by Peg Cochran
“Thanks.”
Shelby hesitated but decided she’d stay until Cody had finished. If he was going to meet up with the rest of the band, he might need directions to the Dixie.
“You still out here?”
Shelby turned at the sound of Bert’s voice.
“I’m waiting for Cody to load up the rest of his equipment. How about you? Shouldn’t you be going home and getting some rest?”
Bert waved a hand at Shelby. “I’m fine. Don’t go coddling me like I’m some kind of invalid. My gallbladder is a little dicky, that’s all.”
Shelby smiled to herself. Coddling Bert would be about as difficult as coddling a porcupine.
The stage was now empty—Cody had gone out to the van with the last load of equipment. He stuck his head through the open barn door. He was holding a lit cigarette behind his back.
“Do you know where Travis has gotten to? I called and Brian said he’s not at the Dixie with them, and I don’t see him outside.” He frowned and glanced at his watch. “We’ve got to get on the road. We’ve got a gig tonight in South Bend, and we’ll need time to set up.”
Shelby and Bert walked outside with him.
“He didn’t say anything to me.” Shelby turned to Bert. “Did he go back to the house maybe?”
Bert shook her head. “Not while I was there. Unless he’s sitting on the front porch.”
“That’s where I’d be if I were him,” Shelby said. She turned to Cody. “Why don’t you drive the van around to the front of the house, and we’ll see if he’s there?”
“Okay.” Cody opened the door of the van and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine coughed, sputtered, knocked a few times, and finally started up.
“It looks like Travis needs to spend some of that money he’s making on a new van,” Bert said.
They watched as Cody pulled away, the ancient vehicle bumping over the rough ground until he reached the driveway.
Shelby started walking after the van, when Bert grabbed her arm.
Bert pointed into the distance and laughed. “Looks like your scarecrow has had a few too many.”
Shelby turned and looked in the direction Bert was pointing, where a figure hung from a post, its chin resting on its chest, its shoulders slumped, and its legs buckled. A brimmed khaki hat had been plopped on its head.
Shelby gasped. “Bert, that isn’t a scarecrow. I don’t have one.”
5
Dear Reader,
Did you know that scarecrows have been used by farmers for almost three thousand years? The Egyptians, Greeks, Romans, and Japanese all used them in ancient times. Farmers erect them in fields to scare away crows, blackbirds, sparrows, and other pest birds that might eat the farmers’ newly cast seed. While scarecrows might work for a while, the birds usually get accustomed to their presence and are soon back to wreak havoc again.
Bert started toward the figure in the distance, but Shelby grabbed her by the arm and stopped her. “You stay here. I’ll go see what it is. Maybe it’s some kind of prank?”
“I’m coming with you,” Bert said. “You don’t have to treat me with kid gloves. My gallbladder is past its prime, not my heart.”
Shelby knew better than to argue. Besides, she really didn’t want to approach—whatever it was—alone. Her stomach was churning and her palms were sweaty. Maybe she ought to call the police. But if it turned out to be nothing more than a joke, she would have wasted their time and looked like a ninny besides.
The sick feeling in the pit of Shelby’s stomach intensified as she got closer. She looked over at Bert, who had turned awfully white despite the fact that she was perspiring in the heat.
Shelby was several yards away from the body when she knew this was no joke or childish prank. The figure tied to the pole was human and looked an awful lot like Travis Cooper, although with its chin slumped on its chest, Shelby couldn’t see its face clearly. The faded and ripped jeans and white T-shirt appeared to be the same clothes Travis had been wearing, although at any given moment you could probably find a couple dozen men in Lovett wearing the exact same thing.
A single pesky fly settled on the man’s cheek and Shelby half expected to see an arm reach up and brush it away.
But it was fairly obvious that Travis—if this was Travis—was beyond being bothered by a fly or much of anything else.
Shelby stopped a few yards away and put out a hand to stop Bert from going any closer.
“We need to get the police,” Bert said.
“We ought to check for a pulse first,” Shelby said, swallowing hard against the bile rising in her throat. She reached for Travis’s arm and gently felt his wrist. She shook her head. “No sense in calling an ambulance. You’re right. It’s the police we need.” Shelby took a step backward and felt her knees buckle momentarily. A buzzing sound filled her head and her vision became hazy. She had to quell the urge to start running until she couldn’t run anymore. “We’ll have to go back to the house. I don’t have my cell phone with me.”
“You go. Billy is outside playing. I wouldn’t want him to come near this.”
Dear Reader, you know how odd things go through your mind in times of stress? That’s what happened to me as I ran back to the house. Things like, did Billy change out of his good clothes before going out to play? I suppose it’s our mind’s way of cushioning us against a reality we’re not ready to accept.
Shelby felt like she was moving in slow motion as she made her way back to the house. Each step she took felt deliberate as if she had to think about it—right foot, left foot, right foot. Finally she reached the door to the mudroom and dashed through it, letting it slam shut in back of her—something she was always trying to get the children not to do. Her cell phone was on the kitchen table. She grabbed it, took a deep breath to steady her hands, and dialed 911.
