Praise for Chris Well's fiction
"His action-packed prose fills the niche for readers with a taste for bittersweet crime drama."
—RT Book Reviews
"Well's clever dialogue will leave readers in stitches."
—Publishers Weekly
"Well serves up brisk dialogue and interjects references to pop culture into even his most violent scenes. Quentin Tarantino's Pulp Fiction comes to mind."
—Booklist (American Library Association)
"Taut, fast-paced thriller with a powerful message of forgiveness."
—CBA Marketplace
"Chris Well has stamped himself as an incisive and profound writer."
—TitleTrakk
"I love how Well knows when to be serious and when to lighten the situation just a notch. His timing is perfect and adds a dimension to his books I thoroughly enjoy."
—The Christian Manifesto
"It is so easy to become involved in Chris Well's books. The characters are real and the action is fast."
—Armchair Interviews
First Shot: 10 Stories
By Chris Well
Copyright 2012 Chris Well
Smashwords Edition
First Shot: 10 Stories copyright 2012 by Chris Well. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address StudioWell, P.O. Box 24297, Nashville TN 37202. StudioWell.com
Cover image Image: Pixomar / FreeDigitalPhotos.net
"Don't Fall For That Trick" copyright 2007 by Chris Well.
"Time Flies" copyright 2003, originally appeared in Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine.
"Naked Truth" copyright 2004, "Little Country Church," "Study of Newspaper Fonts," and "Henry's Gift" copyright 2005, originally appeared on the webzine Infuze Magazine.
"Unfinished Business" copyright 2006, originally appeared in 40 And Counting: Stories.
"Ruin" and "Mind Your Own Business" copyright 2006, originally appeared on the blog Flashing in the Gutters.
"The Golden Age" copyright 2006, excerpt from Deliver Us From Evelyn.
Excerpt from Nursing a Grudge copyright 2010.
Excerpt from Forgiving Solomon Long copyright 2004.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, companies, institutions, events or locals is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Excerpt: Nursing a Grudge (Earl Walker Mysteries)
Excerpt: Forgiving Solomon Long (Kansas City Blues)
The year 2012 marks the tenth anniversary of when I became a novelist. But, like for many writers, my journey as a storyteller goes all the way back to my childhood.
My earliest memory writing was a Christmas story for the first grade. For whatever reason—perhaps there was a mandate to make the assignment a certain length—I wrote out all the sound effects with enough letters to take an entire line (or two) of the page. My teacher made me rewrite the story so that the sound effects had fewer letters.
By the way, the first grade was also the year I thought I could grow up to be Batman. You know, like it was a job—policeman, fireman, Batman. (Whether that is related to the topic or an aside, you'll have to be the judge.)
In the third grade, I read one of my short stories aloud to the class. I don't remember much about the story, except that it was inspired by a comic book cover that featured the Incredible Hulk. (I was not allowed to purchase comic books at that age, so all I ever saw of that issue was the cover).
For those of you who have somehow gotten to this stage in life and do not know who the Incredible Hulk is, it is probably important to know that he is big, and he is green, and he is muscle-bound. However, since all I had at that time was the comic book cover—I had not yet seen any of the cartoons and, at the risk of dating myself, this was before Bill Bixby starred in the 1980s show The Incredible Hulk—I had no idea that the Hulk was intended to be some misunderstood hero. So the story I wrote about him (well, for legal reasons, it wasn't "about" him so much as "inspired in a non-legally actionable way") was called the "Midnight Monster."
At the end of the story, the class applauded. It was an amazing experience.
For the years that followed, I continued to pursue my fiction in various forms—including short stories, serials, scripts, and whatever else came to mind.
Once I "grew up" and got out into the workforce, I ended up on a very long tangent where I was writing and editing nonfiction for newspapers and magazines. (Which, frankly, is still my day job.) But during those years, I wrote thousands upon thousands of words—articles, interviews, reviews, and the like. So I was still learning a lot of useful craft.
What got me back into pursuing fiction again were three things: A passing remark from a friend who happened to be an acquisitions editor; some years of thinking, "Yeah, I really should do that"; a sudden and traumatic bout of unemployment where I suddenly had a lot of free time on my hands.
So, to be clear, this collection marks the tenth anniversary of when I lost that job.
We won't reach the tenth anniversary of when I published my first novel for another three years. I guess I'll continue this story then.
