. Vernell's master suite lay off to the right, the only room in the house that I'd never seen. Sheila's room and the guest rooms lay to the left.
When Sheila had lived with Vernell, he and Jolene had tried to give her all the love money could buy, and for a while it had worked, and I'd lost her. But those things have a way of showing themselves to be just what they are, and Sheila came back to me. Poor Vernell couldn't understand why she left, but then, he hadn't understood Jolene either.
I shook myself and turned to the right. Might as well step into the lion's den. It couldn't hurt me now anyway. But I was wrong. My feet sank into the thick white carpeting as I walked into his room. But when I crossed over the threshold, I stepped onto a hard wood floor. The room was dark. Dark hulks of furniture stood out, casting dark shadows in the reflection of the streetlight outside.
I reached for the light switch, deciding to take the risk. I had to be able to search his room. What I saw took my breath away. Vernell's room was a huge expanse that took up the entire end of the house, but that wasn't what stopped me.
Ve
rnell had pulled up the carpeting that covered the rest of the upstairs and laid hardwood floors. The carpet was shoved into one of the two walk-in closets, the closet with all of Jolene's clothing. Along with the carpeting, Vernell had torn the curtains from the windows and torn the bedding from the king-sized bed, throwing it all in on top of the carpet. What he had done next broke my heart.
The yellow wedding ring quilt Mama had made as a gift for us on our wedding day covered the bed. Vernell had pulled out all of the pictures he had of Sheila, from infancy until last year, slipped them into plain wooden frames, and hung or placed them with care around the room. Against the far wall he had hung a picture from our first home, a cheap watercolor print of a forest scene. His mother's green velvet rocker stood against the window, with an ancient floor lamp beside it, and on the floor lay a bible and an empty Jack Daniel's bottle.
Vernell Spivey had done his best to come home. I stepped into the room and looked around some more. Vienna sausage cans filled the trash can, along with an empty bottle of hot sauce and an empty saltine cracker box. It was obvious that Vernell lived alone in his palace, in one solitary room, grieving his roots. No wonder Bess King had seemed like such a miracle. She was a home girl, just like I had been, just like Vernell's mama and her mama before her.
I walked over to the rocker and sat down, reaching over to pick up the heavy family Bible. The underlined words on the page blurred as my eyes filled up with tears. Vernell had been highlighting his favorite passages, reading them over and over. My curiosity overwhelmed me and I wiped the tears away and began to read.
"The righteousness of the upright saves them, but the treacherous are taken captive by their schemes… Whoever is steadfast in righteousness will live, but whoever pursues evil will die." I flipped through the pages of Proverbs, reading the passages Vernell had carefully underlined in yellow. "Misfortune pursues sinners, but prosperity rewards the righteous. The good leave an inheritance to their children's children, but the sinner's wealth is laid up for the righteous." Then the last passage, underlined twice, read "Some pretend to be rich, yet have nothing; others pretend to be poor yet have great wealth. Wealth is a ransom for a person's life but the poor get no threats."
Stand By Your Man mr-2 Page 19
