Chapter Five

Paul was in Joe Tucker’s battered old Ford pickup, squeezed in between Joe and Sam Gorman. They were rattling down the winding country road that Barnhill Street became once it crossed the railroad tracks, heading to the Dew Drop Inn.

“What do you two think about Hank Williams?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know any of his songs,” Paul admitted.

Sam nodded agreement.

Joe shook his head. “What’s the world coming to? Used to be everybody knew every Hank Williams song ever written.”

“That was a bit before our time,” Sam pointed out.

“I don’t know about that,” Joe said. “You should have learned a few of these back when we were roofing. I’d think you’d remember them.”

“All I remember is how steep those roofs were and how scared I was about falling off,” Sam said, chuckling.

Paul gave him a questioning look.

“I used to work with Joe back when I was in high school.”

“Roofing business?” Paul asked.

“More than that,” Joe said proudly. “Campbell’s Construction would do anything you cared to have done. We could build a house, fix a house, side a house, roof a house. We built barns, bathrooms, sheds, closets. I remember building a gazebo once. Craziest idea I ever heard of. Why not just add on a porch? But it was pretty when it was done.”

“I think every kid in town worked for them at one point or another,” Sam said. “Eli Weston worked with us for a while before he took over the antique store.”

Joe grinned. “Had to earn that date money somehow.”

“Try college money. That’s what put me through—working summers.”

“I worked there until I ran out of gas when I hit my fifties.” Joe cranked the wheel to the right to avoid a pothole.

“There’s also the little matter of falling off that roof,” Sam pointed out.

“Yeah,” Joe agreed. “Leg never did heal up properly. ’Course what can you expect at that age? So I hung up my tool belt and retired. Good to get free of it,” he said so stoutly that Paul didn’t believe a word. “And, of course, I still do a little woodworking. Keep my hand in things that way.”

Paul smiled as he watched the town go by through the windshield and thought about what they were going to attempt. A bluegrass band! A ripple of excitement, tinged with anxiety, went through him. It had been years since he’d played any music at all, either as a hobby or with a group. A pastor didn’t have much time for hobbies.

And now, here they were. Literally. Joe pulled into the rutted dirt parking lot outside the Dew Drop Inn. Paul got out of the truck, reached into the back, and pulled out a guitar case. He looked around with some trepidation. The old roadhouse was nothing but a wooden shack, its boards weathered gray and tacked all over with old signs, its windows pasted with ads for beer. The old, yellowed celluloid roadhouse sign was cracked, and the screen door was askew on its hinges. Paul would have bet that the place hadn’t been cleaned or painted since it was built.

“Come on, boys, here we are!” Joe called out, heading up the steps and into the building. The screen door slammed behind him.

“Doesn’t look like much, does it?” Sam asked, holding his fiddle case against his chest.

Paul raised his eyebrows. His enthusiasm had just evaporated. He followed Sam up the creaking wood steps and blinked in the dim light indoors. A few wooden tables and chairs were set up in the open space before them. A long, heavy oak bar stretched across the left-hand side of the room, a row of stools beside it. The air smelled of stale beer, stale cigarettes, grease, and sawdust.

Paul was instantly transported back in time to when he was eighteen, just graduated from high school. He and some friends he’d been playing music with had gone down one Saturday night to the local roadhouse, more out of curiosity than anything else. They’d even had a few beers and tried to act as if they belonged there. But he hadn’t. He’d been nauseated by much of what he heard, much of what he saw, and he’d been glad to leave. The next day he’d felt awful, with a headache and a queasy stomach, but that was nothing compared to what he’d felt when his father took him aside later and asked him what he’d been doing down at the Hitching Post. He’d stammered out some excuse, and he could still hear his father’s response: “Paul, you’re a man now, and old enough to do what you please. But going down to a place like that is no way to prove it. I expect more of you than that.” Now, in his sixties, Paul still felt the guilt flooding back.

“Hey, guys!” Skip Spencer came up to them, his red hair glowing in the murky atmosphere. He was off duty and looked even younger in street clothes than in his uniform. “Come check out the stage!”

The three threaded their way between the tables. Paul could see a couple of pool tables to the right, each one with a lit lamp above it that made the green fabric the most vivid color in the whole place.