Chris Well
February 2012
Husband-and-wife amateur sleuths Tom and Darla Booke are near and dear to my heart. Originally invented as a possible comic strip serial for my wife and me to do together, Tom and Darla are my take on Nick and Nora Charles by way of Nero Wolfe and his right-hand man Archie Goodwin. I have an epic saga in mind for them, which would take me something like 30 years to write it in its entirety. However, I wrote the following story before I came to my senses.
First of all, for the record: There is a lot more to Nashville, Tennessee, than country music. This city has a variety of arts and culture—world-class restaurants, state-of-the-art concert venues, trophy-winning sports teams, a world-renowned symphony. We also have a commitment to education—Nashville is not just "Music City," it's also the "Athens of the South." Nashville is not just about country music.
I feel the need to mention this here because I'm about to tell you a story that involves a country singer. In Nashville. So think what you want.
I'll start at our store, BOOKE CASES USED AND RARE BOOKS, Tom and Darla Booke, Proprietors. That's the small business owned by my lovely wife, Darla, and me. We were setting up for a book signing, a rarity for our store, but this was a special circumstance. Becky Henderson, a local author, wanted to have the event with us.
Now, Ms. Henderson is the sister of Theodore "Trick" Henderson, the famous—you guessed it—country singer. He's had a number of honky-tonk hits over the years, if you listen to that sort of thing. "Feel the Luck." "Wives and Other Mistakes." "King of the Trailer." He hasn't had any new songs on the charts for some time, but his oldies still turn up on those country music collections you see advertised on television.
Trick is also famous for his practical jokes. In fact, that's how he got the nickname: Pranks that got him thrown in jail, pranks that got his tour bus lost, pranks that shut down the concert hall ... all sorts of hijinks.
In fact, back in St. Louis, I once interviewed Henderson for the local paper. He was in town for a big charity event—or so we'd been led to believe. I won't go into details here, but let's just say I had to burn my clothes after the interview, and the paper had to print a retraction. (It took me forever to win back my editor's trust.)
All of which is to say, Becky Henderson had published a memoir, Don't Fall For That Trick: Life With My Famous Brother Trick Henderson. We were holding a book signing at our homey little store in a Nashville neighborhood. The event was set for a Saturday afternoon. We didn't expect a huge turnout, but thought it reasonable to be prepared.
To create some space in the front, I moved the entire "Theatre & Drama" section. I had an armful of S's—William Shakespeare, Neil Simon, Sophocles—when I was interrupted by a customer. The old man asked, "Where do you keep Ernest Hemingway?"
I couldn't resist. "Last I heard, he's still buried in Ketchum, Idaho. But you can find his books over there." I nodded to the literature section then moved along, smiling at the harrumph! I heard behind me.
Depositing the books in their new home, I headed to the front of the store. The card table had been set up, copies of Ms. Henderson's book stacked just so. Another table offered punch and pie. A dozen folding chairs sat in front of a podium.
Darla, in her Sunday best—including high heels, which she otherwise hates to wear—fiddled with the curtains.
I squinted at direct sunlight. "Perfect. Let me get my sunglasses." I glanced in the direction of the refreshment table. "What kind of pie is this?"
"Pear-Bleu Cheese."
"I … see."
"It's a recipe I saw in the paper."
"And you're testing it out on these poor people."
"'Poor people'? You should talk." She offered a mildly disapproving smirk. "You know, dear, you shouldn't give our paying customers a hard time."
"Who, me? A hard time?" I flashed my best smile. Anyone else would be charmed, but Darla is immune. I shrugged. "Then people should say what they mean."
"Aw. Bless your heart."
"A-ha! A fine example!"
Darla's eyebrows went up. "Whatever could you mean?"
"In that tone of voice, 'Bless your heart' is actually Southern code for 'You poor idiot.'"
Before she could reply, the bell rattled and our guest of honor burst in. Becky Henderson, sobbing, dabbed her eyes with a tissue. "There's been a terrible accident! My brother is in the hospital!"
***
Darla called one of our employees, Maggie, to come watch the store. As soon as she got off the phone, Darla went straight into counselor mode with Ms. Henderson. "What happened, dear?"
"Well, you know, Trick had that car wreck a couple months ago."
Darla and I nodded. This was Henderson's second trip to the emergency room in a matter of weeks. Less than two months earlier, the famed drunkard got behind the wheel of his pickup truck in an inebriated state. Henderson drove into a ditch and the truck flipped. It was a miracle he survived.
