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I nearly dropped my teeth. Curtis Maynard was sitting in Della’s living room, drinking a cup of coffee outta one of her fine china cups. The FBI had come a-calling.
“Abit, you’ll catch flies with your mouth hanging open.” That Della; she always had some wisecrack. Curtis laughed, put down the cup, and walked over to shake my hand.
I still hadn’t found any words when he said, “I wanted to talk further with you, but I didn’t know how to reach you. I remembered the way to Ms. Kincaid’s store and drove over. Lucky for me you’re here too.”
I couldn’t for the life of me imagine what he needed to talk to me about. I settled into one of Della’s chairs and waited. And waited. We were all looking at each other kinda strange, but I didn’t begin to know how to start this conversation.
Finally, Curtis said, “I got to thinking about what you told us the other day, and I believe you might be on to something interesting. At least worth hearing more about.”
“That wasn’t the impression I got earlier,” I said. Della frowned at me, her sign language saying lighten up. “Not that that was your fault,” I added real quick-like. “Agent Stoltz was the one.”
“Well, you sure yessired him enough, maybe too much. You suck up to Agent Stoltz like that and it tends to backfire.” I cringed at Curtis’ description of how I’d acted, reminding me of Fiona’s damned complex father stuff. “I mean, he’s not always right—he just acts like he is. In a word, he’s a bully.” He stopped. “Oh, never mind all that. I shouldn’t be talking out of school. I just wanted you to know I thought your ideas had potential and ...”
He kept talking but I was off thinking about that word. Bully. It hit a nerve, opening a flood of memories I’d tried to keep buried. I musta been lost in thought because I heard Della say something kinda loud.
“Abit, I asked you a question.”
“Sorry, what was that? I didn’t hear you.”
“I asked if I could get you something. Water? Coffee?”
They were both drinking coffee, so I figured I’d better catch up.
––––––––
Oncet we got back to talking about the murders, Curtis said he couldn’t share much (on account of some FBI oath), but he did agree the cases appeared to be the work of a serial killer. Well, that was so obvious it hardly seemed worth the drive over. But he went on to explain how our murder-ballad idea had piqued his curiosity. I filled him in on some details I’d left out while Stoltz was giving me the evil eye. When I mentioned the chronology of the ballads, Curtis’ eyebrows dove together.
“What?” I asked.
“Why didn’t you mention this the other day?”
“Wallis and I just discovered it.” I went into how I’d gotten the notion from Della and then confirmed it with Wallis. “The next likely ballad choices are ‘Poor Ellen Smith’ and ‘The Peddler and His Wife.’ And as I told you and Stoltz, they happen every seventy-three days.”
“Yeah, we noted that too. Strange number. It must mean something to the killer.”
“Wallis said the same thing, though neither him nor me have a clue what to make of that.”
I looked over at Della, feeling bad Curtis and I were firing questions back and forth, leaving her out. She could always read my mind and waved me off in a way that said she was fine just sitting this one out. Like the dogs—who were sound asleep at her feet.
“I think it’s some kind of numerology,” Curtis said. “A lot of people just play at it, but the real deal is fascinating—and complicated. Basically, the letters in names are assigned a number, and those letters are like a puzzle that can be put together in different ways. It takes a computer program to do it from this angle—start with a number and discern names or other clues from it—but I’m going to look into that.” Then he stopped talking and looked troubled. “Abit, you know the people around here and their mindset a lot better than me. What do you suppose the payoff is for this serial killer?”
I just shrugged. I couldn’t get my mind round a guy wanting to kill people. I was about to say he was crazy when Curtis asked, “Does he love or hate country music?”
“It’s bluegrass, or in the case of the murder ballads, more like folk music.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Never mind that, for now. It’s clear this killer knows a lot about murder ballads, though I’m not sure what his choice of music says about him.”
“We don’t even know for sure it’s a man, though I’m with you—it likely is. I hope we can get some clues from this numerology report. If we get the report.” Della did her eyebrow thing and he went on. “My request needs to pass through Agent Stoltz, and I’m pretty sure he won’t go for it.”
“Why’s that, Curtis?” Della asked.
“You know about chain of command, ma’am. Everyone’s life is ruled by it, but in the FBI, if you’re young and black, well, you don’t get listened to very much.”
I knew how folks round here talked about Black people. When I first learned to drive, Mama and her church folks told me to be careful, and to never, ever drive through Lantana, the part of town where Black folks made their homes. It was a good shortcut on the way to Crossnore and Newland, so I never paid them any mind. One wintry February day, I cut through Lantana, and sure enough, the Merc conked out. The cold slapped me in the face when I opened my door and whipped round as I looked under the hood. I couldn’t figure out what was wrong and had no choice but to knock on a door.
An old Black man answered and urged me to come in and thaw my hands by the fire; he pointed to the phone and said I was welcome to use it to call for help. He musta been pushing 70 himself, and there he sat in the living room, next to a hospital bed where his mama lay dying. After I called Bill Davis, we sat together, in silence, warm and safe. I’ve never forgotten that man’s kindness—both to me and his mama.
Curtis and I talked a while longer. Then Della started yawning real big (I could tell she was hamming it up to make sure we got the message). Curtis started yawning too. I asked, “Where are you staying?”
“Over in Wilkes County, near the site. We’re still working the area.”
“That’s a long, windy drive. There’s room in our barn, if you’d like to hit the hay sooner, rather than later.”
Curtis just stared at me for the longest time. Then he jumped up, almost dropping his china cup and saucer on the floor. “What the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t know what to say. Or more to the point, what I’d said. Thank heavens Della stepped in. “What Abit means, Curtis, is they have a lovely guestroom on one end of their barn, overlooking a beautiful mountain vista.”
When I realized what he was thinking, I started laughing. Curtis was still glaring at me, but pretty soon he managed a small smile. “Okay, Abit, I’ll take you up on that barn. I’ve only been drinking coffee, but like you said, it’s a long drive in the dark.”
We thanked Della, who seemed happy we’d both come over—and happy we were leaving.
Curtis followed me home in his car. I pulled the truck in next to the barn so Curtis would know where to park. As soon as I opened the truck door, Mollie jumped out and raced to the door, beating us there. Oncet I unlocked the room, she jumped on the bed and wouldn’t get off. She was trying to get Curtis’ attention, and I believe she did; he looked awful worried he might have to sleep with her. That made me nervous he’d still think I was putting him out with the livestock, even if that was only Mollie.
“Mollie, come on, girl. Let’s go to the house.” I clapped my hands a coupla times, and she trotted to the door. “Oh, and the sheets are clean, though they’ve been on there a while. I hope they’re not damp from all this rain.”
“Goodnight, Abit and Mollie,” Curtis said through a big yawn. “Thanks for putting me up.” He looked round the room and added, “Did you do this yourself?”
At first I thought he was saying it looked homemade. But then I saw a tenderness in his face, and I realized we were brothers, of a sort. He hadn’t always known a lot of kindness, either.