High Country Fall dk-10

by Margaret Maron

  A man emerged from the lavatory down the hall in time to hear Joyce’s last remarks.

  “You really ought not to miss it,” he said enthusiastically. “I bought a tilt-top piecrust table last fall for a thousand less than I’d have paid at Sotheby’s.”

  A thousand less? No wonder Will was anxious to cultivate this connection. If he made a good impression at next year’s auction, he could be called back as a private appraiser. Old people always seem to find him charming, and old people with tilt-top piecrust tables?

  I congratulated the man, told Joyce I’d see her upstairs, and slipped inside the lavatory for a quick check in the mirror. No lipstick and my hair could definitely use a comb.

  When I emerged, random chords and snatches of melody floated down the stairwell and made me hurry back upstairs to join in.

  Billy Ed had left my guitar propped by the hearth, and I reclaimed it, then took a nearby stool. I soon learned that while most had played together before (indeed, two were professional entertainers), several were newcomers like me whom the Ashes had invited to help celebrate their new partnership with Norman Osborne.

  We played a rollicking version of “Arkansas Traveler” just to make sure everybody was on the same page, followed by “New River Train,” with Bobby Ashe mimicking the haunting whistles on his harmonica. After that, different ones took the spotlight to play or sing.

  I was surprised to see that Sunny Osborne played the dulcimer, and in response to calls from the audience, Norman Osborne stepped up with his guitar.

  “This one’s always been special to me,” he said. “My mama taught me how to chord it when I was seven years old, but it wasn’t till I married little Sunshine Monroe here that I understood what the words really mean.”

  With that, the two of them launched into that corny old standard, “You Are My Sunshine.” At least, it should have been corny. For the most part, they sang it straight. And yet they’d somehow altered the tune and the tempo enough to make it their own. When his baritone and her strong soprano wound in and out of the familiar melody their instruments were playing, they created new harmonies that made the old song fresh again. I later learned they’d been married for twenty-seven years, yet there was such tenderness in his voice they could have been newlyweds; and when she looked up at him during the final singing of “… you’ll never know, dear, how much I love you,” I was touched to see that her eyes were moist with unshed tears.

  For a moment, I thought of Mother and Daddy, how they smiled at each other like this when they sang together, and once more I was wracked with doubt about Dwight’s reasons for marrying me, about settling for sex and friendship instead of waiting for the true love of someone who would look at me the way Norman was looking at Sunny.

  The Osbornes were followed by the Ashes, who were urged on by their guests to perform a crowd-pleasing call-and-response full of bawdy double entendres that made everyone laugh.

  At least a dozen guests had brought their instruments with them, and over the next hour different musicians shuttled in and out. Sunny Osborne, Joyce, and I settled into a groove, and we were content to play backup while others with more need to shine took front and center to sing or demonstrate some fancy picking or bowing. Among them was a white-haired old-timer in jeans and a plaid flannel shirt who played the banjo as if he’d been teethed on one. He was a big flirt and teased me into a short duel, which he let me win for a minute before leaving me in the dust helpless with laughter.

  At ten we took a break and Lucius Burke brought over a bourbon and branch for Joyce and a frozen margarita for me that he’d mixed himself since the bartenders had left with the caterers after supper was over.

  “You’re staying for the second set, aren’t you?” Joyce asked him.

  “Sure,” said Burke, who had surprised me a little earlier by knowing all the words to “Muhlenberg County.” “I’m here till Bobby sings ‘Amazing Grace.’”

  “That’s what we always close with,” Joyce explained to me.

  Bobby was standing over by the bar in deep conversation with several people and seemed in no hurry to emulate the fat lady.

  “Can I get you a glass of something?” Burke asked Sunny as she flexed her fingers after playing so long.

  “Thanks, but I need to find Norman. See where he’s got to.” She set her dulcimer on the stool and made her way through the crowd.

