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“What’s good here?” Bozeman asked as he set down the menu and looked around to check what other people were eating.
“It’s Friday night, so it’s the pot roast that usually brings folks in. Meatloaf is pretty good too. Burgers are always a safe bet,” Sam said.
“What about the catfish?” I asked.
“I’ve never had it, but lots of people seem to enjoy that, too.”
The server approached the table and dropped off glasses of water for the women and a beer for Bozeman. “Have you decided on what you want for dinner?” she asked with her pen hovering an inch above her order pad.
Sam took a quick drink and set down her glass. “Lisa, this is my friend Codi, and her partner, Bozeman. They’re the musicians I booked for tomorrow night. Lisa and her husband, Rob, own this place and are doing the catering for the event.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Lisa said. She wiped her hand on her apron and shook with Codi and Bozeman. Lisa stood five-seven and had a bright shock of red hair atop her head, and dimples in both cheeks.
“Likewise,” I said.
Bozeman tipped his hat in his cowboy way. He preferred to stay in character when out in public.
Bozeman ordered the pot roast, I ordered the meatloaf with a side salad, no dressing, and Sam opted for a burger.
“Codi says we’ll be playing during dinner?” Bozeman said after a long draw on his beer.
“For some of it, anyway,” Sam said. “The plan is to get the ceremony kicked off. Then, the important folks in the room will be introduced, dinner will start, and we’d like you to play for around twenty minutes. After that, there will be some speeches from the mayor and a couple of others while dessert is served.”
“What about after?” Bozeman asked.
“After the dinner, it becomes a little more informal, so you can play for as long as you want to, or rather, as long as the agreed fee lasts. It was four hundred, correct?”
I nodded. “I hate to charge you at all, but we’ve got to cover our expenses.”
“Don’t be silly, Codi. Of course you should charge for being here. Everyone who is providing a service is getting paid. It’s not a benefit, it’s more of an awareness campaign. That reminds me, here.” Sam reached around and pulled an envelope from her back pocket. “Here’s the cash.”
I took the envelope, and without opening it, folded it and shoved it into the front pocket of my jeans. “Thanks. Tell us about the event. What’s it about, a fundraiser or something, right?”
“Well, see that guy over there at the table by the window? Wearing jeans and a sport coat and talking like he’s trying to draw attention to himself?”
Although Bozeman had a straight view, I had to turn almost all the way around to look at where Sam was pointing with her fork. Near the front window sat a party of five. The man sat in the center of the table, with his back to the window so he could look at everyone in the restaurant. Two people sat on either side of him, and the fellow in question was telling a story more loudly and more animated than the story probably dictated. From where I sat, if I concentrated, I barely heard his voice, but between the distance from him and the other conversations around me, I didn’t make out the words. I turned back around to face the people at my table.
“That’s Sherman Stier. He’s our local real estate mogul. He owns a bunch of land outside of town, and he’s trying to get support to build a golf course and resort out there. Those people he’s with are potential investors he’s brought in from Phoenix, Taos, and Albuquerque. They initially proposed this event to rebuild and rebrand Main Street and generate more tourist business for the town. You know, spiffy things up a little, make this town a stop for people looking to get off the interstate and get a taste of the good old days. The committee has been working on the plan for seven months.”
“Who’s on the committee?” Bozeman asked.
“Most of the business owners on Main Street, since we’re the ones most affected by the increase in tourist traffic. Me, Rob and Lisa, the mayor, the owner of the Quincey Inn, and a few others. You’ll meet most of them tomorrow night if you want to. Oh, and Sherman, of course. He’s the chair of the committee.”
“The mayor isn’t the chair?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that make the most sense?”
“No, she isn’t. Everyone assumed she would be the chairperson, but she declined. She’s got enough to worry about trying to run the town. To her credit, she’s gotten us pretty far in the three years she’s been mayor. Did you notice the potholes on Main Street when you drove in?”
Bozeman leaned forward in his chair. “I don’t recall seeing any.”
“That’s because after probably a good twenty years of complaining, the new mayor got them all patched up. Even installed pretty cobblestone crosswalks at every intersection around downtown. She’s also been working hard at getting the local schools updated, and the water quality improved.”
“She sounds like a go-getter,” I said.
Sam nodded. “Sure is. She would’ve been the perfect choice to lead the committee. Unfortunately, we’re stuck with Sherman.”
“Is he doing a terrible job?” I asked.
“Let’s say he has a tendency to push things in directions that will benefit him the most.”
“Like the golf course?” I asked.