Ms. Henderson dabbed her eyes again with the crumpled tissue. "He's been at home recovering, but he had some sort of reaction to his medication."
Darla touched Ms. Henderson's arm. "What sort of reaction?"
The other woman sniffled. "I don't know. Something bad. He seemed so much better yesterday. It was his birthday. We were all celebrating ... "
"What a shame."
"I've just been bawling since the doctors called. I'm on my way to the hospital now. I just wanted to tell you, since we had the signing scheduled and all ... "
Darla tilted her head as she smiled at Becky. I knew that look. "We'll take you to the hospital." She patted the woman's hand.
Ms. Henderson seemed surprised with Darla's compassion. "Oh! You don't need to—"
"Come on, now. You shouldn't drive in this state." Southern hospitality had rubbed off on my Yankee wife. Darla gave me a look. "Let's go." My wife was already at the door with her purse. She didn't even change back into her flat driving shoes.
It was about fifteen minutes to the hospital. Ms. Henderson wiped her nose, complaining what a mess she must look. I could only glance in the rearview mirror, but she looked okay to me. I didn't know whether it was polite to discuss her makeup, so I kept my mouth shut and my eyes on the road.
Darla put a reassuring hand on the woman's arm. "You were there the night he had the car accident, right?"
"There were a lot of people in and out that night. I was there because Trick wanted to talk about the book."
"What did he think of it?"
Ms. Henderson wiped her nose. "He had some problems with it. I wasn't surprised, I guess. The reason I such a hard time finding someone to print the book is because he threatened all the big publishers. None of them wanted to risk a lawsuit."
"You showed him the manuscript?"
"No. Trick hadn't talked to anyone in the family in years. But he got hold of a copy somehow—he never would say how. Probably from Mom."
"So he called you out to the house to put a stop to the book?"
She frowned. "To talk about it. I got out there late. I was at a book thing, and didn't get out there until midnight or so."
"Isn't that awfully late?"
"Trick sleeps all day and works all night. He isn't available during any normal people hours."
"What did he say about your book?"
"He told me his objections, and I made some notes. He said he was fine with the book if I made his changes. We sealed the agreement over a few beers." She gave an embarrassed grin.
"And then you tried to drive somewhere?"
"No, I passed out. He must have decided to drive into town to work on his album. He's working with a different producer."
"In the middle of the night?"
Ms. Henderson shrugged. "I told you. He's always done that."
At the hospital, we found that Theodore Henderson was in emergency, and were pointed to the waiting room. Another thirty minutes passed before a man in blue scrubs and paper shoes came out to see us. "Are you here for Mr. Henderson?"
We all stood. Ms. Henderson nodded. "I'm his sister."
The man folded his arms. "He got here just in time. He seems to have combined two medications and they reacted badly. We pumped his stomach and got most of it out of his system. He'll be in pain the next few days."
Darla asked, "It's that serious?"
The man in paper shoes nodded. "He's still unconscious, but should stabilize in the next twenty-four hours. You can see him in a little while if you wish."
We ended up in the waiting room near ICU. Ms. Henderson tried to send us on our way. "You should go back to your store."
"Nonsense," answered my wife. "You shouldn't be left alone."
I glanced at the room's other occupants. A middle-aged couple sat with a freckled-faced girl, her nose in a book. I was already so bored, I was tempted to ask if I could borrow it. Instead, I checked the stack of magazines on the table. (As a former magazine writer myself, I'm always curious.) Flipping through my options, I ended up with a periodical entitled Golf Enthusiast. I am not an "enthusiast," but I hoped nobody would call me on it.
From the elevator came a sudden burst of energy that I soon discovered was Lila Henderson—mother to Trick and Becky. "What's going on out here?"
Becky Henderson somehow stood and shrunk at the same time. "Momma! Wh-what are you doing here?"
"Why didn't you call? How could you leave me waiting like that?"
Regaining her composure, Becky introduced us. "This is my mom."
Mrs. Henderson—the mother—acknowledged us with a cursory nod and a wave, then drilled back into her poor daughter. "What'd they say?"
Becky swallowed. "He had his stomach pumped. The doctor says he's out of danger now."
Mrs. Henderson, satisfied, chose a chair and sat. As the three women conversed, she seemed to warm up.