The dispatcher answered immediately and assured her that a squad car would be on the way.
Shelby slipped the phone into her pocket and went back outside to wait for the police.
Her brother-in-law, Frank, was a detective on the Lovett police force. Things had been a bit awkward between them since the fall, when Frank had made it plain that he was in love with Shelby. But in spite of that, when his dusty pickup truck pulled into the driveway ahead of the squad car, Shelby felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She knew she was now in good hands.
Shelby was again struck by Frank’s resemblance to Bill—although Frank’s brown hair was shot through with gray strands and thinning on top, and Bill had gone to his grave with a full head of dark hair—as he walked up the driveway toward her. It had nearly made her fall in love with him in return, but she realized that wasn’t fair to him. He deserved to have someone who loved him for himself and not because he evoked poignant memories of another man.
Frank pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair as he walked toward Shelby. He was wearing his usual uniform—jeans as faded as Travis’s had been and a shirt with the sleeves rolled up.
“Shelby.” He grabbed her by the shoulders as he scrutinized her face. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Shelby said, although her voice shook slightly.
Dear Reader, I wanted to say, “I’m fine now that you’re here,” but that would have given Frank the wrong idea.
“Tell me what happened,” Frank said. “All I got from dispatch was that there was a dead body.”
“I’m afraid I wasn’t terribly coherent.” Shelby shook her head. “You’d think after finding those other two bodies . . .”
“It’s something you never really get used to.” Frank put a hand over Shelby’s. “And you wouldn’t want to. No one should be that jaded.”
Shelby noticed the two patrol officers were keeping a respectful distance, static occasionally squawking from the radios on their hips.
“We thought i
t was a scarecrow at first, but I don’t have a scarecrow.” Shelby knew she was rambling, but she couldn’t help it.
Frank looked confused. “A scarecrow?”
“Yes. The body . . . Travis’s body . . . has been strung up to look like a scarecrow.”
Frank drew his brows together, creasing the skin between them. “Who is Travis?”
“Travis Cooper. He’s the front man for the band Kelly hired to play at her wedding.”
Frank blew out his breath. “Okay.” He hesitated. “You’re sure he’s dead?”
Shelby nodded her head.
“You’d better take me to where you found the body.”
“Bert’s standing guard,” Shelby said as they picked their way across the field and past a verdant patch where early lettuces in tidy rows were unfurling their pale green leaves.
“You want us to come, Detective?” one of the patrolmen, whose hair was curling up around the edges of his hat, said.
“Yes.” Frank waved a hand toward them. “It sounds like we’re going to need to secure the scene.”
They continued to walk until Travis’s figure came into view. Frank gave a loud whistle. “This certainly is one for the books,” he said.
“Thanks, Bert, for standing guard,” Shelby said when they reached Travis’s body. The bodice of Bert’s dress was splotched with damp patches and the hair around her face was limp.
“Why don’t you go back to the house and get a cold drink?” Shelby said. “You must be roasting out here. You’ll find some pitchers of iced tea and lemonade in the refrigerator.”
Bert looked reluctant to leave, but Frank waved a hand at her. “I’ll catch up with you inside,” he said as she started to walk back toward the farmhouse.
Frank began to examine the body. He circled the post twice, his brows furrowed. “There’s no blood or obvious signs of trauma,” he said as if he was talking to himself. He took off his hat and scratched his head. “No sign of a bullet wound either as far as I can see.” He sighed. “I suppose the autopsy will tell us how he died. One thing I think we can be sure of—he didn’t die from natural causes.”
He turned to the patrolmen. “One of you had better get the medical examiner out here.” He looked at Shelby. “He’s going to love this one—a real puzzle.”
Frank squatted down and examined Travis’s body again as if the slightly different angle might reveal something new. He sighed and straightened up. His knees gave a loud crack.
“Tell me about Travis. He was here with his band for the wedding? So not local, I take it.”
“Actually he is local. According to Bert, he grew up in Lovett but changed his name when he decided to go onstage.”
Frank gave a bark of laughter. “Leave it to Bert. She would know.”
“She said he’s Debbie Coster’s boy. The name rings a bell, but that’s about all.”
“First name?”
“It was—let me think—Robert. But apparently everyone called him Butch.”
Frank sat back on his haunches. “That does ring a bell, now that you mention it.” He scratched the side of his nose. “He was on that show, wasn’t he?”
“Yes. America Can Sing.”
“Doreen at the station is always talking about that program. I don’t have much time for television watching myself.”
By now the patrolmen had finished wrestling with the crime tape and had strung it up around the scene. Frank lifted it up and ducked underneath.
“So the killer could be anybody,” Frank groaned. “A member of the band, a guest at the wedding, or someone here in Lovett.” His eyes narrowed. “Speaking of the band—are they still here?”
“Cody—he’s one of the guitar players—is over by the house.” Shelby gestured in that direction. “He was looking for Travis. I’ll have to go and tell him about—”
“Let me talk to him first. I want to get his reaction to the news. Does he have any reason to hate Travis that you know of?”
