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“The locks are backward.”
I turned around and spotted a short, plump man standing before me. He wore blue jeans, a checkered shirt that reminded me of a tablecloth, and a light brown sports coat with a carnation pinned to the lapel.
“Hanson Johns. I own the flower shop up the block.” He thrust a meaty hand forward, and I shook it.
“Codi Cassidy. What did you say about the locks?”
“Someone installed them backward. Unlocked means locked, and the reverse.”
I looked down and stepped on one lock, then the other. I already detected a noticeable difference in the way the large instrument handled.
“Let me help with that.” Hanson stepped over and took a side. Together, we rolled it to the back wall and reset the locks. “You need a pianist tonight? I’m quite good.” Without waiting for an answer, Hanson sat behind the piano and played a little Mozart for me. He was right, he played well.
“That was fantastic. Do you know any country songs?” I asked.
Hanson said nothing, but his reddening ears told me all I needed to know.
I smiled. “Tell you what, you learn some country tunes, and the next time we come through you can sit in with us, okay?”
I overheard someone clear his throat. I turned around and caught a look from Pastor Tom that told me he didn’t seem happy. “Hanson, come on. We need your help.”
Hanson blushed again and left the stage in a hurry.
Bozeman returned with a second load, dropped the gear off, and left again. Included in the pile sat my laptop, that played an essential role in our operation. I opened the laptop and placed it on top of the piano. The laptop contained all the programming for our show, and, other than my music, was the thing I had the most pride in. I had cobbled together a program that would run a lighting and sound system for any set list I selected. Besides lights and sound balances, it also provided the remaining members of the band.
We had backing tracks included in there for much of the music we performed. I had everything from fiddles, to slide guitars, to banjos, to our electronic drummer that I had affectionately named Ringo. Usually, some in the music circle frowned on the backing tracks, but I liked them because they gave the act a much richer sound than only the two of us provided. And I made it a point to mention that what the audience viewed on stage was the real deal. I sang, and Bozeman did background vocals, and we each played our instruments in real time. Usually, the first couple of numbers we did were acoustic ones, so the audience understood it was us doing the work. Once I brought in the backing tracks later, they didn’t distract from the performance. I had set up most of the gig beforehand, but I had a few variables to plug into the program. I needed to turn off the lighting options and enter the rough dimensions of the room. The rest I’d adjust during the sound check.
When I turned around, I spotted Bozeman who had returned and seemed busy setting up the PA system we used on smaller gigs. He attached a cable and tossed the other end to me, which I caught on the fly and plugged into the laptop. Bozeman positioned the speakers while I followed him and ran the cables and electrical. After that, he got out his guitar and fussed with all his pedals. I set out the guitar and microphone stands, then the microphones, then hooked up the remaining cables to tie it all together.
Bozeman sat, tuning his guitar, and I checked the space for mine. “Where’s my Martin?”
Bozeman looked up. “You tell me. I didn’t see it in the locker, so I have no clue.”
I slapped my hand against my forehead. “That’s right. It’s on my bed. I’ll come right back. Are we missing anything else?”
Bozeman glanced around the area, shook his head no, then returned to his tuning.
I jumped from the stage and rushed out to the bus. My Martin laid right where I had put it when I restrung it. I slipped it into its case and closed it up. As I stepped from the bus, I noticed a delivery van parked three spots over. The back door stood open, and I saw Hanson removing a large box, which I assumed contained flowers or table centerpieces. Next to Hanson stood Rob, and I noticed Rob wasn’t happy about something because he kept jabbing Hanson in the shoulder. From my position, I noticed the back of Hanson’s neck redden. Hanson handed Rob the box, then removed one for himself. He used his hip to close the van door, and they both disappeared into the church.
I set my guitar case on the ground and reentered the bus. From a small file cabinet in the gear room, I took out a glossy promotional photo, scribbled a message and my signature on it, and left the bus.
When I returned to the gymnasium, I placed the photo on the piano next to the computer and opened my guitar case and checked the tuning. Once my guitar and the rest of the gear sounded up to my standards, I looked over at Bozeman.
“Ready for a sound check?” I asked.
In typical Bozeman fashion, he nodded and powered on all the equipment and made sure everything worked properly. He gave me the thumbs up, and I approached my microphone. “Hey everyone. We’re going to do a quick sound check.”
I did a four-count and together we launched into a Lee Ann Womack song. As I sang, I looked out at the audience, which comprised those setting up the room for the event. I saw Sam and Dean straightening tables and laying down tablecloths. Hanson placed floral arrangements on each table. Lisa and Rob arranged place settings, and Pastor Tom helped Reba put up red, white, and blue bunting on the walls to add a little more color to the spartan gym. There were other people I didn’t know doing various chores, but I saw everything was coming together bit by bit.