What on earth am I doing here?

He knew the roadhouse’s reputation for rowdiness. He could just imagine what people would say if word got out that he was spending time at the Dew Drop Inn. He shook his head, thinking that this was not a good idea for a pastor.

At the back was a small wooden stage, barely six feet wide by ten feet long. Joe was standing on it, talking with the largest man Paul had ever seen, both in height and girth.

“Sam, Paul!” Joe called out. “This here’s Bo Twist. He runs the place.”

They all exchanged greetings and shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Pastor,” said Bo. “Probably the only chance I’ll get,” he added.

“Well, you could always come to our church,” Paul offered. “I’m there fairly often.”

Bo shook his head. “I always sleep in on Sundays. Saturday’s my busiest night. That’s not to say I wouldn’t come if I could. I don’t have nothin’ against God, which is more than some people can say.”

Paul blinked. “Well, that’s a start,” he managed to say with a hint of a smile.

“So, you’uns gonna put together a bluegrass band. Sounds okay to me. I had some college kids wanted to practice out here a while back, but they played that rock music. I told them I can’t take that stuff, not before nightfall. Tell you the truth, I can’t take it then, but my customers like it. Early in the morning, I need my quiet. You’uns want some coffee?”

“That’d be great, Bo,” Joe said. “And can we get the stage lights turned on?”

“Sure,” Bo said. “Light switch is right behind you.”

He stumped off the stage, his weight making every heavy step send up a little squeak and a puff of dust from the floorboards.

Joe switched on the light, and the four looked around. “Ain’t this grand?” Joe asked.

“It sure is!” Skip agreed.

“I don’t know,” Paul said. “I’m not so sure this is a good idea. Isn’t there anywhere else we can practice?”

“Don’t worry,” Joe said. “Nobody comes here during the day except a few old guys to drink coffee and reminisce about when they were young hotshots. I come out every once in a while for coffee and a hand of euchre with Old Man Parsons.”

“Old Man Parsons?” Paul asked, astounded.

“Best euchre player in the county,” Joe assured him. He put his arm around Paul. “It’s okay. Trust me.”

“Besides,” Skip said with a grin, “it’s got a stage!”

Paul made a bit of face but nodded.

“Let’s get going!” Skip picked up his banjo and put the strap around his neck. Sam opened up his fiddle case, and Paul pulled out his guitar. Joe sat down, cradling an instrument that looked like an accordion with strings.

“What on earth is that?” Skip asked.

“It’s an Autoharp,” Joe said. “Haven’t you ever seen one before?”

“Well, maybe...” Skip looked doubtful. “What’s it sound like?”

Joe ran his pick along the strings, and Skip winced.

“Now don’t get all frazzled,” Joe said. “Listen to this.” He started strumming and chording and then sang the opening verse of “Wildwood Flower.” “You ever heard that?”

Skip nodded. He still looked doubtful, but that might have been due to Joe’s off-key voice. His playing wasn’t too bad.

“You sure don’t look like Mother Maybelle,” Bo said, coming up with a pot of coffee in one hand and a stack of Styrofoam cups in the other.

“I look more like her than you do,” Joe replied, laughing.

“Got me there. Here you go, boys.” Everyone took a cup, and he filled them. “So, whatcha gonna call this here band?”

“We haven’t gotten that far,” Sam said.

“I was thinking we should call ourselves the Copper Mill Players,” Skip suggested. “There aren’t any other groups out there with that name, and that way we’re unique right from the start. And that’s important. All the professionals say you’ve got to make your mark right from the beginning. Right name, right attitude, right set. Always make sure you’re playing stuff people know and like, and then later you can work in some new pieces.”

“You writing music now?” Joe asked.

Skip flushed. “I might be thinking about it. Anyway, after our debut down at the summer concert series on the Town Green, I was thinking we could go around the bluegrass festivals, maybe even get to the Smoky Mountain Fiddlers Convention. I’ll tell you what, you get known there, you’ve got a real shot at something. Maybe even end up in Nashville. And before you know it, you’re on your way!” he finished raptly, his eyes glowing with hope.

Bo looked over at Joe and said, “This boy’s got some plans, don’t he?”

