“What? You mean the music? It won’t change none. They don’t come to see just her. They don’t buy our records to hear Belle. I can get another guitar player.”
“So, this won’t change things at all?”
“No. Now if it was Miriam that was gone, then I’d be worried. Nobody plays a fiddle like that gal.”
I knew for a fact that a few months later Scott Morgan had changed his tune. Publicly, he was quoted as saying things like “I can’t believe Belle would do this to us.” Scott Morgan was right. He could have replaced Belle with another guitar player. She wasn’t that outstanding. She didn’t have a unique picking style like Lefty Frizzel or a voice like Rosetta Tharpe. She did blend beautifully with the rest of the singers in the band and she was a very good guitar player, but still, very replaceable. The people you couldn’t have replaced in his band were Miriam, Toot, and Scott Morgan. Toot had an amazing sound on the harmonica, one I’d yet to hear anybody duplicate. My grandpa used to say it sounded as though Toot was wheezing into the harmonica. Miriam was just the most fantastic fiddle player I’d ever heard, and Scott was not only the front man and the main voice but wrote most of the music, too. As songwriting went, Eddie would have been sorely missed, too, but as far as musical talent went, Roscoe, Eddie, and Belle could have all been replaced with just as equally talented musicians.
So then why had the band fallen apart?
“Earth to Torie,” Mort said. “Find anything useful?”
“Why is it when you’re hot on the trail of something like this, there’re always more and more questions before you get even the smallest of answers?”
“Nature of the beast,” he said.
“Oh, speaking of beasts, here comes my stepfather,” I said, glancing out the front window.
Colin didn’t knock, just walked right in and made a beeline for me. “Hey, I looked in my book to check on this jewelry.… Good God in heaven, you’re wearing a quilt,” he said.
“Better a quilt than camo,” Sheriff Mort interjected.
“Save your jokes,” I said. “What have you got?”
“That necklace is definitely a Cunningham Brothers necklace. They made it in 1921. It’s a locket. So I’d be interested to see what’s inside. Anyway, sorry it took me so long, but I had to wait for Sheriff Marceau to fax me a picture of it so I could look it up.”
“Great,” Mort and I said together.
“Right, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “I just wanted to pass that along.”
“Thank you,” Mort said. “I’ll give Marceau a call and ask if they’ve opened the locket to see what’s inside.”
“Good,” he said. “Well, I’m having lunch with Chuck. Talk to you later.”
As Colin left the museum, I turned to Sheriff Mort. I thought long and hard about the words that came out of my mouth next. “Colin is miserable as mayor.”
Mort scratched his neck with his finger, then leveled a gaze at me with those violet eyes. Why is it guys get things like long eyelashes, or naturally curly hair, or violet eyes? I mean, who has violet eyes? Other than Elizabeth Taylor, nobody! But I didn’t have time to think about the injustices of Mother Nature.
“I gathered as much,” he said.
“He would like to get back into law enforcement.”
There was a really long pause—so long, I began to get uncomfortable. I figured if it went on any longer, I’d have to make some insipid comment about the weather.
“What exactly is it you’d like me to do?” he asked.
“Well, nothing, exactly.”
“You wouldn’t have mentioned it if you didn’t want me to do something. I like my job. I’m contracted for—wait, are you planning on knocking me off?”
“No!” I said. “Don’t be stupid.”
“Then what?”
“Offer him a job as a deputy,” I said.
“What? Are you serious? Do you really think he could handle being a deputy when he used to be the boss of all the guys he’d be working with? He’d be their equal, not their superior. Could he be a deputy when he used to be sheriff?”
“Here’s the thing, Mort. He is absolutely miserable. I mean, he’s starting to get philosophical, and that’s just outright dangerous. Not to mention scary. He wants back in law enforcement; he said so himself. But he’s not going to come and ask you for a job. I know he won’t.”
“Too proud?”
“And how. He might casually inquire about openings in the department, but he’s not going to say he’s interested. You’ll have to offer him the position,” I said. “Do you even have any openings?”
