Authors: Donna Andrews
“It’s only Orvis Shiffley and some of his friends going through an adolescent phase,” I said. “I don’t think it’s about death and violence as much as hormones and trying to be cool. But do what you need to do.”
“I think I’ll do a cleansing on the bandstand tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll gather the herbs tonight, and do it at dawn.”
“Lovely,” I said. I’d long ago learned better than to argue with Rose Noire about subjects like toxic energy. And except for the occasional foul-tasting herbal concoction, all her cleansings and energy beamings seemed, at worst, harmless, and more often than not curiously comforting.
Molly in Chains, the Morris dancers in black leather, turned out to be twelve very shapely and athletic young women, and while their act was just as strange as I expected, it was definitely entertaining. The Rancid Dread musicians spent the entire performance outside gawking. The show almost didn’t go on after the dancers finished their final number, bowed to the applause, and hurried offstage. Most of them pulled off their towering stilettos and iced down their aching feet. The prospect that they might follow this up by removing their sprayed-on leather garb so distracted the Rancid Dreads that they almost forgot they were due onstage. Luckily, they weren’t trying to double as their own roadies. Half a dozen adult Shiffley men began hauling instruments, microphones, and many of the enormous speakers out onto the bandstand. By the time they finished their setup, I’d managed to pry the band’s eyes off the dancers and shoo them out into the tiny offstage area.
We still had at least half of the equipment in the tent, but apparently the adult Shiffleys had decided they had enough amplification onstage. Probably a wise decision, since the only way they could fit any more of the speakers onstage would be to dispense with a musician or two. The volunteer roadies ambled off the stage and the crowd, realizing that the last and presumably biggest act of the day was about to begin, shushed each other until silence reigned.
Rancid Dread exploded onto the stage, all pumping both fists in the air as if to acknowledge the frenzied cheers of their fans. Unfortunately their audience was a mix of indulgently smiling locals, who had known the musicians since they were in diapers, and the tourists, who were perfectly happy to applaud politely for almost any act that walked onstage.
The fist-pumping petered out as the five Dreads took their places. Orvis scurried over to his drums and crouched behind them, peeking out from time to time as if surprised that no one was throwing anything at him. The vocalist clung to the microphone stand as if in need of support, while the guitar, bass, and keyboard players stumbled around onstage, peering at all the available instruments as if unsure which they’d been assigned. Finally the vocalist turned around and stage whispered, “One! Two! Three! Four!” All three instrumentalists quickly grabbed an instrument and began to play.
My initial thought was that they’d also failed to reach agreement on what their first number would be. The guitar player and the keyboardist were playing something that resembled a reggae version of Steppenwolf’s “Born to Be Wild,” while the bass player and Orvis launched into the rhythm of “Louie Louie.” I cringed, expecting that after a few bars they’d stop and regroup, or perhaps one side or the other would give in gracefully and switch. But either they were all incredibly stubborn or the mishmash they were playing was exactly what they had in mind.
After a few bars more, the vocalist joined in with an earsplitting wail, sort of a cross between chalk on a blackboard and the feedback our sound crew had become so adept at producing. The band responded by turning up the volume—a feat I wouldn’t have dreamed possible—and the first few ashen-faced tourists began stumbling toward safety.
I decided to put the tent between me and Rancid Dread, so I ducked inside.
Randall and a posse of Shiffleys had arrived and were springing into action. The reason for the surplus sound equipment became evident—the extra speakers were not actually speakers but cleverly camouflaged cases holding tools, lumber, and other construction supplies.
“We’re going to do some prep work for the trapdoor,” Randall shouted to me. “We’re hauling a bunch of tools and equipment over to the courthouse basement, and then we’re going to work inside the tunnel shaft for a while. So once we get in there, I’d appreciate it if you could close the trapdoor and keep watch.”
“Do you really think anyone will come near the bandstand while this is going on?” I bellowed back.
“Never hurts to be cautious,” he replied. “Specially since one of the band members is a Pruitt. Bass player. He’s the mayor’s second cousin once removed. According to Orvis, he hates his whole family, and maybe that’s true, but…”
“Better safe than sorry, then,” I said. “So he’s not in on the secret of the trapdoor and we want to keep him that way.”