Joe nodded. “Every young’un’s got plans. You know that. And most of them center around some pretty girl. It’d probably save us a lot of time if you’d just tell us her name, Skip.”

Skip flushed again. “I just think we should take this seriously. You never know. We might really have a future.”

“Okay,” Joe said. “We’ll find out soon enough.” He looked over at Sam and Paul, winking. “You boys ready?”

Sam picked up his fiddle and bow; Paul his guitar.

Joe nodded. “Better get tuned up together first, then we’ll see what we can do.”

It was hard to get all tuned together. Paul’s ear told him that they still weren’t right when Joe said, “Well, we might as well just get going.”

“So what do we play?” Sam asked.

“I know some stuff by Kentucky Thunder,” Skip said.

“I don’t,” Joe said. “How about ‘Jambalaya’?”

“That’s not bluegrass,” Sam pointed out.

“How about ‘Restless’?” Skip suggested.

“I don’t know that one,” Joe replied.

“This is crazy!” Sam said. “Isn’t there anything we all know?”

“How about ‘I’ll Fly Away’?” Paul said. The four men looked at each other, and everybody nodded.

“Let’s try it,” Joe said. “And a one and a two...”

Skip started out with the melody on banjo. Joe strummed his Autoharp, but it didn’t fit with the banjo, and his face had a puzzled, lost look. Sam’s fiddling was unsteady, the notes dragging just a little too long. First Paul couldn’t remember what chords to use, and then he seemed to have lost some of his knack for fingering.

Finally Joe quit playing the Autoharp and started singing, and everyone joined in. Badly. The worst was when they got to the refrain. The high notes were too high for anybody but Skip.

Paul stopped and waved his hands. After a minute, everyone else was quiet.

“Look, guys, this isn’t working. Not this way.” Paul sighed. “Maybe if we had music.”

“You mean sheet music?” Joe asked.

Paul nodded.

“I can’t read music,” Joe said. “I’ve always just strummed it out by ear.”

That might account for it, Paul thought.

“I brought some sheet music,” Skip offered. “I’ve got music for the soundtrack of that movie O Brother, Where Art Thou?”

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” Joe asked.

Skip looked a little sheepish. “I thought maybe real bands didn’t use it.”

“Good heavens above,” Joe said to the room in general. “You think a symphony orchestra just gets together and wings it? The conductor just stands up and scratches the air? You pull that music out, Son, and we’ll try it.”

“But you just said you can’t read sheet music,” Skip pointed out.

“So? I’ll learn. Now let’s see it.”

Skip pulled out a book of music and set it up on a chair, since there was no music stand. The four men gathered around and looked it over.

“‘You Are My Sunshine’?” Joe asked.

Skip made a face.

“It’s cheerful,” Joe said.

“I was thinking maybe we could do ‘I Am a Man of Constant Sorrow,’” Skip suggested.

“Let’s do ‘I’ll Fly Away,’” Paul said. “At least we all know the lyrics to that one.”

For the next hour they studied the music, each of them trying the melody separately, then together, then with everybody singing. Paul thought they were making progress until he glanced up and saw Bo Twist standing by a pool table. The man had been eating a huge bear claw but had stopped, the pastry raised halfway to his mouth, his sugary jaw dropped open with an amazement that was not complimentary.

“Maybe we should take a break,” Paul said.

“Aw, do we have to?” Skip asked. But then he looked at his watch and quickly gathered his music. “I’ve got to get going,” he said, grabbing his banjo and case. “I’m on duty in half an hour. That was great! See you later, guys!” He ran out of the room, snapping his case shut as he went.

“Enthusiastic, ain’t he?” Joe asked without showing any enthusiasm himself.

Sam nodded.

Paul looked at Joe and Sam and said, “We were awful.”

Sam nodded again.

Joe sighed, but then said, “Well, let’s not get discouraged. It was our first time. We keep rehearsing, we’re bound to get better.”

“Maybe,” Paul said. “But I keep remembering the old saying about the silk purse and the sow’s ear.”

KATE PARKED HER HONDA in the garage and took the groceries inside, glancing at the clock as she did so. She’d have to hustle to get things ready in time for dinner. She preheated the oven and washed her hands before tackling the leeks.

