Marcie's Murder (54 page)

“Yeah
,
” Karen
groused, “we
could walk there faster than this.”

Hank watched her worrying her lip, wanting to talk about something. He watched the scenery and waited, but it didn’t happen so he let it ride.

The festival
was
in full swing when they reached
the elementary school
and
adjacent
community center
.
Deputy Charleton
was
directing traffic
in and out of the parking lot
.
When
Karen
reached him she
stuck her elbow out the window and grinned at his fluorescent vest.

“You look like you’re having fun.”

“You folks stopping in here or going on to
Sunset Farms
?”

“Dunno,” Karen said. “What’re they doing in here, running a day care?”

Charleton shrugged. “
There’s stuff for the kids, but this is where the crafters and quilters set up shop.”

“Quilters?”

Charleton stared at her.
“Traffic’s waiting.”

“Can we look?”
Karen asked Hank.

“Sure.”

“Lemme through, Deputy Dawg,”
she
said.

Charleton stopped oncoming traffic to allow her to turn into the school parking lot.
They browsed among the vendors outside and then went into the gymnasium where the majority of the quilters had set up their booths. Karen bought two quilts, a large one for herself and a smaller one that she said was for her mother. She talked Hank into buying a beautiful specimen featuring a pattern that Karen said was called the North Star.

“Slaves used something called
quilt codes
,” she told him as he
paid the woman and
bundled
the quilt
under his arm
.
“
They’d make quilts with patterns that were actually coded messages, then hang them outside as though they were airing them. Escaping slaves following the
Underground Railroad
could read the quilt and know what was waiting up ahead of them.”

Hank was familiar with the subject but didn’t let on.
“So what did the North Star say?”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “North Star, Lou. You know. Head north?
Duh.
”

“I didn’t know you were interested in quilts
.”

“Too girlish?”

“No, not at all
,
”
Hank replied carefully.

“I’m such a cop lifer I can’t have any side interests like a normal human being?”

Hank looked at her. “Is there anything I can say right now that won’t get me a kick in the ass?”

“Not really
.
”

They walked next door to
the community center
, where
they met Neil Branham
.
He looked very casual in jeans, an untucked white shirt
,
and a pearl-colored linen jacket.
His belt buckle was a large
pewter
oval
with turquoise inlay in a catchy western pattern.
He was smoking a skinny black cigar and holding the hand of a petite blond woman whom he introduced as Janice Riley.
Riley
rolled her eyes and released his hand.

“I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Branham shrugged as they watched her weave through the crowd toward the parking lot. “It’s
just
the third time we’ve been out together. She’s not sure she likes being around law enforcement
people
.”

“She’s a loser,” Karen said flatly. “Dump her.”

Branham gave it a moment, then stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, the movement brushing aside the edges of the linen jacket to reveal the off-duty weapon
holstered
on
his belt.
“The
s
heriff’s
o
ffice transferred Billy Askew back to Bluefield. He still has to face the assault charges up there, but he’s been released on bail.”

“I feel bad for him,” Hank said.

“That’s very generous of you, given
the beating he laid on you
that first night.”

“Surely to God he’s not coming back to work,” Karen said.

Branham shook his head. “He’s been relieved of his duties.”

“Fired. Sounds right. So where’s that leave you?”

“Town council voted to remove the interim tag and appoint me
c
hief of
p
olice,” Branham said. “I decided to accept.”

“Well, congratulations,” Karen grinned, shaking his hand.
“That’s great.”

“Ditto,” Hank said. “I’
ve got
a question
for you
, though.”

“Ask away
.
”

“What do you plan to do with Hall?”

Branham thought about it for a moment. “Not sure, as a matter of fact. I know Billy tried to help him before and didn’t get anywhere.”

“He might be ready now, if you decide to try again.”

“I’ll keep it in mind
,” Branham said
.
“
By the way, Muncy told me the lab report came back positive for Morris’s DNA under Marcie’
s fingernails.”

Hank said nothing, uncomfortably aware that if they’d waited for the results Morris would still be alive. He knew from Branham’s tone, though, that the new chief was simply pleased to have received solid physical evidence that wrapped up the case.

“So what’s going on in here?” Karen asked, pointing at the community center. “Anything worth lookin
g
at?”

“Mostly promotional kiosks for local businesses. Okay if you like collecting keychain giveaways and four-color brochures
.
The real fun is at Sunset Farms. That’s where the best food is and the best music.”

“Sounds good,” Hank said. “What are we waiting for?”

“Hot air balloon rides, too,” Branham added.

“There you go, Karen,” Hank said. “Just what you wanted.”

“
N
ot a chance. Forget it.”