My attention drifted. I vaguely heard them discussing stories of the two siblings as kids. Darla had read the book (please don't ask whether I have); she could talk knowledgeably about the siblings. How Becky was the good girl, Trick the bad boy.
His sister said loudly, "But no matter how much trouble that boy got into, he always came out on top."
Mother Henderson said, "He was still my special little guy. And since the wreck, my son is a new man. Isn't that right, Becky?"
Her daughter just sighed.
Mother Henderson continued. "He realized how much he missed his family. We were so glad to have my son back, we had a big party for him and everything."
I tried to focus on the magazine, but found myself picking apart the editing job. (I couldn't help myself.) Closing the issue, I wondered if I could use my time more productively, and get some work done on my novel. (I'm working on a historical mystery starring G.K. Chesterton.) I leaned toward Darla and asked quietly, "Honey, got a pen?"
She gave me a curious look, then checked her enormous bag, which she carries everywhere. "Here."
I deadpanned, "I suppose I could have asked for pretty much anything. Sandwich. Thermos. Buick."
She grinned and whispered, "Not now." She then returned her attention to the other women.
I was scribbling in the margins of Golf Enthusiast when the elevator doors opened and a woman came out. At first glance, she looked like a million bucks. But as she neared us, her stock price began to fall; she had been crying heavily. (Not a good look for her.) While the woman headed for the nurse's station, Becky said, "That's Trick's ex-wife."
Mother Henderson leaned in and whispered loudly. "She did not appreciate his little jokes. But she sure knew how to spend his money."
The nurse at the counter pointed the ex-Mrs. Trick Henderson our way. While we tried not to stare, the woman stopped first at the ladies room. A few minutes later, the ex-Mrs. Trick Henderson came out all freshened up.
When she reached the waiting room, Mother Henderson nodded to her but did not rise from the chair. "Come to make sure Trick is all right?" The syrupy drawl barely covered venom. "I'm surprised you had the time."
"We still love each other," she answered in a thick, German accent.
Becky made nice and introduced us. "Frieda, these are the Bookes, Darla and Tim."
We shook hands, me adding, "Actually, my name is Tom. Tom Booke."
Becky said, "Bless your heart."
Darla greeted the woman. "So good to meet you, Mrs. Henderson."
"Frieda Kroenig," she corrected. Her mascara reapplied, she was a knockout.
Asked my nosy wife: "So I guess you stopped using your married name after the divorce?"
"I never take his name." She pulled a cigarette out and almost had it lit before Mother Henderson pointed out the No Smoking sign. Tucking the smokes back into her small bag, Ms. Kroenig cursed in German and made an unpleasant face at me. "We cannot yet see him?"
Mother Henderson snapped, "No! But he'll be up soon."
So we sat. The ladies making small talk, me scribbling in the margins of the golf magazine, the middle-aged couple glaring at me, the kid with her nose in a book.
Later, a man came out of the elevator and headed to the nurse's station. Now, he looked like several thousand bucks: Black suit, shiny tie, hair slicked back (someone must have lacquered it), gold chain on his wrist, and snakeskin boots.
Becky told us, "That's Trick's manager, Wayne Manchester."
Ms. Kroenig grumbled, "Ach! Not that he managed much. He has never made sound business decision in his life. Has just one client. You could say he has all his eggs in the single container."
"Surely, he does something," I said.
Becky replied, "Sure, all sorts of schemes. And they all lose money."
The mother added, "And it all comes out of Trick's pocket."
I frowned. "Why doesn't Trick cut him loose?"
They didn't get to answer, because the man was headed our direction, every hair in place. Becky introduced us. His name, apparently, was Wayne Manchester. My name, apparently, was now "Todd."
Once we had all that straightened out, the ladies went back to their conversation. Manchester got on his cell phone and started talking loudly. I was back to scribbling in the golf magazine.
Manchester wrapped up his call and sat. "So, what do you do? Booker, is it?" Apparently, he wasn't just loud when he was on the phone.
"It's Booke. My wife and I have a bookstore."
"You write?"
"A little."
"He's being modest," my wife cut in. "Tom's written for a lot of music magazines. And he's working on a novel."
I just blushed.
"Music magazines?" Manchester gave me a look. "That's you?"
"Um, yeah." I wasn't thrilled talking about myself, so I was relieved when another man came out of the elevator and everyone stopped to look. He did not look as pricey as the others. That's not knocking him; he was just more down to earth, with his shaved head and leather jacket. He exchanged glances with Becky, Ms. Kroenig and Mr. Manchester, then went to the nurse's station.
