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“That’s what everyone makes me.”
Seemed mac cheese was all anyone who wasn’t a vegetarian could think to serve Curtis for dinner. When he said that, I recalled it was the only main dish he could order at Adam’s Rib. I felt bad, but I’d made it because it was Conor’s favorite and one of my better recipes.
Curtis noticed. “That was rude of me, Abit. I didn’t mean it the way it came out—just an amusing observation. I’m not one of those card-carrying vegetarians, all up in your face. And I happen to love mac cheese.”
We were having our Sunday midday dinner together. That was a special time for Fiona and Conor and me when we sat round the table and shared stories and music. I was awfully glad to have some good company.
Curtis had come over early to help me pull together the meal. Not much to do besides the spinach salad; I’d made the mac cheese already, and the day before I’d run into town to get a pumpkin pie at Coburn’s.
It wasn’t even noon when we finished our prep, so we drank some coffee and talked for a while before dinner. Curtis was easy to be round. We’d moved on from the bad stuff in our pasts and talked about what we liked. We both loved music, even if his favorites were rock and hip hop and mine bluegrass and old-timey.
“Music lifts me outta my world,” I told him. “That used to be especially important when I was younger. But now, even with the comfort of a family, who doesn’t need to rise above everyday life?”
I grabbed my mandolin and played “Foggy Mountain Special” for him. I could tell he liked its lively rhythm, and I was pleased with how good I’d gotten my tremolo (or as Bill Monroe called it, tremble). I told Curtis about each of our band members and what instruments they played. I added Vern, who joined us sometimes on stage, keeping time on his hambone.
And I told him about that harmonica the drifter had left for our boy. Conor always had it in his back pocket, ready to practice any chance he got. I had to put my foot down about him playing it with the band, though; harmonica does not go with bluegrass. But when we played “Wabash Cannonball,” he got to let that old harp rip.
Curtis was into collecting something called pullback motor cars. I’d never heard of them, but he showed me some pictures on his cell phone. Some kind of wind up car he’d gotten first when he was a kid. Then I mentioned my hub cap collection, which was different but kinda the same.
We were going back and forth like that when his phone rang. I could tell it was Stoltz from the look on his face and all the yessirs. When he hung up, he said, “The agent checking out Harlan County got a tip from the sheriff about a strange man poking around Harlan County, asking if any Jews lived there.”
“Oh, man! That is exactly what Wallis and I were saying.” I was both excited and scared.
“Stoltz told me to invite you to our meeting up at the office.” He grabbed his jacket. “That’s a big deal, you know, Stoltz inviting you again.” He took one look at my face and added, “But don’t get any ideas about being part of the team. He’d never go that far. And this could just be local folks taking it out on a Jewish stranger making his way through town. You’d be surprised—then again, maybe you wouldn’t—at how often sheriffs get called about things like that.”
We threw the mac cheese and salad into the fridge and grabbed our coats. I quickly made Mollie a treat ball to keep her busy while I was gone. I felt bad how much I’d left her alone lately. As I was stuffing a big biscuit into it, I changed my mind. I’d take her with me; I could do with the company on another long drive. I started to put the treat ball on the counter, but Mollie gave out a little yap. I dropped it into my pocket for the ride. Then I went back to get the pie; I figured those FBI guys needed it more than me.
“I forgot to mention,” Curtis said as we walked toward our vehicles. “We name our operations, and Stoltz got Operation Murder Ballad approved by headquarters. You and Wallis can both take some comfort in that.”
“I won’t be taking any comfort ‘til we get this guy. But thanks for sharing that.”
Curtis sped on ahead of me in his SUV. My old truck wasn’t up to that, so I took it easier. By the time I got over to the Ferguson office, they were already meeting. I stood in the back, just listening. The latest was some stranger had asked a Jewish woman if there was anywhere he could bed down. Turned out she ran a small store while her husband did some traveling sales for a hardware company. I didn’t like how closely they matched the story behind “The Peddler and His Wife,” and I reckoned Stoltz didn’t either.
The wife was known to be kindly, offering her barn to passersby, the way Fiona and I shared ours. Apparently after she did that outta her good nature, she thought more about how he looked—a dark hat covering much of his face, his head down, just mumbling his words. She got worried and called her husband, who called the sheriff.
Stoltz explained how one team was heading to Harlan County while anothern went to Winston-Salem, where they planned to stake out some expensive hotel. Again, just like “Poor Ellen Smith,” who died in a garden behind whatever hotel was the fanciest in 1892.
I wasn’t sure why Stoltz had invited me, especially after the meeting broke up and I was left standing in the back while everyone else headed out. I could tell he wasn’t about to let me ride along, like Curtis had warned, but that didn’t mean I liked it.
“Glad you could make it, Bradshaw,” Stoltz said as he patted me on the back. He was smiling. I guess he was used to this kinda thing, but to me it was serious business. “I wanted you to see for yourself that your theory has been a big help.”
You’d’ve thought that would be enough for me, but I needed more. “And that’s it? I’m supposed to go back home now? Why did you have me drop everything to come all the way over here? A coupla hour drive or more, round trip.”
“That’s just how it is in the real world, Bradshaw. What did you want me to do?”
“You could’ve written a thank-you note,” I said, sarcasm dripping offa every word. “Would’ve saved me a lot of time and trouble.”
Stoltz laughed, but then he saw the look in my eyes. “Well, son, there’s nothing more you can do for us. I just thought you’d like to know the latest—thanks to you and Mr. Harding.”
“You need me there. I know these people. You’re from Charlotte, for God’s sake.” I said the name of that town like it was a curse word. Nothing wrong with it, as cities go, but it didn’t prepare him or his agents for dealing with folks in Harlan County.
“Listen, Abit, we have procedures. Some civilian can’t just step into the investigation.”
“I’m not just some civilian—I figured it out.”
“You think you figured it out.” He turned to join the other men. I gave up and started to leave when Curtis came running in, holding a bunch of paper. “Jonathan just faxed me the numerology report.”
“Dammit! Am I in charge here or are you two Keystone Cops running this operation? Maynard, I told you I wouldn’t authorize that report. Is it coming out of your budget, which, oh by the way, you don’t have?” Stoltz’s face turned that deep red again.
“Okay, you can yell at me later, sir,” Curtis said. “For now, look who’s on the list.”
“Well, who?”
“Right there, sir. It jumped off the page at me.”