Shelby shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t really know anything about him. Travis did seem to expect him to do all the work, and frankly, Cody didn’t look too happy about it.”
“Not a particularly good reason to kill someone, but then, is there ever really a good reason?” Frank kicked at a clump of weeds with the toe of his boot. “What about the rest of the band? How many are there?”
“There’s Brian—he’s the manager and the band’s drummer. And Paislee, who plays the tambourine and sings duets with Travis. Cody—who I’ve told you about. Then there’s Peter. He plays the guitar. He’s Kelly’s cousin.”
Frank grunted. “You said Travis is a local boy.” Frank rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. “So the murderer could be someone from his past just as easily as someone in the band. Someone who’s maybe harbored a grudge and saw this as their opportunity to get revenge.”
Frank toed the clump of weeds again. “So that means it could have been a guest at the wedding who might have been surprised to see Travis back in town. And wasn’t too pleased about it.”
Shelby’s mind immediately flew to Seth and his reaction when he saw Travis. She pushed the thought away quickly.
“You’ve remembered something?” Frank said.
“No, why?” Shelby put on her best poker face, which even under the best of circumstances wasn’t particularly good.
“The look on your face . . .”
“No. It’s nothing.” Shelby looked away quickly.
“So is the rest of the band around here somewhere? I hope they’re not halfway to Kansas or something by now.”
Shelby shook her head. “They said they were going to the Dixie to get a drink.”
Frank pivoted on his heel and pointed to one of the patrolmen. “Get out to the Dixie and round up the rest of the band. There should be two men—Brian and another guitar player. And a girl named Paislee. Right?” He turned to Shelby.
She nodded.
“Do you want me to stay?” the younger patrolman asked. “And guard the scene.”
“Yes. No, never mind. You go, too, in case they give Dennis any trouble. I’ll wait here for the ME.”
The second patrolman took off at a trot. Jenkins, who had been lolling in the sun, raised his head, and for a moment it looked as if he would take off after him, but instead he sighed and put his head back down.
“So, there was no one else at the wedding that you know of who might have known Travis?”
Shelby went still. What could she say? If she didn’t tell Frank about Seth, she wouldn’t be lying, but it would certainly be a sin of omission. But there was no way Seth was capable of murder. And Kelly and Seth deserved the chance to enjoy their honeymoon—brief as it would be.
“You’re holding out on me,” Frank said, and Shelby jumped. “Why?”
Shelby realized that if she didn’t tell Frank about Seth, it would make things look worse when he found out.
“Seth—he’s the bridegroom—knew Travis when they were in college together.”
“I know Seth,” Frank said. “He patched up my arm that time a drunk lunged at me with a broken beer bottle when I tried to bust up a fight behind the diner. I don’t suppose he had anything to do with this, but I’ll have to talk to him anyway.”
Shelby felt guilty—guilty for telling Frank about Seth and guilty for not telling him that Seth had a very good reason to hate Travis.
“Is Seth still here?”
“No. He and Kelly were going to his place to change before leaving on their honeymoon.”
Frank groaned and pulled a cell phone from his pocket.
“Doreen,” he said when the call was answered. “Send a car around to Dr. Seth Gregson’s house and ask him and his new bride to come down to the station.” Frank listened for a moment. “Yes, he just got married.” Another pause. “Today.”
Fran
k rolled his eyes as he ended the call. “When it comes to knowing what’s going on in Lovett, Doreen is almost as good as Bert. But it looks like this wedding wasn’t even on her radar.” He laughed. “She sounded annoyed. Go figure.”
Suddenly Jenkins was on his feet, his ears alert and his head tilting this way and that as if he was trying to pick up a faint signal. He’d noticed someone in the distance. Within seconds, he’d taken off at a run to check out the newcomer.
“There’s the ME,” Frank said.
“What have we got here?” the man said when he reached the spot where Frank and Shelby were standing. “How long has he been there like that?”
“That’s what I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me,” Frank said. “Not long, though—not more than an hour or two.”
“I’d better get on with it, then.” The ME smiled, revealing a gap between his two front teeth. He opened his bag, his hand hovering over the contents.
“I need to ask someone a few questions.” Frank nodded at the ME. “I’ll be back.”
* * *
• • •
Shelby stared at all the bowls and utensils stacked on her kitchen counter waiting to be washed. She opened the cupboard and reached for the dish soap, then changed her mind and slammed the door shut again.
She’d been on her feet all day already. The dirty dishes would still be there in an hour. She grabbed a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator, poured herself a glass, and pulled out a kitchen chair. She sank into it gratefully and propped her feet on another chair. It felt heavenly to sit down.
She had almost finished her iced tea when the door to the mudroom opened and Frank stuck his head into the kitchen.
“Okay if I come in?”
“Of course.” Shelby pulled her feet off the chair and wiggled into a straighter posture. She waved toward the refrigerator. “There’s iced tea, if you want it. Glasses are in the cupboard next to the sink.”
“Thanks.”
Frank helped himself, then took a seat opposite Shelby. He pulled off his baseball cap and ran a hand through his hair.
