Enough already,” I grumbled.
A slap of my arm sent my jangling alarm clock onto the rug, where it seemed to sound off in even louder protest. When a pillow pulled over my head failed to muffle the noise, I snapped upright and marched across the floor. Removed the battery. Climbed back into bed.
I was still clutching the Energizer AA when my brother shook me awake.
“Aramis, it’s four twenty-nine.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Aren’t you coming to send us off?”
“The tour …”
“On our own Prevost bus, if you can believe that.”
“Okay. Gimme a couple minutes.”
“Sure you’re awake, kid?”
I rubbed my eyes, saw his face swim into focus. “Think so.”
“Stay put, if you want. We’re swingin’ back through town Thursday, and you can send me off then.”
“This Thursday?”
“On our way back for a show in Little Rock.”
“No, I’m up.” I swung my feet to the floor. “I’m your biggest fan.”
“Not my prettiest.”
“Wait till I put on my makeup.”
“See ya there.” He waved from my doorway.
“Hold on.” I pulled on shorts and flip-flops. “Need to ask you something.”
“Gotta go.”
“It’s about Mom.”
He stiffened. “The band’s gonna be waitin’ for me.”
“They’re musicians. They’ll be late.”
“Here. Yak at me while we load up the truck.”
We shouldered loads from the living room to his Ford Ranger. Lemon and violet streaked the predawn sky while birds chirped in anticipation of a balmy Monday.
“That note.” I tossed a gym bag into the pickup. “Remember, the one with Mom’s handwriting?”
“What about it?”
“Did you read it all the way through? It talked about a Masonic ring, something that might’ve been hidden with my inheritance.”
“Which you won’t touch.”
“Just trying to make an honest buck these days.”
“And I’m not knockin’ that.” A street lamp winked off as Johnny closed the tailgate. “Tell me this though. How’d you know about the ring?”
“You still think I made up that note?”
“Don’t know what to think.”
“There is a ring then?”
“Was.”
“Past tense?”
“Had some Latin writing on it, dated 1644.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Would I make that up? And, yeah, there were some old Masonic symbols. I’m into that stuff. The term Freemason was used as far back as the 1300s. Some people think they were tied to the Knights Templar.” He climbed into the truck, rolled down the window. “Well, I noticed something on the ring’s band, a family name. Fair’s fair, so I did some searchin’, tracked down and contacted the owner’s descendants. I mailed the ring to a woman in Silverton, Oregon.”
“You did what?”
“She was the youngest and most direct descendant.”
“I need that ring!”
“Sorry, man. It’s hers now. She sent a thank-you letter, seemed real appreciative.”
“What’s her name?”
He fired up the engine, combed hair out of his eyes. “Here’s my advice. Drop it. Let it go. Whatever foolishness you’re mixed up in, don’t let it drag you down again. You nearly got yourself killed last year, and this time around you’ve lost an ex-girlfriend. Just leave it be.”
“But Mom’s alive!”
“You think I don’t wanna believe that? ’Course I do.”
“It’s the truth.”
“You’re stirrin’ up old ghosts, kid. I’m outta here.”
I ran back inside, pulled on jeans and the special T-shirt I had printed up. Stamped in gray over a black Stetson, the name Johnny Ray Black dangles silver spurs from the tails of both Ys.
Eight minutes later I was at Desperado Artist Development, parked behind a maroon and black tour bus that dominated the curb along Sixteenth. The bustle of band members, belongings, and schedules kept me from cornering my brother again. Sammie had shown too, tired but obviously excited. She gave a little wave.
Chigger lumbered by with his guitar case slung across his back. He wore a Lynyrd Skynyrd tank top. On his thick right arm, an executioner’s ax gleamed in the breaking dawn. Avoiding my eyes, he kept his head down and bumped into me as he climbed on the bus.
Through Black’s panoramic windows, the Italianate Kirkland Hall bell tower on Vanderbilt’s campus told me I had twenty minutes until opening. Time for the local homeless to grab a cup of joe.
“Come in, come in,” I urged the raggedy line on the Elliston sidewalk.
Insulated coffeepots faced out along the mahogany counter so that each person could choose his or her own poison. Sweeteners and half-and-half stood at the end. A few slipped back to the rest rooms to freshen up after a long night on hard surfaces. A few others—the ones I really worried about—seemed beyond caring.
“Artemis.”
“Hey.” I turned at the tap on my back. “S’up, Freddy?”
In my experience, those who live on the streets are wary of human touch and rarely initiate it. My friend’s gesture was one of trust.
“He’s gone. I watched him go.”
“Chigger?”
“Shh,” Freddy said. “Not so loud.”
“Yeah, the band just headed out for their tour.”
“But his people, they’re still around.”
“The Kraftsmen.” Resting on my metal desk, the pamphlet he’d given me was full of vitriol and hate, assuring me I shouldn’t blow off his paranoia. “Go on. Grab your drink.”
He poured himself a cup of Costa Rican and dropped a Sacajawea dollar in the tip mug. Seen from behind, with his brushed-back hair, oversize wool coat, and scuffed walking boots, he could’ve been a fireside companion of Tennessee’s Davy Crockett or a trail guide for a weather-beaten explorer. An explorer like Meriwether Lewis.