He shook his head in the negative. “Not right now. Maybe in a year or two. I’ve got one thinking about going back to school to be a CSI.”
“Great. You could just say something to him like ‘Hey, I might be getting an opening in the department. When your time is up as mayor, would you be interested? I could sure use a … seasoned veteran.’ Or ‘I could use a pair of trained eyes.’ Yeah, that sounds good. No, the ‘seasoned veteran’ sounds better, but I’d be afraid that he’d think you meant he was old. Damn. I don’t know which you should say, but you get the picture. Right?”
“I don’t need a script to offer a man a job.”
“Good,” I said. “Could you do that? Because then he would at least feel like he had options.”
“Sure, I can do that,” Mort said, smiling.
“What?”
“Why do you care?”
“’Cause if he’s miserable, then I bet he’s driving my mother crazy.”
He shook his head. “No, I think you’re worried about him.”
“Mort, when Colin gets philosophical, I get scared. Really scared. Just do this for me, please.”
“I will.”
Twenty-one
One of the great things about having a mother is that you can always go back to her house and eat dinner. No, seriously. I cannot explain how fantastic it is to eat dinner with my mother. Not just because she’s a great cook, not just because she instinctively knows what food I’m in the mood for, but because I’m partaking of a meal with my mother. Nobody loves you like your mother, even if you don’t get along. Which, I guess, could be a bad thing, if you were the type of person who had a lot to hide. But sitting at the dinner table, with the silverware clanking against the dishes and the conversations floating back and forth and the smell of chicken fried in a cast-iron skillet, and green beans made with bacon grease and Rhodes raw-dough bread baked to perfection … well, I know that someday there will come a time when I’ll give almost anything to have these moments back.
A few days after my conversation with Mort, we were having just such a dinner at my mom’s house. Even the girls were behaving and actually laughing—with each other! I had to admit that I was a bit irked that they could behave for Grandma but not for me. At that moment, I hoped all of my children would grow up and have, like, six kids apiece and I’d get to return the favor.
“Christmas is only a little while away,” my mother said. She was wearing her deep green sweater, and it made her cheeks glow. The kids all piped in with what they wanted for Christmas, and, of course, Rudy had to complain about all the hype and money spent at this time of year. I swore that he was turning into my father.
At any rate, I had just taken a bite of my green beans when the conversation finally got around to bowling.
“No, really, Rudy, you almost had a strike on that last frame,” Colin said, chuckling. Rudy was agreeing wholeheartedly, because almost getting a strike in their bowling league was just as good as actually getting one. Last time I’d checked, Rudy was leading the league in nine pins knocked down, which said a whole lot about the other bowlers.
“My concentration was off,” Rudy said. “Otherwise, I think I would have actually gotten the strike.”
“Amazing,” Rachel said in a condescending tone from behind her chicken leg.
“Oh, I see you’re wearing that ring I gave you,” my mother sa
id to Rachel. “Haven’t seen it in a while.”
“Well, that would be because Mary stole it out of my room and hid it.”
I kicked her under the table. “You just can’t let it go, can you?”
“No, the whole world should know just how big of a brat she really is,” Rachel declared
“That’s great, Rachel, but while you’re spouting your mouth about how big a brat she is, you’re just letting the whole world see how big a one you are, too,” I said.
“I don’t get it. She’s the thief, and you call me a brat.”
“Do you ever listen to yourself?” I said. “You never, ever, let anything slide or give anybody a break. I just want to know when you’re going to live up to this perfection you expect everybody else to live up to.”
“Whatever,” she said and did the perfunctory eye rolling. “Whatever” is the word that most American teenagers would be lost without. Take it away, and they can’t communicate.
“Having a sister is pretty tough, huh?” Colin said to Mary.
“You have no flipping idea,” Mary replied.
