Music of Ghosts

by Sallie Bissell

  Her heart thudding, Mary watched as Alex walked back to their side of the courtroom.

  “American jurisprudence has always sought to keep biological families together. And what is best for this particular child is to remain with her biological father in North Carolina. Though the Walkingstick-Crow family may not be a traditional one, it is one of love and devotion to Lily Bird Walkingstick.” Alex walked over and picked up a sheaf of papers. “Lily is a straight A student at John Ross Elementary school, she’s the co-captain of her soccer team, and was the top seller of Girl Scout cookies for Brownie troop 112. Worthy achievements for a nine-year-old, would you not say?” Alex turned to look at the Moons. “Even her grandparents are smiling at that. Worthy achievements that indicate Lily is smart, Lily is well-liked by peers, that Lily is developing a strong sense of responsibility. This shows me that Lily is a happy child, a product of a happy home. Not a home built of lies. Not a home full of guilt or deception. Certainly not the home Ms. Bagwell portrayed.”

  Alex moved to block the sight of Jonathan’s empty chair and pointed to Mary. “In this case, much has been made of Mary Crow’s jealousy of Ruth Moon. I think not enough has been made of

  Ruth Moon’s jealousy of Mary Crow, and her own actions that night. Ruth Moon had already drugged Jonathan Walkingstick into a stupor and had attempted to drug Mary. Though she was mentally unbalanced at that tragic time, she clearly intended that Mary Crow die. She pointed a loaded pistol at Mary Crow’s chest, at point-blank range. And as heartsick as the Moons are over their daughter’s death, they need to remember that their Ruth was the perpetrator of this terrible act. Mary Crow was simply defending herself against a woman who had gone, sadly, insane.”

  Mary held her breath. Never had she heard Alex speak so eloquently.

  “We maintain that both Jonathan Walkingstick and Mary Crow have provided a caring, nurturing environment that has given Lily strong roots. We respectfully ask the court to allow them to continue doing just that, so that Lily Bird Walkingstick can grow equally strong wings and soar into a happy, productive adulthood that both her parents and grandparents can be proud of.”

  Alex returned to her seat. Mary reached over and squeezed her arm. “Perfect,” she whispered. “Absolutely perfect.”

  “Let’s hope the court is so moved,” Alex whispered back.

  They turned their attention to the judge, who was pecking on her laptop. The moments stretched out, longer and longer; finally she looked up.

  “This case is not an easy, clear decision. Both sides have strong arguments, and I feel like I’ve been asked to choose between reason and passion. Though this is not a tribal court, there are tribal precedents and traditions I’d like to take into consideration. That being said, let’s reconvene at ten tomorrow morning.”

  After that, court adjourned. Everyone rose as Haddad left the bench and returned to her office. Mary stood there, frozen in place. Though she had risen for judicial egress probably a thousand times in her career, this time it felt different. This time she wasn’t just a hired gun in the proceedings. This time, she had skin in the game. A lot of it. She turned to Alex.

  “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  Alex began gathering up her papers, a look of disgust on her face. “I was so hoping Haddad would call it today. Now it’s one more night on pins and needles.”

  Mary looked around the courtroom. Jonathan was still not there. “I wonder where Jonathan went.”

  Alex turned to her, an odd look in her eyes. “You didn’t tell him about Fiddlesticks, did you?”

  Mary shook her head. “The right time never came along … ”

  “That’s a shame,” said Alex.

  “Why? Did he say anything?”

  “He didn’t have to. I just watched his hands. His fists were clenched so hard his knuckles went white.” Alex snapped her briefcase shut. “Come on, let’s go.”

  Mary stared at the vacant bench, bracketed by Old Glory and the blue flag of Oklahoma. By this time tomorrow they would know. By this time tomorrow maybe he could start to forgive her.