  I took another sip of my margarita and complimented Burke on his choice of drink. We exchanged mini-bios—where we went to law school, when we first ran for office—and I kept it strictly casual. No flirting on my part. I even made sure I held my glass with my left hand so that there was no missing Dwight’s ring. Eventually he turned back to Joyce, who had passed from solicitous hostess to relaxed guest at her own party.

  “Congratulations again on the new partnership, Joyce. Bobby really seems hyped about it. Not that you guys were doing so poor before.”

  Joyce beamed. “No, but Norman Osborne’s a real rainmaker. He does three times our business. We had Pritchard Cove and Arnetago, but he had exclusives in Beeton Ridge, Rabbit Hollow, Manitelya, and High Windy. He and Bobby have been out making the rounds all week and it’s even better than we thought.”

  Those names meant nothing to me, but Lucius Burke was clearly impressed. “You have to hand it to Norman. He could sell gas logs to the Devil if he set his mind to it. Remember that guy from Pensacola who told Norman he only wanted a three-bedroom house and Norman—”

  He broke off as the three of us registered that something was happening over by the bar. We heard Sunny Osborne’s voice raised in exasperation: “—and I’m telling you he wouldn’t do that.”

  “What’s wrong?” asked Joyce as Sunny hurried toward us.

  “I can’t find Norman.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve looked all over the house and he’s not here.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe he saw you were having fun playing and he hitched a ride home with someone.”

  I couldn’t see that the crowd had thinned much, but then I didn’t know these people.

  “He wouldn’t go without telling me,” Sunny insisted. Her purse lay on the floor beside her stool and she picked it up, took out a cell phone, and began punching numbers.

  A young man came up to her. “I checked out by the cars, Sunny. He’s not there.”

  “He’s not answering his cell phone either,” said Sunny. She hit a speed-dial number. “Nellie? It’s me. Has Mr. Osborne come home? … Well, if he does, tell him to call me at once.”

  “Try Billy Ed,” said Joyce. “He lives up your way, and I saw him leave over a half-hour ago.”

  Sunny shook her head, but she called the number Joyce gave her.

  “Billy Ed? Sunny Osborne. Did you give Norman a ride home just now? … Well, did you see him when you were leaving?”

  Clearly the answers were no, and when Sunny had hung up, Joyce asked, “Did you check all five bedrooms? Maybe he had too much to drink and decided to lie down for a minute.”

  “I looked, but you come with me and we’ll look again.”

  Puzzled by Sunny’s agitation, Joyce put out her hand. “He’s not sick, is he, Sunny? Is it his heart?”

  “Of course not!” the other woman snapped. “He’s never been sick a day in his life, not even a bad cold, and everything was fine his last physical. But this isn’t like him. Are you coming or not?”

  The two women went off together and I was left with my own problem. I must have been frowning because Lucius Burke said, “What’s wrong?”

  “I just realized I don’t know how I’m getting back to Cedar Gap. Billy Ed brought me up and now he’s gone.”

  “Oh, didn’t Joyce tell you? I’m your designated driver. Your condo’s on my way home.” His eyes seemed to get greener with every sip of my margarita. “Did you want to go right now?”

  (“This is not a good idea,” said the preacher.)

  (“Hey, don’t look at me,” said the pragmatist. “I didn
’t arrange this.”)

  “I didn’t hear Bobby sing ‘Amazing Grace’ yet,” I said demurely.

  The search for Norman Osborne was unsuccessful, even though we all had a go at it. It reminded me of playing sardines at some of the big weekend house parties my mother used to throw when I was a child, with people bumping into one another coming and going, jostling pictures, opening closet doors, nudging chairs out of the way. I found myself smoothing down a coverlet in a guest-room where someone ahead of me had rucked it up to look under the bed. In the family room, three or four of the many iron candlesticks had been knocked over and I paused to right them. There was one fat candle left over, and I stood it in the back, then passed through to look around the terrace. Others were there before me, with flashlights that they aimed down into the ravine in case he’d somehow taken a tumble.