Sam nodded. “Exactly like that. Although he claims that bringing people into his resort will be good for the town too. A rising tide and all that.”
I spied Lisa approaching with a tray of food. Behind her trailed a tall, thin man in a chef’s coat. While Lisa passed out our food, she introduced her husband. “Rob, this here is Codi and Bozeman. They’re the singers for tomorrow.”
Rob offered his hand. “Glad to meet you,” he said. As Lisa finished food distribution, Rob simply stared at me. After a moment, he scratched his buzz-cut head and walked away.
Lisa’s cheeks turned red from embarrassment. “You’ll have to excuse him. He’s a little shy around celebrities.”
I spotted him rushing back from the kitchen with his phone in hand. “I’m not really a celebrity. And he can’t be that shy. He’s coming back.”
Rob reached the table and turned his phone so I recognized the person on the screen. “Is this you?”
It only took me a glance to determine he had pulled up the video of my one hit song. It was an excellent song, but I always hated the video. The producer headed in a much different creative direction than I wanted to, but I was only a kid and didn’t have a clue what was going on, so what did I know? “Yep, that’s me.”
Rob smiled widely. “I knew that was you the second I saw you. My gosh. I loved that video. Can I get a selfie with you? And maybe an autograph?”
In my peripheral vision, I saw Bozeman smirk. He wasn’t big on being approached by fans, but I didn’t mind. I always figured it was the fans who bought CDs and tickets and other merchandise. It was the fans who showed up at county fairs and other gigs. It was the fans who waited for the show in heat or cold or rain. I never turned a fan away. “Of course.”
I stood and pushed away from the table, and I stepped closer to Rob and put my arm around him. Rob handed the phone to Lisa. Since there was a good foot’s height difference between Rob and me, Lisa had to back up almost into the lap of the person at the table behind her. After a few photos, Lisa shooed Rob back to the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry about that,” Lisa said.
“No worries, it happens all the time. I’ve got some promo photos on the bus. I’ll sign one of those for him and give it to him at the event tomorrow,” I said.
“That would make his day,” Lisa said. “I’ll leave you to dinner. If y’all need anything, just call.”
I retook my seat and adjusted myself in front of the meatloaf and dug in. I was famished, despite the giant muffin I had eaten earlier.
“That happen often?” Sam asked. “Getting asked for pictures and autographs?”
“It all depends. Usually on show nights I’ll get asked for a dozen or more, and occasionally someone will recognize me out in public and ask, but most people will leave me alone. I don’t really mind, though. It’s all a part of the business. The way you bake those muffins, people should ask for your autograph.”
Sam laughed, put down her burger, and wiped her fingers on the napkin. “Well, I get asked for recipes now and then, but that’s not quite the same thing.”
“Sure, it is,” I said. “You provide something that people love, and they want to share that experience. Do you ever give them the recipes?”
Sam leaned in until our foreheads almost touched. “Yes, but to be honest, it’s not the complete recipe. I always leave out the secret ingredients, so their version never comes out quite like mine. Nothing to make the recipe fail, mind you, just something that will make their finished product just a little different from mine.”
“That’s really smart,” I said. “Keeps them coming back for yours.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
Bozeman finished his meal, drained his beer, and stood. “Excuse me, ladies. I have some work to finish on the bus. It was nice to meet you, Sam. I look forward to seeing you again tomorrow.” Bozeman winked at her, then walked toward the door.
“He likes you,” I said.
“How can you tell?” Sam asked.
“We’ve been partners for a long time. I could tell just by how he wouldn’t stop jabbering.”
Sam took the last bite of her burger and washed it down. “Jabbering? I don’t think he said over six sentences.”
“Yeah, but that’s a lot for him. He’s the strong, silent type. You’ll see more of his personality on the stage tomorrow night.”
“Didn’t he just leave you with the bill? Shouldn’t the cowboy pay? Is chivalry dead?” Sam asked.
“Not in this case. Whether he pays, or I do, it comes from the same business account. So, consider it a company expense,” I said.
“Ah, gotcha. That makes sense. You didn’t eat your salad.”
“Oh, yeah, thanks for the reminder.” I pulled a plastic gallon-sized bag from my pocket, and discretely as possible, dumped the salad into the bag and sealed it up.
Sam looked at me like I had a third arm sprouting from my chin.
“It’s for my pets,” I explained as I set the salad next to the leg of my chair.
Sam looked like she didn’t believe me.
I was about to offer a more in-depth explanation about the kids when someone slipped into Bozeman’s chair.
“Hi,” the man said. He was wearing a Toronto Blue Jays windbreaker and hat to match.