  She and Alex turned and headed for the door. Though most of the Moon entourage had filed out of the courtroom, Fred and Dulcy remained seated at the plaintiff’s table, talking softly with Laura Bagwell. Mary considered going over there, telling them how sorry she was about Ruth’s death, apologizing for whatever role they thought she’d played in it. She started toward them, then stopped. She was sick of apologizing. To the Moons, to Jonathan, to herself. She was a good attorney, a good person who’d nearly been killed by a crazy woman. Screw the Moons.

  Alex nudged her. “You ready to go? Or do you want to gaze at Fred and Dulcy a few more minutes?”

  “I’m way past ready,” said Mary, turning her back on the couple. “Let’s get out of here.”

  They left the courtroom together. Since they saw no one waiting for them, Alex guessed that Sam Hodges had taken Jonathan back to Tulsa. “I had Sam waiting just for this situation,” she explained. “I figured I might need to keep Jonathan corralled.”

  “Good thinking,” Mary agreed. She turned to her friend. “Listen, your summation was brilliant. Whatever else happens, I thank you for putting those words in the record.”

  Alex frowned. “If I’d been all that brilliant we’d have a judgment now.”

  Mary knew how she felt, from hundreds of her own summations. “You did a superb job, Al. Like I said, whatever happens, happens.”

  They sped back to the motel in a comfortable silence. They both knew from experience that there was no point in re-hashing the court proceedings. Bagwell had scored some blows; Alex had scored some counter-punches. Now it was all up to Judge Haddad.

  “What do you want to do this afternoon?” asked Alex as she pulled into the motel parking lot.

  “I guess I’d better have that talk with Jonathan,” said Mary. “I’d also like to see Lily.”

  “They’re probably at the swimming pool.”

  Mary followed Alex through the lobby, then out to the pool. Though the aqua water glistened in the sun, it was empty of swimmers, empty of people altogether, except for Lily’s pal Cecilia, who lay on a chaise lounge, reading. She looked up when she saw Mary and Alex coming toward her.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling. “How did it go?”

  “We won’t know until tomorrow,” said Alex. “Where are Jonathan and Lily?”

  “Lily scraped her toe on the bottom of the pool. Jonathan took her up to their room to put some medicine on it.”

  Alex turned to Mary. “Maybe now would be a good time for you to go up there. Talk to them alone.”

  Mary nodded. “Good idea. I’ll see you two in a little while.”

  Leaving Alex with Cecilia, Mary headed for the elevator. Jonathan, she knew, would be angry over her murder case. How Lily now felt about her she had no idea. Two months ago, she would have said the child loved her as her own mother. But that was two months ago—a lifetime for a nine-year-old. She pressed the elevator button, wondering what tack she should take. Apology? Appeasement?

  “Just see how she feels, first,” she said to herself. “Then you can start your fence-mending from there.”

  The elevator carried her up to the third floor. She walked down the thickly carpeted hall, past her room, finally coming to the suite that Jonathan and Lily shared with Alex. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door. The door swung open a bit, as if the latch hadn’t caught. Opening it farther, she called to them.

  “Jonathan? Lily? Are you okay?”

  No one answered. They must be in the bathroom, she thought, opening the door a little wider.

  “Jonathan?” she called again. “Are you guys okay?”

  Again, she heard nothing. Holding on to the doorknob, she peeked inside the room. “Jonathan?”

  The only thing she heard was a slight rattle as the air c
onditioning unit came on. She stepped into the room. Though the beds were made and damp towels hung over the shower curtain rod, the room was empty. No Jonathan. No Lily. No luggage, either. Nothing except a note underneath the telephone, scribbled in Jonathan’s hand. She picked it up, trembling as she read his words.

  I can’t let the Moons have Lily. I hope you understand.

  —Jonathan

  Thirty-four

  “I think you’re becoming obsessed.” Eleanor Cochran peered at her son as he sat glued to the computer screen.

  “Really?” Jerry replied absently.

  “Jerry, you’re working on a closed case. Stratton’s been indicted. He’s awaiting trial. Yet when I went to bed at one thirty last night, you were still on that computer.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You and Ginger haven’t had a fight have you?”

  “No.”

  “Then why aren’t you over at her house? You used to spend practically every night over there.”