Randall nodded.
We hauled the trapdoor open during one of the vocalist’s glass-shattering screeches. I watched the Shiffleys lug tools and equipment down into the tunnel. I helped them arrange the big faux speakers in a rough circle around the trapdoor, as if we were using the crawl space as an overflow sound equipment area. They even strung a few cables from the fake speakers up into the tangle of real wires overhead. I had to admit—it was impressive camouflage.
“We should keep this stuff around indefinitely,” I said. “No one would ever guess the tunnel was there. You can probably keep the trapdoor open if you like.”
Just then the band reached the frenzied crescendo of a song. The cacophony made us both wince and clutch our ears.
Then the sound ended. A few seconds of stunned silence followed, and then the patter of applause so faint that I suspected everyone not related to the band had fled during the last number.
“Keep the trapdoor open? And listen to that?” Randall asked. “No thanks.”
He reached up for the trapdoor, but the band spoiled his snappy exit line by waiting until the last feeble claps died away before starting their new number. When the first chords of the second song rang out, Randall winced and slammed the trapdoor shut.
This time it was the guitarist’s turn in the spotlight. He launched into a solo riff that seemed to have no redeeming characteristics, apart from the virtuoso speed with which he executed it. And “executed” was definitely the right word. Like the emperor in
Amadeus,
I found myself muttering, “Too many notes.”
About a century later, the guitar solo ended and the vocalist leaped back into the fray. I braced myself against the noise and stepped outside again. And remembering Rose Noire’s tirade about death, violence, and primitive emotions, I tried to focus on the words, to see if they were as bad as she claimed.
The guitar player’s frenzy prevented me from even hearing the vocalist during the second number. But the third song started out with a much slower tempo. More of a rock ballad. Now that was more like it. And instead of leaping about like a frog on a hotplate, the vocalist had draped himself over the microphone like a weary praying mantis. I could not only see him, I could see his mouth move. Surely I could decipher the words of this song.
The singer rather mumbled the verses, as if he’d half-forgotten them, and I caught only a few phrases—“nasal chains,” and “a drywall knight.” But he belted out the chorus.
In a cowbell
Honesty has arrived
Oh bwana
Dental align!
“I give up,” I said aloud—not that anyone could possibly have heard me. “It could be death and violence and primitive emotions. Or his mother’s to-do list. The kid needs a speech therapist.”
I brooded through the rest of the song. Was I turning into my parents? Completely unable to understand the music of the new generation? Actually, I reminded myself more of my childhood friend Eileen’s father, who during our teen years regularly outraged us with what I now realize were probably rather amusing parodies of our favorite rock songs.
“Psst! Meg!”
I wouldn’t have heard the whisper if it hadn’t come in the several seconds between the end of “In a cowbell” and the moment when the stunned audience began dutifully applauding. I turned around to see who was calling me.
Stanley Denton was peering out from behind a large trash can.
Chapter 33
“Meg?” Denton called. “Is the coast clear?”
I strolled over toward the trash can and pretended to deposit something in it.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the tent, if that’s what you mean,” I said, as I smiled and clapped along with the rest of the audience. “But let me go inside first and check.”
I strolled casually back inside the tent. No one there. No one visible in the crawl space, either. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Mr. Throckmorton: “Tell Randall to keep his crew in the tunnel. Possible hostile in the tent.”
I tapped the send button, then walked back to the tent flap and gave a thumbs-up sign to the waiting night. I stepped back inside, and a few seconds later, Denton burst into the tent. He pulled the flap closed, looked around, and then sat down behind one of the big wooden instrument cases that hadn’t gone into the crawl space.
“No one here,” I said. “What in the world is going on?”
“Don’t let anyone know I’m here.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But tell me why not? And where have you been all day, anyway?”
“Long story,” he said. “You don’t happen to have anything to eat, do you? I’ve been hiding out all day. Haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”
“Lots of leftovers in the mini-fridge,” I said. “And a microwave to heat them up with. Help yourself.”
