Music of Ghosts (17 page)

Ginger looked up. “You need me to be the dead girl again?”

“I'll holler if I do.”

While Ginger returned to her writing, Mary started up the hill. Ten feet away from the house she felt it—a small frisson that traveled down her spine like an ice cube. She stopped, surprised, then she scolded herself. “Oh, come on,” she whispered. “Big bad defense counsel, afraid of ghosts.”

Shaking her head, she walked on toward the tree. The path was steep and slippery with pine straw and she looked as Jonathan had taught her to look—noticing which way the weeds were broken, if there were fresh paths trodden through the grass. The only thing unusual was the number of heavy lug footprints, left, no doubt, by Cochran and the SBI. She kept walking, pausing to let a long black snake slither across the ground in front of her. Finally, she reached the tree. A massive pine, its green needles seemed to sigh in the light breeze.

She checked for more snakes, then looked back at the cabin. “Ginger?” she called no more loudly than if they were standing at opposite ends of a tennis court. “Can you hear me?”

Ginger didn't move.

“Ginger?” Mary called again, louder. Ginger still remained engrossed in her writing.

Mary sighed.
Cochran's right again
, she thought. The wind would have to be blowing in exactly the right direction for anybody in that cabin to hear anything going on up at the tree. She was turning in a slow circle, surveying the thick forest around her, when once again, she felt something strange. Not a chill this time, but a noise. And not even a noise as much as an absence of noise, in the way that birds grow quiet when a predator nears. She glanced back at the cabin, thinking Ginger must be on her way up here, but the sun still caught the fiery highlights of her hair as she sat writing in the front window. Mary tensed. Something was strange here, something not quite right. She stood there listening when suddenly she heard a series of high-pitched sounds. Half a phrase, then it stopped, as quickly as it had begun. The hair lifted on the back of her neck. Someone was up here, playing a fiddle.

Twenty-Four

Mary swallowed hard, fighting
a sick moment of panic. She and Ginger were a good half-mile away from their car.
Get a grip,
she told herself.
It's just your imagination
. But then, the noise came again. A bow, pulled across strings. She'd heard the sound all her life.

Quickly, she stashed her iPhone in her backpack. Zipping the thing shut made a loud rasp that set her teeth on edge. She looked around, as if that might flush out some fiddler full of teeth and claws and no remorse, but nothing—not a twig or a leaf or a bird—made a sound. Still, she knew somebody was watching her.

Grabbing her backpack, she headed toward the cabin. Though she longed to run, she forced herself to walk.
Whatever animal you're up against, she remembered Jonathan once told her, don't show your fear.

She made her way down to the cabin on knees more jelly than bone. “Ginger,” she called as she neared the porch. “Come on. Let's go.”

Ginger looked up, surprised. “You're through?”

Mary nodded. “Let's go.”

Ginger returned to her notebook. “Let me finish this paragraph.”

“Ginger, we need to go.” Mary risked a quick glance over her shoulder. “Now.”

“What's the hurry? We just got here.”

“We need to leave,” Mary said slowly.

Ginger must have heard the urgency in Mary's voice. “Oh, shit,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “Somebody's up here, aren't they?”

Mary gave the slightest of nods. “Let's just go,” she said softly.

Closing her notebook, Ginger ducked through the open window. In three quick strides she was across the porch and standing beside Mary. “Who is it?” She craned her neck toward the tree. “Where are they?”

“Don't look up there!” Mary whispered. “I don't want them to know we're on to them. Let's just walk back to the car and get the hell out of here.”

Ginger looked at her as if she were crazy. “Walk back to the car?”

Mary nodded, having long ago learned the value of a bluff. “Yep. Just pretend we're strolling out to the tennis court.”

They started back down the twisting path. While Ginger was antsy, breathing hard, Mary kept listening to the woods behind her. Who would be up here in the middle of the afternoon—curious teenagers? That reporter from the
Snitch
? Some kind of sicko drawn to the Fiddlesticks cabin by all the notoriety? She didn't know; she didn't care. All she knew was that they needed to get away from whoever was playing that fiddle.