“Codi Cassidy, meet Dean Williams,” Sam said. “Dean is our local historian.”
“In training,” Dean said as he shook my hand. “Fourth generation, actually. My great-grandfather started it, and it just got passed down from there.”
“I would’ve figured you for a tourist,” I said.
“Nah, I’m just a big baseball fan. Just got home last week from my yearly pilgrimage to baseball parks. This year I hit Toronto, Detroit, Cleveland, and Cincinnati. I’m trying to get to a game at every stadium. I’m about halfway there.”
“That’s interesting,” I said.
“Are you in town for the big event?” Dean asked.
“She’s the singer,” Sam said.
“No kidding. I look forward to the show then. Hey, listen, can I take Sam away for a minute or two? Just some committee members’ stuff.”
I opened my mouth to reply, but Sam beat me to it. “That’s rude. Whatever you can say to me, you can say in front of her. She’s my friend.”
Dean looked at me. “I meant no offense.” He turned back to Sam. “It’s not about her overhearing. It’s just kind of busy in here, don’t you think?”
I saw the almost imperceptible shift of his head toward the front table. Sam caught it too.
“Oh. I understand. Yes, it is loud in here. Let’s go outside and talk for a moment. Codi, I’ll be right back, okay?”
I smiled my best smile. “Of course. Take your time.”
Dean took Sam by the hand and led the way, and I turned my head to watch them leave the diner. Then I shifted into Bozeman’s seat, so I had a better view of the place. Like Bozeman, I always preferred a seat with my back to the wall so I could monitor everything going on around me. It wasn’t a cowboy thing, but something my father had taught me.
Brian Cassidy, my father, was a detective for as long as I could remember. He worked for the Denver Police Department, and since I was an inquisitive kid, I always had questions about the cases he worked on. Although he would divulge no personal information, so I never knew the ‘who’, he always shared the tips and tricks he used to figure out who the criminal was. During that time, I also had a love of police procedurals on television. We would watch those together and he would tell me what would work in real life, and what would work only in Hollywood. By the time I got to my teens, we’d discuss his cases, and I would tell him what I would do if I were the detective. More often than not, I was on the right track of what clues to look for. By far, the biggest skill he taught me was the power of observation. He often said that I could learn more at a crime scene, just sitting in a chair and watching a suspect pool than I could with all the fancy DNA evidence shown on TV. He said that’s where most shows got it wrong. The detective’s job was narrowing the suspect list until it was down to just one, and it was the court’s job to prove it.
My mom, Christina Cassidy, was where I got my love of music from. It was mom who taught me the guitar and the piano. She was the one who got me into music theory and songwriting, and it was she who first supported my first public appearance at my ninth-grade talent show. In the summer when school was out, mom would let me travel with her to local shows. I’d help set up her equipment, or change her guitar strings, or run lines for the amps. I learned from her all about stage presence and how to work with an audience, and how to create a set list to keep the crowd from being bored. Interestingly enough, she also taught me about the power of observation. She drilled into my head that when on stage, I always had to be aware of who was out there and what they were doing. You never knew if someone was going to cause trouble. And when trouble started, it was best to grab the guitar and head backstage if the venue had one, or head for the door if it didn’t.
I didn’t really know what she meant, but the more shows I went to, the more shows I spent sitting in the wings and watching the audience while listening to her. I could tell who was there to have fun, who had a little too much to drink, who was looking for love, and who was looking for trouble.
I learned a lot of lessons from both my parents, lessons that I still carried with me and worked to hone every time I was out in public or up on a stage.
What I learned while I was sitting alone at the diner waiting for Sam to return was that people didn’t seem to care for Mr. Sherman Stier. As the locals entered or left the diner, they stopped at other tables to share handshakes with friends. I noticed several friendly slaps on the back, and a bunch of quick snippets of conversations, but none with Sherman. In fact, most people seemed to avoid his table altogether. That didn’t seem quite right to me, and I wondered why, but since I had no one to ask, I held onto my question in my head.
I saw Lisa approaching the table, so I emptied my glass of water and put on a smile.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Ms. Codi. Sam called and said she’d be away for longer than expected, so she asked me to tell you not to wait for her.”
“Okay. Thank you. If give me the bill, I’ll settle up and be on my way then.”
Lisa waved her hands back and forth as if trying to ward off a demon. “No. There’s no charge. If Rob heard I made his favorite country star pay for dinner, I’d never hear the end of it. He’d bug me about it from now until judgment day.”