But that was it. They returned to their formal angelic state, because they were in the presence of Grandma. I ate in silence for a while, enjoying every bite. “So, Torie, are Stephanie and her family coming for Christmas?” my mother asked.
“As far as I know,” I said.
“And your father?”
“Yup.”
Stephanie is the love child my father had with another woman while my mother was married to him, but my mom’s just amazing like that. Stephanie is always welcome at her house. The great thing is, Stephanie likes my mom and never turns down an invitation. I know it sounds like my mother is perfect, but she’s not. I swear, she does have a few flaws. For example, she likes to tell everybody when they’re doing things wrong, especially me, and she’s pretty bad about rubbing it in when she’s right.
“So, you guys will never guess what happened,” Colin said.
“What?” Rudy asked.
“Mort asked me if I wanted to be a deputy,” he said, beaming.
“You mean you wouldn’t be mayor anymore?” Rachel asked.
“Well, I’d finish out my sentence first,” he replied.
“You mean your term,” my mother corrected.
“What? What did I say?” he asked, piling another heap of mashed potatoes onto his plate.
“‘Sentence,’” Rudy repeated and laughed.
“Oh, sorry, my term.”
“So, you’re going to do it, right?” I asked. “I mean, isn’t this what you wanted?”
Colin gave me a peculiar expression then. As though a window in his mind had been wiped of the grime and he could get a clear picture now. I knew that he knew that I had asked Mort to offer him the job.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I told him I’d have to think about it.”
“Why?” Mary asked.
“Colin’s not sure how awkward it would be working with everybody again,” my mother added. Clearly, he’d discussed this with her before dinner.
“I don’t want to make Mort feel uncomfortable,” he said.
“Oh, he’d love to have your help,” Rachel said.
“We’ll see. So, how’s your job going?”
Rachel put her fork down to begin her big long description of life and work as a tour guide in a drafty old house. “Well, in the first week, I tripped over a tourist’s foot and fell into the fireplace. Thank God there was no fire in it.”
“I guess that depends on who you ask,” Mary countered.
“I ran into another tourist’s camera, which the woman dropped, but it landed on her son’s head and so it didn’t break. Her son has a huge bruise on top of his head now, but the camera is fine.”
Colin laughed and Rudy just shook his head.
“I forgot my lines, like, a bajillion times, and I spilled Dr Pepper all over the front of my brand-new, historical dress, which is really pretty.”
“Sounds like you earned your money,” Mom said.
“Well, at least you weren’t wearing a quilt. Have you seen that horrible thing your mother wears over at the other house?” Colin asked.
“Hey!” I said. “It’s really pretty.”
“Mom,” Mary said to me. “Just don’t even try to defend it, all right? It’s lame.”
My cell phone rang then and I checked the number. It was Glen Morgan. I had been avoiding his calls ever since we’d found Belle’s body. I ignored this one, too, but after dinner, I cleaned up the dishes and then went out onto Mom’s back porch to return Glen’s call. I knew I couldn’t keep avoiding him forever. Well, I could have, but that would have been rude, and I figured he would probably start showing up at my work or home. In fact, I was surprised he hadn’t already. He seemed like the type of person who wouldn’t let personal boundaries stop him from getting what he wanted. All right, so we were a lot alike, but it sounds creepier now as I’m describing him.
“Glen, it’s Torie.”
“I don’t like the way you bailed on me,” he said.
“It’s complicated,” I replied.
“I need to talk to you,” he said. “Urgently.”
“Someplace public,” I said.
“What, you don’t trust me? You think I’m going to hurt you?”
“I’d be an idiot not to be careful.”
“Fine,” he said, exasperated. “Meet me at a place called Smugala’s. It’s a pizza place on Lindbergh.”
“I know where it is.”
“When can you be there?”
I figured it would take me at least a half hour to forty-five minutes to drive up to St. Louis County from Wisteria, then another ten or fifteen to maneuver down that traffic trap known as South Lindbergh. There are several streets in St. Louis County that are like Lindbergh in the fact that they are full of traffic almost any time of the day, due to all of the businesses and restaurants and schools along them. Manchester, Watson, Gravois, Page, and Olive, just to name a few.