  “We’re both busy.”

  “Busy doing what?”

  “She’s writing about mountain music. I’m working on the Wilson case.”

  “Forgive my aged, chemo-addled brain, but as I said five seconds ago, hasn’t Nick Stratton already been indicted for that girl’s murder?”

  Cochran took a deep breath and rolled his chair back from the desk, his eyes gritty with fatigue. He wondered how much he should share with his mother. With her new writing career, everything served as grist for her next plot. He wouldn’t want to see this case thinly disguised in the paperback racks. On the other hand—his mother was a bright woman. Maybe running his theory by a mystery writer wasn’t such a bad idea. “I’ll tell you what I think, but you’ll have to keep it confidential.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious, Ma. No telling your agent or your writer cousin from Philly.”

  “I won’t tell anybody, Jerry. I promise.”

  “It just seems improbable that a smart, successful, law-abiding guy would lure a girl into the woods, strangle her, carve indecipherable letters into her skin, then the next morning make an extremely public appearance at the sports park opening. I mean, why go to the trouble? Why not just push her off a waterfall at the end of the summer?”

  “Because if he did that, you would immediately suspect foul play. You’re always suspicious of waterfall deaths.” Eleanor shook her head. “What he’s set up now is perfect—he’s miles away, the girl’s killed at a haunted cabin, with strange figures cut into her body. Her pals don’t find her until he’s safely away, getting ready to fly his eagle. It’s brilliant. He doesn’t even need an alibi with a time frame like that.”

  Cochran frowned. “It’s too dicey, Ma.”

  “So what’s your theory?”

  “I’m thinking there’s some kind of connection to the Fiddlesticks cabin.”

  “Jerry, that was fifty years ago!” She gave him the same look of disgust she’d had when he was fifteen and wanted to join Streptococcus, Ricky Joyner’s garage band.

  “It’s just a theory, Ma.” Knowing how his mother loved charts, he took a piece of paper from the printer. “Let’s say whoever killed Lisa Wilson was either connected to her or connected to that cabin.” He drew a stick figure of a girl. “Everybody connected with her is accounted for—we’ve got a video that proves none of the interns left the cabin that night, Willy Jenkins was in Tennessee, and Artie Slade was playing pinochle with his brother. Even her ex-boyfriend was banding birds in Costa Rica.”

  “What about Stratton?” asked his mother.

  “Stratton claims to have been at home alone, that entire night. But for argument’s sake, let’s say it’s not Stratton.” He drew a figure of a house. “Let’s assume some mountain-man type killer has connected himself to that house. The interns thought they saw a gray man that night at the cabin. Artie Slade claims there’s a gray man who stands at the edge of the forest and stares at him with abnormally wide eyes. Rob Saunooke told me that the Cherokees think a ghost named Eyes haunts that cabin. Even Butch Messer and I saw something weird up there, back in junior high school.”

  She frowned. “When did you and Butch Messer go to the Fiddlesticks cabin?”

  He told her about Messer and Pearl Ann Reynolds and their ill-fated trip to steal condoms. She listened, fascinated.

  “We were looking around the living room when suddenly, a face popped up in the window. A man, grinning. He had these wide, awful eyes.”

  “What did you do?”

  “We jumped back on Butch’s motor bike and rode like hell. I had nightmares for months.”

  “You never told me.”

  “I was thirteen, Ma. I wasn’t going to tell my mother that I was afraid to go sleep at night.”

  She pursed her lips, skeptical. “Do you think Butch Messer really needed condoms at thirteen?”

  “Probably not.” Cochran chuckled. “But the trip made us both feel like read studs, until that guy popped up in the window.”

  She pulled a stool from the kitchen and sat down, intrigued. “How old did the man look?”

  “Ancient, back then. Thinking about it now, he was probably in his forties.”

  Eleanor gazed at him, mental wheels turning. “Which would make him close to seventy now.”

  “Right.” Cochran turned back to the computer. “Remember the girls Ginger wrote about in that Fiddlesticks piece? Officially, they’re still missing persons. But shortly before they disappeared, every one was in or near the Fiddlesticks cabin.”