Suddenly, she could stand it no longer. She told Ginger to wait while she knelt on the ground, pretending to re-tie her shoe. As she tightened the laces, she risked a quick backward glance. A movement caught her eye—high up on the ridge to her right, forty yards behind them—a shadowy figure slipped behind a tree. With the lowering sun bright in her eyes, she couldn't tell if it was male or female, only that it was there and that it did not want to be discovered.

She tied her shoelace, trying to think of what to do. If only one person was up there, they weren't in bad shape. Already they were more than halfway to their car. But what if there were two? What if one person was near the tree and someone else was waiting for them at their car?

Stop
, she told herself, willing her heart to slow down.
Next you'll be hearing the banjo music from
Deliverance
. Just deal with what is, not what might be. One person, following you along a ridgeline. They'll make noise coming down that ridge. Whatever they do, it won't surprise you.

She stood up and smiled at Ginger, trying to hide her concern. “Okay, let's go.”

“Can we run now?” asked Ginger.

“No,” said Mary, sauntering along as if she enjoyed walking down pine-shrouded roads with her gut knotted in fear.

They went on, giving up on any chitchat. Though Mary longed to look back and see if the shadow was gaining on them, she forced herself to keep her gaze straight ahead. Every turn in the road presented a new tableau—bearberry bushes at one, another with a dead oak tree shrouded in grapevine. After the wide turn with the red trumpet flowers, suddenly the white SUV glimmered through the trees. Never had she been so happy to see an automobile. Still, she held her breath, knowing it wasn't over yet. If someone had disabled their car, they would be in deep trouble. She was almost afraid to look, but as they neared the car, she saw no slashed tires, no gaping hood with large chunks of the engine missing.

“Thank God,” gasped Ginger, unlocking the doors.

“Now we can run,” Mary said. “Fast.”

They ran, jumping into the car, locking the doors behind them. Mary held her breath as Ginger shoved the key in the ignition. For an instant nothing happened, then the engine caught. Ginger whipped the vehicle around, making a tight turn on what felt like two wheels. Mary kept watch out the back window as they sped away, the SUV swerving around potholes, bouncing over tree roots and rocks. Neither woman spoke until they reached the paved road, then Ginger slowed down and turned to her.

“Did you really see somebody up there, or were you just playing make-the-reporter-shit-her-pants?”

“I really saw someone,” said Mary, still peering into the woods behind them.

“Who?” Ginger demanded. “And if you say a ghost, I'm putting you out of this car.”

Mary shook her head. “I didn't see a ghost.”

“Who, then?”

She turned to Ginger and spoke quietly. “I may have seen whoever killed Lisa Wilson.”

Ginger gasped, incredulous. “How do you know that?”

“Because someone was up there playing a fiddle.”

An hour later they sat at John Bigmeat's Bar and Grill, a dark little joint that was an offshoot of John Bigmeat's Cherokee Trading Post. They sat at a booth with Jerry Cochran, drinking cold beer, the eyes of a Cherokee bear mask glowering from the wall.

“Why the hell were you two up there anyway?” asked Cochran, keeping a protective arm around Ginger's shoulders. “It's still a roped-off crime scene.”

“I can go up there,” Mary reminded him. “I'm Stratton's counsel.”

“I went as her assistant,” Ginger added.

Cochran gave a disapproving frown but pulled out his notebook and pen.“Then tell me again what happened up there—slowly.”

Ginger recounted most of the tale, turning the narration over to Mary after she walked up to reconnoiter the tree.

“I was looking around, when everything got quiet,” Mary said. “Like when a serious predator shows up.”

“What do you mean a serious predator?” asked Ginger.

“A fox, a bear. Something that eats other, smaller things.”

“Okay,” said Cochran. “What happened next?”

Mary hesitated a moment, knowing this would sound crazy. “I had a gut feeling that someone was watching me, from not too far away. I shook it off. Then, I heard fiddle music. Twice. I started back to the cabin then. Later, when we were heading to the car, I saw someone following us, along that upper ridge.”

“You didn't tell me that!” cried Ginger.

Mary smiled, apologetic. “I didn't want to scare you.”