My mind was still scrambling for clues, turning over stones. Who could I trust? Yesterday, despite our growing bond, I’d even suspected my well-meaning friend.
If Freddy were involved, would he be standing in my shop? He could’ve simply disappeared if he wanted. Yes, he was homeless. Eccentric. So one out of four such men are felons.
This was Freddy C—C for Circumstantial evidence.
“We’re still on for this afternoon?” I asked. “Two o’clock?”
“You drive, and I’ll tell you where to turn.”
I’d done that routine before. Still had an X on my cheek as proof.
“My car’s in the back alley,” I said. “Just meet me out there later.”
Freddy held up two fingers—the peace sign or the time?—then wandered away.
Customers kept me occupied through the morning. Diesel clocked in and helped alleviate the load. Between drink orders, he tested me on his notes from social psych and tossed in pop quizzes. I mustered some workplace enthusiasm and tried to play along, but he wasn’t fooled.
“You look kind of dour today, Aramis.”
“Dour? This is my cheery face.”
“Just don’t wear it around the kiddies, or you’ll make them cry.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“How’d it go last night? At Sara’s place?”
He grinned. “You were right. She likes me.”
“Ahh. You owe me one, dude.”
“Listen, I need to ask you something.” The chime of the front door cut me off. “After this,” I said, and we went about handling the customers like a well-oiled machine. Business as usual.
Afterward, while wiping down tables in the dining area, I returned to my interrogation.
“You’re in an honor society, right?”
“Psi Chi.”
“What about your dad? Wasn’t he in one of those?”
“Why all this interest in my father? Honest, my parents are boring people.”
I stopped wiping. I wanted to tell him that Mr. Hillcrest was at the top of my suspects list. There was the Hyundai, his presence at the hotel, his anger toward my family, and his self-righteous attitude.
“He just seems to have a thing against my brother and me,” I replied.
“He uses his intellect and moral standards to intimidate people. A control thing—that’s all it is. It’s part of his parenting philosophy too, but I think he probably had the same type of upbringing.”
“Ultrareligious parents?”
“His mother, she was a real Bible thumper. All hellfire and brimstone.”
“That explains it.”
“What?”
“He threw scriptures at me like they were knives.”
“There you go. That’s Drexel Hillcrest in a nutshell.”
I straightened a display of Back-in-Black coffee bags. Due to recent events, I’d skipped my weekly coffee roasting, and retail supplies were running low. Life slowed down for nobody. I made a note to come in Tuesday night to replenish my stock.
“In part, it’s my own fault,” Diesel confided.
“What?”
“The past week or two I’ve been hanging with Johnny Ray. He’s such a regular guy, you know, when he comes in the shop. And the parties are mostly innocuous. Good luck convincing my father of that though. The first time Johnny invited me out to Chigger’s, we had a few drinks, sat around listening to the guys jam.”
“I’ve never been to Chigger’s.”
“Sweet place. Lots of land and one of those big, modern log cabins. He’s got two dogs the size of racehorses. Bull mastiffs, I think.”
“Mastiffs, huh?”
“And there’s this triple-car garage. I’m told he has some amazing wheels parked in there, but I haven’t been inside.”
“Guess he’s earned some perks, being a Music Row hotshot.”
“Nah, I doubt he’s earned it all himself. He has tons of pictures on his walls, relatives dating back to before the Civil War. He’s into that stuff. I bet that land’s belonged to his family for generations.”
“Did he tell you about the Kraftsmen?”
“The who?”
“No. They were one of those sixties bands.”
Diesel’s expression went blank.
“Never mind. Hey, is your dad coming back to Nashville anytime soon?”
“Not that he’s told me.”
“No plans to be here on Thursday?”
“I hope not. That’s just what I need with school finally out, him breathing down my neck.”
In the early afternoon, Sammie called and told me she’d found a temp to cover Anna’s shift. Anna was hidden away, comfy on Tyne Boulevard, while the cops—with gentle but unyielding pressure from Miss Rosewood—were checking into Mr. Knight’s record for any history of violence or domestic altercations.
“And I’ll be in to close the store,” Sammie ended.
“That’d be great. You remember the alarm code?”
“The date you moved to Nashville, if I’m not mistaken.”
“And the day we first met.”
“That’s right.” She gave a warm sigh. “We were in Davis-Kidd, and you were looking for books on small-business loans.”
“That’s how it all started.”
“A wonderful partnership. Thank you, by the way, for escorting us home last night. A very nice gesture.”
“I’m learning.”
“Yes, I know.” She paused. “I don’t want you to be worried about the shop this evening. You go to Lipscomb and pass that class with flying colors.”
“Thanks, Sammie.” I thought of my plans to visit Chigger’s place at two this afternoon. “One other thing. You know where I could get any horse tranquilizers?”
“That’s an odd question for a man without a horse.”
“More like some nasty big dogs.”
“Acepromazine would do the trick. ACP. My vet keeps it on hand.”
“If you called in an order, do you think he’d let me pick it up?”
“She,” Sammie corrected. “You taking up animal rescue now?”
“Got a couple of dogs who just need a long, lazy nap, that’s all.”
“I wonder about you, Aramis. Sometimes I really wonder.”