Once Bozeman felt his gear was working fine, he stepped off the stage and stood in various areas of the room and watched me play. He came back, made minor adjustments to the speakers, and changed the volume on the PA, then returned to the far wall. He listened intently as I repeated a chorus and gave me the thumbs up. I stopped playing, turned on the computer, and started a backing track. Bozeman stayed at his location, then soon gave me a second thumbs up. I turned off the track and stepped back to the microphone.
“Thanks everyone. That’ll do it for now.”
It did not surprise me when I got a smattering of applause and a random ‘woo-hoo’ from someone I didn’t recognize. I set my guitar on the stand and turned off the electronics until show time.
“Did everything sound okay?” I asked Bozeman when he returned to the stage.
“As good as it can. It’s not the Ryman, but it’ll do for this show.”
I was about to respond when I sensed a loud crash. I looked up just in time to spot Sam racing out of the gym with Dean hot on her heels. The amazing thing was everyone else in the room went back to what they were doing, as if Sam’s actions were a normal occurrence.
“I’ll be right back,” I said to Bozeman, then rushed out of the room without trying to look like I was rushing out of the room.
With haste, I exited the church and looked around the parking lot, but I spotted neither Sam nor Dean. I caught a commotion from the sidewalk, and even before I reached the end of the building, I heard voices.
“Sam, I’m telling you, we all agree. We have to do something about him before it’s too late. We have to act. Now. As soon as possible,” Dean said.
“And I’m telling you, I can’t go along with you. That’s not me.”
“It’s not me, either. Or Lisa, or Hanson, or any of the others. But there’s no other choice. Do you really want to lose your bakery? That means everything to you.”
There came a long pause, a perfect chance to step around the corner and announce my presence, but something held me back. I didn’t want it to seem like I was eavesdropping, but on the other hand, I had an instinct to jump in feet first to protect my friend. I waited.
Sam’s voice seemed quieter, yet more intense. “I won’t lose my bakery. Ever. We’d better get back in there. We somehow need to make it through this sideshow of an evening. Then we can figure out what to do.”
I took that as my cue. I felt like a kid listening in on my parents, and I didn’t want to get caught, so I ran as fast as I could to the bus, threw open the door, and scrambled up the steps. As I caught my breath, I looked out a window and spotted Sam and Dean walking around the corner. Dean went on ahead while Sam stood and stared in my direction, and I wondered if they had caught me.
From the kitchen, I loaded a cooler with a half dozen bottles of water, caught my breath, and left the bus carrying the cooler. Sam stood still in her position. As I got closer, I saw her eyes glistening, as if she’d either just finished or just begun crying.
“What are you doing out here?” I asked in my most innocent voice.
Sam wiped her eyes with her palms. “Just getting some air.” She looked like she wanted to say something else, but didn’t. She stood there, unmoving, and I did the same, like a gunfighter standoff in the center of town at high noon. At last, her body relaxed, and she reached out and took the cooler from me. “Come on, let’s get in there. It’s going to be a wild night.”
Bozeman and I sat at a table off to the side and tried to stay out of the way while people funneled into the room. The ceremony was supposed to start at seven on the dot, and a check on my phone told me it was already a quarter after the appointed hour. Mayor Mary Sweets sat front and center, but the seats on either side of her were empty. She seemed to be an amiable woman, in her early sixties, dressed in a navy-blue business suit and a simple string of pearls. The mayor talked to everyone who approached her, shook their hands, and smiled graciously. I’m sure had there been any babies in the area, she would have given out kisses like they were going out of style. When there was no one near her, I could tell she wasn’t happy with the situation. She kept checking her watch, and her body language screamed that she didn’t like to be kept waiting.
Sam looked nervous. She paced beside the door, and as people entered, she greeted everyone, directed them to their seat, and went back to pacing.
Everyone I met earlier in the day seemed on edge as well, but as the bartenders opened the wine bottles and filled the glasses, a quiet calm settled over the crowd.
It was seven-thirty when Sherman Stier and his party strolled into the room. Sam ushered them to the front table and dismissed herself. Sherman introduced the rest of his party to the mayor, and they all sat.
Pastor Tom appeared from nowhere and took the stage. I saw him walking toward my microphone, so I jumped up and turned it on before he got there. He nodded his appreciation, and I retook my seat.
“Welcome everyone, please rise and join me for a quick prayer before we get started. Heavenly Father...”
Like everyone else, I stood and listened to the words, but although I bowed my head, I kept my eyes open and I scanned the room. Although most of the attendees prayed as expected, a few didn’t. Lisa and Rob McMurtry were both standing at the back. Lisa stood behind a pushcart loaded with pitchers of water, iced teas, and soda, and Rob was holding back the wait staff. With the delay, I hoped people liked lukewarm food.
Hanson busily fussed with a flower display at the table in front of him, and for some odd reason, Dean Williams was staring directly at me.