I looked out upon the sunset over my mother’s fence, watching the birds flitter in and out of the two large holly trees that flanked both sides of the yard. It really was amazing how much time could pass while watching a bird do nothing more exciting than eat a meal. It was one of those beautiful winter evenings, where the sun painted the snow a brilliant orangy yellow and the barren branches of oak and elm trees scrawled their presence across the frosty sky. “Give me an hour and a half,” I said.
“I’ll be there,” he replied.
He would probably be there early, if I knew Glen Morgan.
I went back inside and kissed Rudy. “Something’s come up. I gotta go meet somebody.”
“Who?”
“Oh, that guy with the recordings,” I said.
“Who, Leo King?”
“No, he’s the one putting recordings onto CDs for me and Dad, but thanks for reminding me, because I actually need to go see him, too. This is the guy who gave me the recordings initially.”
“Oh, the one who said your great-grandpa wasn’t your great-grandpa.”
“Yup, that’s the one.”
“All right,” he said. “Where are you going and when will you be home?”
“Hopefully by ten or eleven. I’ll be at Smugala’s, that pizza place we’ve eaten at.”
“All right,” he said, a little irritated. Since it was a little, not a lot, I shook it off and told everybody good-bye. Colin didn’t ask where I was going, but I was sure he’d ask Rudy once I was gone.
I took advantage of already being in Wisteria and drove by Leo King’s studio. I just took a chance that he’d be there, and he was. He gave me a big broad smile when he saw me come in. “And how are we tonight?” he asked.
“We are fine,” I said.
“I’m not quite finished with your dad’s CDs, if that’s why you came by,” he said. He removed a bunch of stuff from his counter—some record books, a McDonald’s cup, some empty CD cases—to make room for me. I set my hand
bag on the counter.
“Yeah, I just wanted to check. Also, I’ve got a copy of an old recording. It’s been dubbed twice already. Can you clean it up?” I was referring to the copy that I had made of “The Blood Ballad,” which I’d conveniently forgotten to mention to Sheriff Mort.
“Probably some, but it depends on what it was recorded on in the first place,” he said and glanced at my purse. “Did you bring it?”
“No, but I did bring a few photographs to put on the case of the CDs you’re making for my dad. They’re of his dad and the Morgan Family Players.” I shuffled through my purse until I found the envelope and pulled it out. “I’ve been carrying it around for a few days now. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said. “So, what are the specifics on this other recording?”
“Oh, well, it was recorded onto a CD; then I copied it onto a cassette tape on my boom box. Do people still use that term, ‘boom box’?” I asked and chuckled.
“I think so, but hell, I’m so old now, I don’t really care,” he said. “Well, I can try to clean it up and put it on CD for you. Just bring it in.”
“I will.”
“Where’s the original?”
I shrugged. “Not sure.”
“Is this more of your grandpa’s stuff?”
“Sorta. That same time frame,” I said. “So, you plan on attending this year’s Pickin’ and Grinnin’ Festival?”
“I do every year,” he said and smiled.
“Great, I’ll bring that recording by soon.”
“Sure thing,” he said.
I then headed north to meet Glen Morgan.
* * *
Smugala’s is a pizza joint on South Lindbergh, just south of Watson Road. It used to be located in Ronnie’s Plaza, but it soon became obvious that with the amount of business Smugala’s did, that space was too tiny, so the owner relocated. The new location isn’t really new, as it is attached to a hotel with a swimming pool. So when you walk in the restaurant, you’re greeted with this sort of weird mixture of chlorine, basil, oregano, and beer. Not that it matters, since they have great pizza—that St. Louis thin style—and I think everybody overlooks the bizarre mixture of smells. The place is filled with beverage signs and televisions hanging from the ceiling. There’s a small game room off to the right. Smugala’s is usually packed on the weekends.
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