  The moon was bright but cast dark shadows under the trees and amid the granite outcroppings.

  When it appeared that he was nowhere in the house, several of the men brought flashlights from their cars and patrolled as much of the grounds as they could, considering the sharp dropoff behind the house. Others drove all the way up to the Osborne house and back down again, shining their lights in both ditches. On the whole, though, I got the impression that they were merely humoring Sunny.

  Nevertheless, her anxiety affected everyone else and the party broke up early.

  “Ol’ Norman’s probably sitting in a lounge somewhere, closing a million-dollar deal,” said Lucius Burke as we drove back down the mountain. I was pleased to see that his car was a Chevy Blazer and that he wasn’t a lead foot on the accelerator.

  “He’s done this before?” I was surprised. “Then why was Sunny so stressed by his disappearance?”

  “You won’t take this the wrong way?”

  “Take what the wrong way?”

  “If I say that some wives get more dependent on their husbands when they’re going through the change?”

  I laughed. “And how would you know that?”

  “Actually, Sunny told it on herself. At least that’s what I’ve heard. She was always playing tennis or volunteering at the hospital, but ever since she started the change, she says it’s like she doesn’t want to let Norman out of her sight. He’s pretty patient with her, but even though he’s his own boss, he still works. They say he’s glad to get a breather. I guess even a good marriage can get a little claustrophobic.”

  “You been there?” I asked.

  “In a good marriage? Nope. You?”

  “Me neither,” I said. “Fortunately it didn’t last long enough to get claustrophobic.”

  “Didn’t turn you off from trying again, though, did it? How long you been wearing that ring?”

  “About a week.”

  “Didn’t think it’d been long.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He just smiled and I wondered if I’d given off vibes. Unattached woman vibes.

  “Good guy?”

  “Very.”

  “He an attorney, too?”

  “No, a deputy sheriff.”

  Burke’s smile grew broader. “He catches ’em and you send ’em to prison?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Won’t that be a conflict of interest?”

  “If it is, the district’s big enough that other judges can handle it when he needs to testify in district court. A lot of his work is homicide and major felonies, though, so he winds up in superior court most of the time. What about you? Your ring on anybody’s finger?”

  “Nope.”

  Whether it was because we were going down instead of up or because Burke’s driving didn’t make me nervous, the trip back from the Ashe party felt shorter than going. The bright moon helped. Even the steep driveway up to Beverly’s unit seemed less intimidating. I pointed to my doorway, and Burke left the motor running as he got out to open the back for my guitar case.

  “That was a good party tonight,” I said. “Thanks for the ride. Will I see you in court this week?”

  “Probably.”

  Our hands brushed as I reached for the handle he was holding, and my ring gleamed in the moonlight.

  “Do you ever take it off?” he asked, continuing his hold on the handle.

  “Never,” I said firmly.

  “Too bad.”

  I don’t know how much longer he would have gone on holding my guitar case if the twins hadn’t swept up about then in their Jeep.

  CHAPTER 10

  “You were out with the luscious Lucius?” asked May as the taillights of Burke’s Blazer disappeared down the drive. “Luscious Lucius?” I laughed at the appropriateness of the tag. “Is that what the women here call him?”

  “I thought you were engaged,” said June.

  Both of them were staring at me in disapproval.

  “Hey, wait a minute here,” I said. “I wasn’t out with him. He gave me a ride home from a party we both attended.”

  “A lift?” May’s eyebrows shot right up to her copper curls.

  “From the way you were holding hands,” said June, “it looked like he was about to take his taxi fare out in trade.”

  “We weren’t holding hands. He was giving me back my guitar.” I walked over to my car and put it in the trunk while June unlocked the door to the condo and held it open for May, who carried a large plastic cake box.

  “That looks interesting,” I said, but they weren’t ready to climb down quite yet.