I reached into my pocket for my wallet. “At least let me leave you a tip, then. The service was excellent.”
Lisa begged that off as well. “No. Please. If you can remember that signed photo for Rob, and that will more than make up for a tip.”
I put my wallet back. “Thank you so much, but please, the next time I’m here, I’ll pay like any other customer.”
Lisa nodded and left to check on the other tables. I grabbed my bagged salad and left the diner.
The diner was only two blocks from the bakery, so we had walked there. It was a beautiful New Mexico night. The stars were coming out, and the moon was bright. I would’ve loved to get out into the desert and away from the city lights to really appreciate the night sky, but I knew I had other things to do. As I walked to the bakery, I passed the historical museum, which was on the opposite side of the street. I noticed downstairs all the lights were out, but on the second floor, there was a light on. Although someone had drawn the curtains, I could see animated shadows pacing back and forth in front of the window, as if in a heated discussion. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was Sam and Dean. Were they lovers having a quarrel? Was there something else going on? Either way, it wasn’t my business.
It was just after seven the next morning, and I was sitting outside the bus on my favorite lawn chair with Merle on my lap. He was a playful fellow who enjoyed getting his belly scratched. From where I was sitting, I saw Sam come out of the bakery’s back door and walk toward me with her head down. It was body language I remembered from long ago when we hung out together. Sam was feeling penitent. She stopped a couple feet in front of me, lifted her chin, and looked me in the eye.
“I’m sorry about leaving you alone in the diner last night. Dean and I had some ... committee business to discuss.”
I thought about letting her go on, and giving her the business about her ditching me, but honestly, I couldn’t do it. I was never one to hold grudges, especially over something so minor. “It’s okay. I understand.”
Sam took a step closer. “That’s a pretty cat.”
At that moment, Merle did a circle in my lap, revealing his striped tail before settling back down.
Sam took two steps backward. “Is that a skunk?”
I lifted him up so she could see him better. “This is Merle. Don’t worry, he can’t spray. Come, say hello.”
Sam didn’t move.
“Come on, you chicken, he’s okay. Come feed him a tomato and he’ll be your friend forever.” I reached for the salad bag at my feet, extracted a couple of cherry tomatoes, and held them for Sam to take.
Merle watched the transaction with great interest as Sam took the fruit from my hands and took a hesitant step closer. She held out a tomato, and Merle reached forward with his paws, grabbed it from her, and nibbled at it. A drop of tomato juice appeared on his chin, and I wiped it away without thinking about it.
“Why in the world do you have a pet skunk?” Sam asked.
“I rescued him from a vet when I had to take my cat in for a tooth removal. He was in the cage right next to Gibson, and they looked almost like twins, so I took them both home. Skunks are smart and sociable animals. You can scratch his belly if you like.”
“Thanks, I’ll pass on that. You have a cat and a skunk? Do they get along okay?” Sam gave Merle the second tomato, who had made quick work of the first one.
I nodded. “You should see them together. I think they think the other is part of their own species. For most of the time, they all get along fine.”
“All?”
“See anything interesting under the front fender of the bus?”
Sam bent at the waist, looked for several seconds, and straightened. “Is that a raccoon?”
I nodded. “That’s Dolly, the famous three-legged raccoon. She’s part of the family, but you’ll want to watch your wallet around her. Despite being down a paw, she’s a formidable pickpocket. Willie and Waylon are somewhere around here, too. They’re a couple of chipmunks who live in a nest in a rusted-out spot in the back of my bus.”
“And you travel with this menagerie?”
“Yep, we’re one big, happy family.” I lifted Merle from my lap and set him on the ground. He nuzzled my leg with his nose, then went off to join Dolly under the bus. “What’s the plan today?”
“I’ve got bread and a couple pies to bake for tonight, and then I have to be at the event early to set up.”
“What time can I get into the venue? We have to set up and do a sound check.”
“I’ll be there around four, so you can come anytime you want after that. It’s being held in the hall of the First Baptist Church, which is about five blocks from here. Go down to Adams, turn right, and you can’t miss it from there. It’s the only enormous church on that street. There’s a small lot in the back, and I’ll cone off some room for your bus so people don’t park there.”
“I appreciate that. You need any help?” I asked.
“You have nothing you need to do for your show?”
“Not really. We worked out the set list last night, and I’d like to go over it with you to see if there’re any changes you’d like. Other than that, all I need to do is restring a guitar, but that won’t take any more time than fifteen minutes,” I said.
“Well, come along then. We’ll talk about the music, and I’ll make a baker out of you.”
Somehow, I doubted that.