  “When did they vanish?” asked his mother.

  Cochran clicked the mouse. A file popped on the screen, showing pictures of three young women. “Vicky Robbins disappeared in 2001, Carolyn James in 1992, Doris McFadden in 1986.”

  “One a decade,” said Eleanor.

  “Now Lisa Wilson,” said Jerry.

  “Good Lord,” she whispered. “You might be on to something.”

  “I know. And I’m going to keep at it until I figure out what really happened up there.”

  Her mouth curled in a wistful smile. “You sound exactly like your father when you say that.”

  Cochran didn’t know what to say. His father had been a teacher. A history professor who’d dropped dead when Jerry was a sophomore in college. He wondered, sometimes, if Lawrence Cochran would be pleased that his scrawny bookworm of a boy now wore a badge and locked people up on a regular basis.

  “He would be so proud of you,” said his mother, as if reading his mind.

  He smiled, happy to think that his father would find him worthy. Then his gaze returned to the faces of those girls on the computer screen. “I’ll be proud of me, too,” he told his mother. “If I ever figure all this out.”

  Thirty-five

  Mary lay in bed, trying to make sense of the day, re-reading Jonathan’s note. Though the handwriting was his, the words typically terse and direct, she still couldn’t believe he’d gone. Alex had immediately called Sam Hodges, then her husband Charlie in Texas. Hodges said Jonathan seemed fine when he dropped him off at the motel; Charlie had not heard a word. Since then she’d called him every fifteen minutes, explaining that court had gone well, that the judge would rule tomorrow, but Jonathan neither answered his phone nor returned any messages.

  The endless afternoon had darkened into night. After a tasteless supper at the motel, she and Alex bid each other good night.

  “Do you want me to call a detective?” asked Alex. “See if we can find him under the radar?”

  Mary shook her head. “It would be a waste of time. If Jonathan doesn’t want to be found, he won’t be. I’m leaving him one more message, then it’s up to him.”

  Alex looked at her, surprised. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, then. See you tomorrow. Call me if you need me.”

 
That had been hours ago. Mary had left Jonathan a final message—apologizing for the surprise in court, telling him that the case still looked good and that she loved him. After that she’d simply lain in bed wondering where he was and if his two-sentence note would be the last she would ever hear of him.

  For hours she twisted from one side of the bed to the other, the mattress too lumpy, the pillow too hot. Finally she sat up and turned on the light. The motel bar had long since closed, and she’d packed neither a novel nor any sleeping pills. She resigned herself to another long night of worry when her gaze fell on her laptop, sitting on the desk. That brought to mind Lige McCauley and the weird fiddle tune he’d learned in prison. Throwing off her clammy sheets, she walked over and unzipped her computer bag.

  “I’ll just play Nancy Drew,” she whispered. “At least it’ll give me something to do while I wait for Jonathan to call.”

  She booted up the machine, wondering where she should start her research—Central Prison? Fiddlesticks? Shape note music?

  “Begin at the beginning,” she whispered, quoting her favorite line from Alice in Wonderland. She Googled the Hartsville Herald, then did a document search for “Fiddlesticks.” Ginger’s special report filled the screen—columns of text, plus a picture of the original Fiddlesticks, Robert Thomas Smith, being escorted from the courthouse by two burly deputies. He was a slight man, with reddish hair and boyish features. He looked too insignificant to have killed much beyond a fly, but Mary had long ago learned that the most vicious killers could still look like choirboys.

  She read Ginger’s feature carefully—surprised at how close the ghost story mirrored the facts. On November 23, 1958, Robert Thomas Smith had come home unexpectedly and found his wife, Bett, having sex with a man named Ray Hopson. Smith flew into a rage and killed them both with a knife. Whether he’d stuck around fiddling while they died was up for grabs, but Smith disappeared. After a month-long manhunt, he was apprehended on Christmas Eve, coming out of the cemetery, having put two red roses on Bett’s fresh grave.