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We hadn’t had any more killings, and life had drifted back closer to normal. Fiona lost her jitters, and I had new furniture orders to keep me busy.
But thoughts of murder trailed after me wherever I went. In my shop, I heard those ballads in every hum of the saw or whir of the drill. Finally, when we had a lull in music gigs—I’d stopped worrying people didn’t like our music anymore; things like that just happened—I got myself dressed and ready to call on Wallis Harding.
I drove a fair piece past Beaverdam and turned down a road that was too rutted for my truck. I parked and hiked in to Mr. Harding’s cabin. You might think log buildings all look the same, but I grew up with them and could see what made each one different. Maybe a wraparound porch or some dormer windows or pretty flower boxes. Harding’s had a weathervane on top with different stringed instruments pointing north, south, east, west. The center of the vane was a bass fiddle. I wanted one.
I was relieved to see Wallis’ pickup parked next to his cabin. There was no calling him on the telephone because he didn’t have one, so it was my good luck he was home. I noticed a late model four-wheel-drive SUV next to the truck, which meant he had company. I hoped he’d have time for me.
Before I got to his porch, I called out, “Mr. Harding? It’s me, Abit Bradshaw.” You couldn’t be too careful when showing up unexpected.
I saw his front door open before I saw anyone in the doorway. Wallis wasn’t much taller than five feet something, and in the dim light of his tree-shaded porch, I almost missed him. (Later on, he told me he’d been tormented by a nickname as bad as mine—Pee-wee Harding.) He sported a stubbly beard, and his longish hair rose out like a white halo round his head. “I know you, boy. You play a mean bass fiddle.”
How ‘bout that? He knew me for what I could do. “I’m proud you recall that, Mr. Harding. May I talk with you about something?”
“Well, I could spare you a few minutes. My son, Keaton, and I were planning to go mushroom hunting. Perfect time after that FREAKIN big rain we just had.”
My heart sank, and I reckon my face showed it because next thing I knew he was holding the screen door open for me. “Come on in. How ‘bout a cup of coffee? I’ve got enough time to get started with whatever brought you all the way out here, and you’re welcome to come back.”
“Thanks, Mr. Harding.”
“Call me Wallis, please. We don’t hold to formal conventions here.”
I stepped inside the cabin, which was a lot neater than I’d expected. He had one main room—kitchen, dining, living room—with a bedroom on each side. As I walked toward the kitchen area, I saw Keaton standing by the stove. He nodded at me, and I returned the gesture. No introductions necessary. He was dressed real preppy-like, at least that was how Alex had described clothes like that.
The only messy area was where Wallis musta done his work. Papers and books piled all round a couple of card tables he’d set up. That gave me hope some answers lay in that corner.
Wallis looked smart in a new flannel shirt and ironed jeans. I couldn’t imagine him bent over an ironing board, but stranger things happened round here. I kept staring at his tangled white hair. That plus the way his wire-rimmed glasses magnified his eyes gave him the look of a wild man.
Which made it all the more amazing how well-regarded Wallis was for his mountain music knowhow. His family had lived here a long time, or as Wallis put it, they were “born, bred, and buttered right cheer.” He learned about our music from his mama, who’d passed it down from her daddy. They were all fiddlers, and I’d seen Wallis play a time or two, years ago at The Hicks. Now, though, he mostly spent his days in that dark little corner, studying old books and papers so he could write books and articles of his own. I reckon you’d call him a hermit, but the way I saw it, that just gave him more time to study bluegrass and old-timey music.
As I sipped some good strong coffee, I tried to hide the need to pick grounds offa my tongue.
“Don’t worry about them grounds, son. They’ll keep you regular-like,” Wallis said.
I didn’t like to talk about such things, and Wallis picked up on that. He laughed real big and punched me on the shoulder. He was standing next to me while I was sitting or else he’d never’ve been able to reach that high.
“Okay, the clock’s a-ticking. How can I help you?”
Now that I was there, I felt all nervous. Like I was a kid again, about to give a report on a book I hadn’t read.
“WHAT THE FRAK, son? I don’t bite. If I did, I’da already taken your head off, right?” He laughed again, and I moved my shoulder some, just in case. I tried to chuckle along with him.
After that I just blurted it out: “I think some murders five year ago were copying murder ballads. And something tells me the two that just happened here are too. But I need proof.”
Wallis looked real serious-like. I noticed Keaton poured himself some coffee and headed out the back.
“So what in the H-E-DOUBLE HOCKEY STICKS does that have to do with me?” He held his hands up the way they do in westerns, like I was pointing a gun at him. “I ain’t killed nobody, not five years ago or five days ago.”
Things weren’t going the way I’d hoped. But then he laughed again.
“Oh, well, yeah, you’re right. I haven’t explained very well,” I said. After that, the whole story came tumbling out about Leonard the security guard, “Knoxville Girl,” and “Barbara Allen.”
I could see his eyes light up at the mention of those two ballads. He went over to a shelf and started pulling out books and papers and setting them on the kitchen table. He poured us both more coffee, and we got to work.