“... Amen.” Pastor Tom finished and invited everyone to sit. “Before the meals are served, I’d like to invite the mayor up to say a few words. Mayor Mary?”
To polite applause, the pastor took a step back to make room for the mayor on stage.
“Thank you, Pastor Tom, and thank you to everyone for attending. When the Main Street Committee first approached me to bring more business into our town, I admit I thought it would be a great goal, but also an ambitious one. You and I know our little corner of New Mexico offers a lot to travelers, but how do we get that word out to those passing by on the interstate? I was so excited when the committee came to me with a well thought out plan that could actually grow business. It’s time to introduce that committee now and have them say a few words about what they’ve each been working on. I’ll start with the chair, Mr. Sherman Stier.”
Polite applause rang through the space again. As Sherman walked to the stage, I glanced at Sam, who was in the process of an eye roll.
“Thank you, Mayor Mary.” Sherman was taller than the microphone, and rather than adjust the stand higher, he bent over to make himself heard. “In any corporation, it’s important to keep a close eye on the rock bottom line, which fosters well-being with the investors. It’s no different from a town. Imagine yourself all as investors in this town and imagine that you have a sea of customers passing us daily, going seventy miles an hour right past us. If you want to bring them in, you need a purpose, and you have to give them either value or an experience, and I know we can do both. By building a top-notch golf course surrounded by a resort, we’ll give travelers a reason to come here. To relax. To enjoy all the amenities that this great town offers. Together, we can build a future.”
As Sherman took his seat, I leaned over to Bozeman. “I wonder where he was all day. Committee comes in and sets everything up, and the chair shows up late without contributing a single thing?”
“You never know. Maybe he fronted the costs and had important meetings to attend.”
I shrugged. Bozeman was right. I didn’t know the entire story, nor did I need to. I was just a gig player, and I had already gotten paid, so all we needed to do was sing a few songs, then head out to the next town.
The mayor introduced each committee member one at a time. They stepped up and told the audience what their specific actions were to drive business for the town. Each member focused on a specific area. Dean Williams was putting together a regional history tour. Its goal was to highlight the contributions of the town and county toward westward expansion. Reba Chestnut, the bed-and-breakfast owner, introduced her daughter, Robin. Robin was developing a nighttime haunted tour. The McMurtrys were creating a cookbook featuring local favorite recipes. Sam and Hanson had created a booklet that included many Quincey businesses that she intended to hand out at wedding planning events around the area.
“Of course, we can’t do this all alone. We need your help,” Mayor Mary said as a part of her closing statement. “Although we have a lot of great ideas already started, there is room for more. There’s a table at the entrance with note cards. Please jot down any ideas you have and drop them in the box on the table. If you wish to remain anonymous, that’s fine, and if you want to volunteer to serve the community, add your name and phone number. We have another presentation planned for later in the evening, but for now, I know you’ve been waiting to eat, so let’s get down to dinner.”
The mayor got the largest applause of the night at that remark, and she laughed as she took her seat. From the rear of the room, Rob guided the servers to tables with the meals as Lisa dashed from person to person to fill glasses.
“Well, I guess we’re up,” I said to Bozeman. I took a moment to tuck a stray strand of hair under my hat and took my place at the microphone. “Hey everyone, my name is Codi Cassidy, and this is Bozeman James. Thank you for having us, and we hope you enjoy your dinner.”
I gave Bozeman a nod, and we launched into our set. Since we were playing over dinner, we did an entire acoustic set without the backing tracks. As usual, people focused on the food and those around them rather than us. Sam could’ve hired a DJ or turned on a radio as background music, but I was still thankful she thought enough of me to book us for the gig. This part was the dinner. The after-dinner set was the one where we’d let loose and have fun.
After twenty minutes of tunes, I announced we were taking a break and Bozeman and I made our way to a table in the back. Within a couple minutes of sitting, Rob dropped off plates of food for us. It was standard event fare. Baked chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, corn, and a dinner roll I recognized as one of Sam’s. My stomach rumbled the second I picked up my fork. I was ready to dig in. Bozeman was already at it.
“That was pretty good. Are you going to play your hit song?” Rob asked as he stepped back.
“I usually save that one for the encore. Since we’re not doing an encore tonight, it’ll be the last song of the set.”
“I have to wait that long?” Rob frowned, and his shoulders shrugged like a five-year-old being told they couldn’t have a cookie.
“Of course. We have to give the audience something to look forward to. Don’t want to play the big hit first, then have a bunch of people leave because they got what they came for.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Rob said.
“Oh, I’ve got an autographed photo for you. It’s up there on the piano. Come pick it up after the show, okay?”
Rob’s body language shifted in a moment, and he was upbeat and looked happy again. “I’ll be back in a moment with some pie.” I wished all my fans were so easy to please and were so quick to offer me pie.