I was a little nervous at letting Denton into the crawl space again, but he barely glanced at the huge speakers and other clutter. He ransacked the mini-fridge and inhaled several slices of country ham and about a pint of cole slaw while I microwaved a plate of leftover pulled pork and mashed potatoes and found some bread to transform the pork into a sandwich. And then I led him out of the crawl space again by putting the sandwich on a plate and taking it with me. He sprawled on my folding recliner and dug in.
He still wasn’t giving the food the attention it deserved, but at least he was eating the sandwich slowly enough that I stopped worrying quite so much that he’d choke.
“Thif if great,” he said. Under the circumstances, even Mother wouldn’t have rebuked him for talking with his mouth full.
“So why are you hiding out?” I asked him, when he’d slowed down a little.
“Someone took a potshot at me last night when I was getting out of my car,” he said.
“At the Caerphilly Inn?”
He nodded, still chewing.
“I didn’t hear about it,” I said. “Wait—I bet you didn’t report it to the police, did you?”
He shook his head.
“You told your employer?”
He shook his head again.
“You didn’t tell anyone?”
He swallowed the food he was chewing.
“I’m telling you now,” he said. “And I’m not opposed to telling your chief of police if you can let him know I’m here without giving away the show to anyone who has a police radio. But I’d really rather not let my employer know where I am. Make that former employer. I have a strict policy against working for anyone who tries to kill me.”
“Not that I want to argue with you, but is there a particular reason you don’t trust the Evil Lender?” I asked.
“Because I’m more than half convinced that it was someone in their employ who shot at me.”
I nodded.
“I’m betting they’re also the ones who blew up your car this afternoon,” I said.
He choked on a bite of pulled pork sandwich at that and had to be pounded on the back.
“They blew up my car?” he asked when he could speak again. “How? When? Was anyone hurt?”
“No one was hurt,” I said. “It blew up when the Shiffley Towing Service was hauling it off the parking lot of the Inn at a little past noon today. While I was waiting for the chief to interview me, I overheard one of the State Troopers speculating that it was an acceleration detonation device, but we won’t know until the State Bureau of Investigation finishes analyzing the debris.”
“Debris,” he said. “Not wreck or hulk—debris?”
I nodded.
“Maybe the rumor mill exaggerated the damage?”
I shook my head.
“I saw the explosion,” I said. “It was raining car parts. Tow truck’s not in such good shape, either. Debris. Charred debris.”
“Damn,” he said. “I was fond of that car. Two hundred and twenty thousand miles and still chugging along. More to the point, I’m damned lucky. I was considering sneaking back to get it at around three a.m., but I decided they might have staked it out.”
“It’s possible they didn’t rig it to blow up until after that.”
“Also possible if I’d tried it they’d be picking pieces of me out of that debris. And identifying me with DNA.”
I didn’t argue with him. He took another bite of his pulled pork sandwich and chewed thoughtfully.
“You saw the explosion?” he asked, when he’d finished that bite. “How’d you happen to be over at the Inn just then?”
“I went over to burgle your room,” I said.
He paused in the middle of a bite.
“Find anything interesting?” he asked.
“Only Leonard Fisher doing his own burgling.”
“He caught you?”
“No, I hid on the balcony.” I figured there was no need to implicate Caroline as well.
“Wrong room, then,” he said. “My room doesn’t have a balcony.”
“Actually, it’s more like a window ledge with a view of the loading dock,” I said. He nodded. “I could tell you what brand of toothpaste and dental floss you use if you want me to prove I was there, or you can take my word for it. I saw Fisher take all the papers you left behind—not that there were many of them, just copies of your weekly reports to him. And I hope you didn’t have anything interesting on your laptop. I couldn’t check myself because of the password protection, but I’m sure the Evil Lender can find someone to get past that. Why do you think someone from FPF shot at you?”
“Presumably because they think I’m a liability to them,” he said. “Or maybe even a threat. Wish to hell I knew why. Nothing I’ve run across in the past few weeks seems all that useful or interesting to me.”