“Wait a minute,” Cochran said. “You say you heard fiddle music?”

“Two different times. Five or six notes, as if someone started to play, and then stopped.”

Cochran gave her a hard look. “Are you sure it couldn't have been tree limbs, squeaking against each other?”

“I've grown up hearing fiddle music, Jerry. I know what it sounds like.”

“So that's when you returned to the cabin?”

She nodded. “I told Ginger we needed to leave—”

“Can you believe she said we had to walk back to the car?” Ginger interrupted.

“If we'd run they would have known we were on to them,” Mary explained. “That might have forced their hand.”

Cochran asked, “What happened next?”

“Halfway to the car I pretended to tie my shoe. When I looked back over my shoulder, I saw a figure, moving from tree to tree along the ridgeline, about forty yards behind us. They were following us.”

“Can you describe them?”

She tried to recall the shadowy figure. “It was an adult-sized individual with dark clothes.”

“Man or a woman?”

“I couldn't tell.”

“Only one person?” asked Cochran.

“I only saw one.”

“Short? Fat? Thin? Any unusual type of walk?”

She sighed. “All I can tell you is that they were not fat and they knew the woods.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Cochran.

“Because they followed us along the western side of the ridge, so the sun would always be in our eyes.”

Ginger looked up from her notebook. “You sound like Jonathan.”

Mary shrugged. “You live with a woodsman, you pick up a few things.”

“What happened after you saw them?” asked Cochran.

“We went on to the car. I was afraid they might have disabled it, but it was okay. We got in and drove straight here.”

“You didn't see them again?”

Mary shook her head. “Once we got to the car, we left pretty fast.”

Cochran studied his notes for a few moments. “That's interesting, but not all that much to go on. Even if there was somebody up there, they made no threats against you.”

“So you're not going to do anything?” cried Ginger.

“I'm sure going to log it in to my file, but since Turpin's already indicted a suspect, Lisa Wilson's case is off my desk. Carlisle Wilson came by and bid farewell to my troops this morning—Turpin and I are going to Wilmington tomorrow for the girl's funeral.”

“But don't you think that fiddle music is strange?”

“I think it's creepy as hell,” said Cochran. “But I also think it might also be just somebody up there, yanking your chain.”

Ginger started to say something else when Bigmeat suddenly appeared with another round of drinks. Not beer this time, but single-malt scotch by the pale, honey-gold look of it.

“Whoa, John,” said Cochran. “We didn't order these.”

“Lady at the counter sent them over, with her compliments.” Bigmeat pointed over his shoulder. A long-haired blonde in tight jeans and a black T-shirt waggled her fingers at them, then sauntered over to their booth.

“Hi, Ginger.” She smiled, revealing long, slightly lupine teeth. “Sheriff Cochran, Ms. Crow.”

“Hi, Jessica.” Ginger scooted a millimeter closer to Cochran. “What brings you here to Bigmeat's?”

“Just getting my final bit of color on that poor girl's murder.” Jessica tossed her blonde hair. “But I wanted to say that there's an extra seat on my flight to Wilmington tomorrow. If any of you are going to the Wilson funeral, you're welcome to ride with me, compliments of the
Snitch
.”

Cochran's cheeks pinkened. “Thanks, but I'm going with the DA.”

“And I'm going with him,” Ginger added quickly.

“Well, if you change your mind, the plane leaves at eight thirty, county airport,” said Jessica. She started to walk away, then turned back, this time aiming a smile at Mary.

“I also wanted to thank you, Ms. Crow, for keeping our circulation up one more week.” She pulled a folded newspaper from her Gucci bag and dropped it in the middle of the table. “See you guys at the cemetery.”

Jessica turned, then, and walked out the door, leaving the barest scent of citrus perfume. Ginger grabbed the paper she'd left on the table. “Let's see what Mary did for their circulation numbers.”

As Ginger unfolded the tabloid, they all gasped. Mary was on the cover of the latest
Snitch
, leading Nick Stratton into the Pisgah County Courthouse. The caption beneath the photo read “Pocahontas now defending Fiddlesticks Killer.”