“You’re not afraid to fly, are you?” Branham couldn’t believe it.
“You flew in the helicopter.”

“
I’m not real crazy about it.
Four wheels on pavement, that’s me.”

“Let’s go check out the music, anyway,” Hank said.

Branham’s
personal vehicle
was
a silver 2009 BMW 335
. They followed him
several miles down the road, creeping along in the heavy traffic until they reached the entrance to Sunset Farms. Another
s
heriff’s deputy was directing traffic
,
and Karen drummed impatiently on the steering wheel as Branham shot the breeze with the deputy for
half an eternity
before finally turning into the driveway.
Karen swung in behind
him
.
T
hey crept up to the field where volunteers were pointing out empty parking spots. She parked next to Branham and when they piled out
he wasted no time grabbing Karen’s elbow and steering her toward the next field where a large blue and red hot air balloon sat tethered, waiting for its next
load
of passengers.

“No way,” Karen protested, “not a chance. Don’t make me hurt you.”

“Bullshit,” Branham scoffed, “you’ll love it. You
can
see th
e whole
mountain from up there, it’s unbelievable.” He looked over his shoulder. “Are you coming, Janice?”

Riley shook her head. “You two have your fun. I’m going to find the beer tent.”

“Suit yourself. Lieutenant?”

“Maybe later.”

As they watched Branham and Karen disappear among the parked cars, Riley turned to Hank. “Your girlfriend
sure likes Neil a lot.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Hank said, looking at the hot air balloon. “She’s a
colleague. E
ngaged to an FBI special agent.”

When he turned back, the woman
had already walked away.

Hank
slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and
wandered toward the sound of live music. A bandstand had been set up in a field behind the barns
. A
group of
four
musicians were playing a blend of bluegrass and country. Hank joined a small but appreciative crowd. A young woman with long, straight
brown
hair gathered into a bun at the back of her head sang lead vocals and played the guitar
. A
heavy-set young man with a ponytail and beard played banjo, an older woman with
short black hair played fiddle
,
and a
gray
-haired man played an acoustic bass fiddle. Hank stood through several songs before
catching the eye of
the woman next to him.

“Who are they?”

“They’re called The Hillside Revival Band,” she said, “
from
Tennessee.”

“They’re good.”

She beamed at him. “You think so? The guy on the string bass is my husband, Terry
James
.” She held out her hand. “I’m Mary Ellen
James
.”

“Hank Donaghue,” he replied, shaking her hand. “Have they recorded anything?”

The woman reached into the big handbag looped over her left forearm and produced a compact disk. “Just the one, so far. It’s twenty dollars, if you’re interested.”

Hank gave her a twenty and slipped the CD into his
messenger bag
. The set finished
,
and Mary Ellen hurried off toward the stage.

Hank’s nostrils twitched.
T
he odor o
f barbecue smoke
was
coming from somewhere on the other side of the bandstand
. He
decided
it was time
to find the food concessions. He followed the milling crowd to the edge of the bandstand and found himself next to the woman who had been singing on stage. She was unstrapping her guitar, her guitar case open on the ground in front of her. Hank admired the guitar and found himself making eye contact with
her
.

“That’s a Wayne Henderson,” he said, nodding at the guitar. “It’s beautiful.” The guitar was made of Brazilian rosewood and spruce
. Its
shaded top
was
golden and ruddy brown
,
tones
that complemented the
tortoiseshell pick guard, bright chrome tuning pegs
,
and the Henderson logo inlaid in the headstock.

She looked at him, mildly surprised. “Yes, it is.
Do you know him?”

“No, not at all. I’ve never actually seen one of his guitars before, and definitely never heard one live before. It has a beautiful sound.”

“It sure does. I won it in a statewide songwriting contest
when I was in high school
. I could never
have
afford
ed
to buy it
on my own
.”

“You play it very well,” Hank said. “You do it justice.”

“Why, thank you. And what’s your name, again?”

“Hank Donaghue.”

She stuck out her hand. “Martha Dexter, Mr. Donaghue. Visiting the area, are you?”

“From Maryland. On vacation.”

“What do you do for a living?”

“I’m a cop.”

“No you’re not.”

He pulled the CD out of his
messenger bag
. “Would you mind autographing it for me?”

She
smiled
. “Sure. Why not?”

Hank found his pen,
peeled the cellophane from the CD,
slipped the front booklet from the jewel case and handed
it and the pen
to her. She signed the booklet and gave it back to him.
He put
the booklet
back
in the jewel case
and
returned
it
to
his
messenger bag
. Then he took out his wallet and gave her one of his business cards. “If you ever pass through my neck of the woods and need anything, give me a call.”