While she sliced and washed the leeks, cored, seeded, and sliced the peppers, and heated up chicken broth from the freezer, she kept wondering what had happened to her scarf. Or rather, who had taken it. It certainly hadn’t gotten up and left of its own accord.

She was also still upset about the scene she’d witnessed between Amanda and Renee. And while Kate put little stock in Renee’s periodic tirades, she also knew they were usually based on real emotions.

But while she had seen Renee upset, defensive, and even indignant, she’d never seen Renee as angry as she’d been that afternoon. Of course, jealousy could light a fire in people, and Renee was jealous of Amanda. Kate suspected that Renee was only partly upset about the incident more than fifty years ago over a boy named Charlie and was mostly upset because of Junius. Once again, Renee was sweet on somebody who was more interested in Amanda. No wonder Renee had lashed out, though that veiled accusation about nobody being above suspicion had been a bit much...Or had it? Kate’s silk scarf was gone. And she knew Renee hadn’t taken it.

Of course, Kate thought as she put the red peppers sprinkled with feta cheese into the oven, someone else might have come in to the Bixby house and taken it. But what intruder would take just a silk scarf? Why would anyone take just a silk scarf? An intruder...Kate tried to remember whether she had locked the kitchen door when she had left earlier. Surely she had. But she honestly couldn’t remember. Too much had happened.

Amanda had been at the house when her scarf disappeared, Kate thought, but so had Martha Sinclair, driving off as she arrived. She couldn’t believe Martha would take anything that wasn’t hers. But would Amanda? Kate stood looking out the kitchen window, chewing her thumb. Amanda was always so beautifully dressed, so composed, so ladylike. Surely she couldn’t be a thief.

Paul’s car came up the driveway. Kate collected her thoughts and sprinkled some parsley on the pork chops.

“Hi, honey!” she called out as Paul came into the kitchen.

“Hi, sweetheart! How was your day?” he asked and gave her a kiss.

“Busy,” Kate said. “I ran a lot of errands. How was your day?”

“About the same. I’m really looking forward to dinner. I’ve been thinking about those pork chops all day.”

Kate put the pork chops on a little indoor grill and popped the buns in the oven with the red peppers. The leeks were braising on top of the stove.

“Everything will be ready in about ten minutes,” she said.

“Great. I’ll just go freshen up.”

Kate was faintly surprised. Usually Paul sat down and told her all about his day, aside from the things that, as a pastor, he had to keep strictly confidential. But maybe it was for the best. She certainly didn’t want to tell him about the catfight she’d witnessed or her suspicions about Amanda Bly. Still...She sighed and finished setting the table.

They ate dinner that night in almost total silence, discussing only how good the food was and how beautiful the weather was. After dinner Paul helped her clean up the kitchen.

“Are you going to work in your studio tonight?” he asked.

“I don’t know. I probably should,” she said.

“Go ahead,” Paul encouraged her. “I think I’m just going to relax and watch an old movie on TV.”

“Really?” That was unusual too. Paul normally read a book for a while or caught up on correspondence until they both were ready to watch a favorite program. “Which one?” she asked.

Paul grinned sheepishly. “I don’t know. I thought I’d see what was on. I’m just kind of in the mood for a movie.”

“Okay,” Kate said and went into her studio for a little while.

She looked over her sketches for the night-lights and for a larger piece she was thinking of doing for her son, Andrew, for his birthday. Andrew had always loved C. S. Lewis’ Narnia series, and she had started a sketch of Aslan standing on a green hill with a sunset behind him, trees clustered in the foreground. But she couldn’t get into it. Amanda, Joe, Renee, Matt—all kept hold of her mind and wouldn’t let go. Finally she switched off the lights and went back to the living room.

Paul was sitting on the couch watching an old black-and-white screwball comedy.

“What is it?” Kate asked.

Paul jumped. “Oh, it’s Bringing Up Baby,” he said. “Cary Grant and Katharine Hepburn.”

Kate nodded. It wasn’t one of her favorites, but she sat down on the love seat anyway. When the movie ended, she realized they had watched the whole thing without saying a word. Usually they had lots to talk about, whether it was the plot or the dialogue, or even the cinematography. She hoped Paul was feeling all right, that he wasn’t coming down with a cold. Something wasn’t right, that was for sure.