"That's Trick's partner," Becky whispered. "He co-owns Trick's Killer Tavern." Darla and I gave her a blank look. She added, "You know, on Second Avenue by the river?"
We didn't, but nodded just the same. I added, "Oh."
The nurse pointed the man in our direction. But he kept going, hitting the elevator again. While he was gone, Becky filled us in. "The club is one of the few things in Trick's career that has consistently been successful."
Manchester gave her a dirty look, but went back to his BlackBerry.
She continued, "During the lean years of his career, the club still made him money. Of course, Jack always says running the club would be easier without Trick's interference."
The man returned from the elevator with a sandwich. Before starting on it, he took the time to be introduced. He was, apparently, Jack Turner. (And I was now, apparently, "Ted." And wondering where he found the vending machine.)
Following the introduction, Turner dug into his sandwich, the ladies went back to talking, Manchester turned his attention to his BlackBerry, and the middle-aged couple continued glaring at me. I went back to scribbling in the golf magazine.
Occasionally, I caught Ms. Kroenig and Mr. Manchester looking at me and then whispering to each other. At the time, I assumed they considered Darla and me outsiders infringing on private family business.
Then Darla glanced at me. She was still in full conversation with the others, but my lovely wife still managed to give me that look that says, I've figured something out, what's taking you so long?
I won't lie to you. It made me self-conscious. It always does. Sitting up, I glanced around the waiting room and took stock of everybody again. For all I could tell, it was just a normal room full of nervous families.
As for Trick's condition, I assumed it just another case of a celebrity getting sloppy with many prescription drugs. Same ol', same ol'. But Darla saw it, even then. I did not.
When Darla left the room, I figured she was calling the store. I continued scribbling in my golf magazine. My concentration was broken when the middle-aged man came over and growled, "Do you mind?"
I blinked at him. "What?"
"That is not your magazine!"
"What? Oh, you want it? Hey, at least I didn't rip out any pages." I started to hold it out. "Oh. Wait." I tore out the pages I'd written on. "You wouldn't want these anyway."
Before he could reply, a nurse came in, frowning. "Mr. Booke?"
I smiled at her, unsure. "Um, yeah?"
"You should come with me."
I stood. "If this is about Mr. Henderson, that's the family over there. I'm just—"
"It's your wife. She's been hurt."
***
Darla had taken her cell into the stairwell to make a call, lost her footing in those high heels she rarely wears, and tumbled. What came next was a blur: Nurses swept Darla into X-ray, rolled her in for the CT scan, set her wrist and her leg. The whole time, Darla kept apologizing for the inconvenience.
She was embarrassed, and showed it by talking even more than usual. But all the chatter was okay, considering. Darla had gotten a decent-sized bump on her noggin. The CT scans were a precaution. (I'm certain hospital administration was doing everything it could to avoid a lawsuit.)
Until we knew for sure whether Darla had a concussion, she needed to stay awake. We had to keep her talking.
Thank God Becky Henderson was there for Darla to latch onto. Besides, it wasn't like Becky could help her brother Trick right then. He was still unconscious in ICU. The best anyone could do was hover and watch him.
And with Trick's ex-wife, his manager, his business partner, and his mom all waiting in line to see him, Darla guilted Becky into staying with us a while.
Soon we had Darla situated in her room. "Tom," she asked, "where's my phone?"
"It's broken, Hon." I forced a wink. "It wasn't quite as sturdy as you."
"Could you call George?"
That was out of left field. George Chavez is our friend on the police force. "Why? Weren't you alone in the stairwell?"
"Oh, sure. It was just a stupid accident." She waved it away.
"Oh." Whew.
"But George was going to stop by the store for the signing." She paused significantly.
I shrugged. "So Maggie can tell him we're here."
Darla, fussing with her blanket, checked the nightstand. "I just wish I had changed my shoes before we ran out." She sighed. "I had that pair of flats right under the counter! I wasn't thinking."
"You couldn't know what would happen."
"Those high heels are no good for walking around."
Becky glanced from her newspaper at the aforementioned shoes on the sill, one now with broken heel and strap. "They were darling. Where'd you get them?"
"Shooz. My last major splurge."