Bozeman had cleaned his plate before I had eaten half of my meal.
“You not liking that?” Bozeman asked.
“Love it. I’m just waiting for dessert.” I put my fork beside the plate and glanced at Bozeman. Based on the way he stared at my unfinished meal, I could tell he was still hungry. “Go ahead,” I said.
Bozeman reached for my plate. At the last second, I snatched my dinner roll back and took a bite. It, like the muffin, was heavenly. I had just finished the roll when Rob reappeared and slid slices of Dutch apple pie before us. With eager anticipation, I slid my fork through the pie and took a bite. The crust was flaky, and the sweet crumble on top was the perfect complement to the tart apples inside. I moaned as I chewed and the flavors exploded, and I glanced at Bozeman, who had almost finished with his slice already.
Bozeman scraped the fork side against the plate’s bottom to get the remaining crumbs, ate it, and sat back. “I think I want to marry Sam.”
I took a drink of water and smiled at him. “Silly man. I’ve known her longer, so she’s mine. Don’t worry though, I’ll throw scraps out the back door to you.”
Bozeman grinned. “Even better.”
I finished my pie and looked toward the stage where the committee was still doing post-dinner presentations. As I sighed, I hoped the talking would be over soon. I was itching to play, and I was already thinking about getting on the road over to the next gig. I knew my mind shouldn’t wander, but it often did during downtimes like these.
Bozeman nudged me in the ribs to knock me from my daydreaming and pointed to the stage, where Sam stood waving, trying to get my attention. I adjusted my hat, and we took to the stage for our second set. I grabbed my guitar and checked the computer while Bozeman made sure he switched all the electronics on. Then suddenly, it was showtime. We buzzed through a few country standards, a few modern songs, and slid in a couple of originals as well. The set was going swimmingly. I saw the audience was engaged, and they moved a few of the tables closest to the stage to create a dance floor. The chords were tight, and the sound was brilliant. From a performer’s standpoint, it was a great show.
They pushed aside more tables when we played a number suitable for a Texas two-step. As I looked into the crowd, I estimated that many of the original two hundred people that were there for dinner had stayed for the show. There was the usual percentage of folks who didn’t dance and would either listen to the music or chat with friends, but that was fine by me. I also noticed at one point, every member of the committee gathered near the back door and clustered in a tight circle. Sherman noticed it as well, so he broke off the side conversation with Mayor Mary and headed in a beeline for the group, pushing aside anyone who got into his path. From my position on the stage, he looked like a bull chasing a matador.
Hanson saw Sherman coming and must have informed the group because most of them turned and looked. With the rest of the circle distracted by the oncoming problem, Hanson silently slipped out the service door. Lisa, who was standing next to Hanson, followed him out the door. Since I was in the middle of a Willie Nelson tune, I couldn’t stop playing. Over the din, I also couldn’t determine what they were discussing. I saw Sherman was using animated gestures wild enough to cause Sam and Rob, who were standing on either side of him, to take a step back.
I glanced at Bozeman to see if he saw the same thing I did. As I followed his sight line, it appeared he was more interested in a buxom brunette in a yellow sundress who was swaying in front of the stage.
I redirected my vision to the rear of the room and saw Sherman shove Sam. Sherman raised his hand and balled his fist, and Sam shrank to the ground. With great haste, Rob stepped in and grabbed Sherman’s arm before Sherman could strike. Sherman tried to pull himself free but couldn’t. Reba escorted Sam from the room while Rob and Dean held Sherman back from pursuing her. Rob and Dean held Sherman for a full minute, then Sherman put up his hands in surrender and the men let him go. Dean rushed from the room, Sherman started pacing back and forth, and Rob came forward to find the mayor.
Mayor Mary was in the center of the dance floor being spun around by a cowboy when Rob cut in. Rather than dance, Rob leaned in and whispered something in her ear. She said something back I couldn’t hear. Rob nodded, and they both left the room through the main door. I finished the song, then grabbed my water bottle to take a drink as I looked again at the back. Sherman was gone.
I stepped aside and let Bozeman sing a couple of his originals, then I took the lead again. I was ready to begin my big single when I saw the mayor return to the room, followed by the town’s police chief. Close behind the steps of the chief was a deputy. In the back of the room, the committee filed back into the room, followed by another deputy.
The chief stepped onto the stage and tipped his hat at me. “Sorry, ma’am. I need to interrupt the show.”
I took a couple of steps to the right, and he took my place in front of the mic. “Attention everyone. There’s been an incident, and we ask everyone here to sit tight until you’re questioned by myself or a deputy. As soon as we get your contact information, you’re free to leave unless we ask you to stay. When you go, exit from the side door only. For now, please find a seat and be patient with us. Thank you.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
The chief took off his hat and ran a handkerchief across his brow. “Someone murdered Sherman Stier.”