  She dumped the box onto the kitchen table. “It’s just leftovers. Didn’t the luscious Lucius feed you?”

  “Would you please stop that? What’s wrong with you two?”

  “We heard what went on at the courthouse today,” said June.

  “Huh?”

  “Lucius Burke told you that Danny Freeman killed Dr. Ledwig and you believed him.”

  “You should have seen how stupid that was and turned Danny loose.”

  “Wait a minute. You know Daniel Freeman?” Before they could speak, I answered my own question. “Of course. Carla. It was his girlfriend that left a message for you to call, wasn’t it?”

  “She’s having his baby. They’re going to get married. You think she’d be stupid enough to hook up with a killer?”

  “Look,” I said. “Nobody knows they’re going to be a killer till they actually do it. The man called him a nigger and—”

  “Oh, shit, Deborah! If Dwight Bryant’s mother called you a piece of juking redneck trailer trash, would you smash her over the head?”

  “Of course not. But—”

  “No buts!” June said hotly. “You wouldn’t and neither would Danny. He’s one of the most grounded guys we know. He doesn’t run from labels.”

  “He invites them,” said May.

  “They just validate the point he’s trying to make.”

  “Strangers think he’s white.”

  “Then when he says he’s black—”

  “—it makes people question their own prejudices.”

  “Messes with their minds.”

  They were falling back into twinspeak again, finishing each other’s thoughts.

  “All well and good,” I said. “But the doctor was messing with their lives. He wanted the baby aborted and he wanted Freeman out of his daughter’s life. Or else.”

  “Or else what?” they asked scornfully. “He was going to cut off Carla’s allowance? Big whoop.”

  “And have Freeman’s scholarship revoked,” I said. “He was also going to forbid her to see her sister.”

  “Oh please,” said June, and May rolled her eyes as she opened the cake box. “Do you really think he could get a foundation to revoke a scholarship because his daughter got pregnant?”

  “Or keep Carla and Trish from seeing each other?” May took what looked like a slab of homemade bread from the box, sliced off several thick pieces, and popped them into the four-slot toaster.

  June set a small tub of some sort of chopped salad on the table and brought out lettuce and a jar of Duke’
s mayonnaise from the refrigerator. “She inherited fifty thousand from her grandmother when she turned eigh-teen, and they’re both working part-time at a business they helped start.”

  “If her dad had followed through, though, she was going to drop out of school and work full-time till Danny finishes, then go back after he has his degree and the baby’s in day care,” said May, smearing mayo on the first round of toast and passing them on to June, who added lettuce and salad, cut the sandwiches into triangles, and passed a couple to me.

  Ambrosia! The texture and flavor of the toasted bread, the teasing familiarity of something not quite identifiable in the meat—“Cedar Gap must be the chicken salad capital of the state,” I said. “I had a good one for lunch at the High Country Café and I was told there’s a tea room in town that’s even better, but this is the best I’ve ever eaten. Even the bread’s almost as good as something y’all would make. Which restaurant are you working at?”

  “The Mountain Laurel,” said June.

  “Are they open for lunch?”

  “Sure are,” May said, “and I don’t know who told you the Tea Room was good, ’cause we’ve eaten there and the chicken salad stinks.”

  “Yeah,” said June, nodding. “Not worth wasting your money. The Laurel’s better.”

  “Do I need a reservation?”

  “During leaf season? Oh yes.”

  “Enough about food,” May said sternly. “Tell us why you let Burke talk you into finding Danny guilty.”

  I sighed and once more explained the difference between a probable cause hearing and a true trial. “If I’d actually found him guilty, he wouldn’t be out on bond right now, and for what it’s worth, he’s only charged with voluntary manslaughter, not first-degree murder.”

  “How long could he get for that?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t matter,” June said impatiently. “He didn’t do it.”

  “Then who did?” I asked, taking another bite of that delicious sandwich. “Carla? Her sister? Their mother?”