"In Green Hills?" Becky pulled her chair closer to Darla's bed, and off they went on a verbal tour of Nashville shoe stores. I returned to the waiting room but saw everyone was gone. As I passed the nurses station I mentioned that Trick's sister was with Darla if they needed her. Asking about the others, I found that Ms. Kroenig had left instructions to call her at the Henderson residence if there were any changes. Trick's mom was down the hall using the pay phone.
Back in Darla's room, Becky was saying, "My mom always defended him to the neighbors. When he got famous it was somehow acceptable behavior."
"I guess it was a thankless job," Darla said, "being the dutiful child."
"Yes."
Darla noticed me. "Hon, I need a change of clothes and shoes. Can you run home and get those for me?"
"But you have that lovely hospital gown."
"Ah, but at some point we need to go home. And my dress is ripped."
"But you don't need them now do you?"
"Now is perfect. Becky can stay with me meanwhile!" Darla smiled big at me, but there was something else in her eyes.
Becky rattled her newspaper. "Well, I really should see how Trick is doing ... "
"Don't worry," I said. "I told the nurses you're here. Especially since the others left."
"The others ... left?"
"Except your mom; she's using the phone. Ms. Kroenig said to call with any news. She's at the house."
"At … Trick's house?" Becky rolled her eyes. "She could at least pretend she's concerned."
Becky didn't notice Darla first looking at her, then at me with raised eyebrows. I put my hands in my pockets and asked Darla what she wanted to wear.
"You know, skirt, blouse, shoes. Oh! Maybe you can help these ladies out here and swing by Trick Henderson's house to get him some personal things, too? That way they can stay near him. I'm sure Becky can give you the directions."
"Oh. Um, sure." Becky looked like she was on the spot. "I guess the housekeeper can get them for you. Thanks."
I was on the spot, too. "Okay, sure. So what all should I get?"
"I'll write it down." Darla pulled a pen and scratch pad from her purse.
"Wait—you had paper?"
"Sure. Need some?"
"Like two hours ago."
"You didn't ask." Darla arched that eyebrow she does, then scribbled out a note and handed it to me. I was trying to figure out the message when the nurse came to check Darla's temperature. "Doing all right?"
Darla nodded and mumbled, thermometer in mouth, "Mmfhmf."
I looked at the note again before tucking it in my shirt pocket.
***
And so I drove out to Trick Henderson's estate. One hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching directions to his place of residence.
It was a nice drive. Rolling hills, green trees. Not that I could enjoy it: My excuse to visit the Henderson home may have been to get some of his personal belongings back to the hospital, but I also had a hidden agenda.
Darla had written down three items on the note:
Night of wreck.
Birthday party.
Call George.
Well, I didn't need to bother our friend in the police. If Darla suspected one of these people of foul play, I could certainly figure it out for myself.
Driving through the neighborhood, I gawked as I drove past each set of fancy gates. The upscale area of Brentwood is populated by many a music millionaire: artists, managers, record execs ... I tried to imagine who all lived privileged lives behind these privacy hedges. (George Jones? Faith Hill? Garth Brooks? If only some kid with a corner stand was selling maps to the stars homes.)
I found the driveway. The big double-gate was wide open, so I drove in up the hill, past the immaculate lawn and parked at the enormous house. Scaling the steps to the front door, I pressed the button. I was disappointed to hear a common doorbell. The door opened and I was face to face with the Mrs. (Or, rather, the ex-Mrs.) Feeling foolish, I gave her my best grin. "Uh, hi! I expected the housekeeper to answer."
"She is not here." Ms. Kroenig looked at me uncertainly. "You were at hospital, Mr. ... "
"Booke."
She shifted her weight, regarding me. Then shook her head and stepped back, opening the door. "Ach! But I am sorry, come in, come in."
The lobby (it was too big to call a foyer) had a huge chandelier overhead. Black-and-white checkerboard tile led right to the staircase. "Hey," I said sincerely, "this is nice."
"Danke." She reached toward an elegant side table. She grabbed a slim case, picked out a cigarette, then lit it. Smoke rising, she motioned. "Would you like tour?"
I wondered why that would be the first thing she asked a stranger entering her house. I just nodded. "Sure."
It was like a house out of legend, filled with all the weird and exotic things a few hit songs can bring a person. Trick had his own personal styling room, complete with barber chair facing a giant mirror. Even a huge game room, with pool table, pinball, and slot machines.
At every stop I kept saying, "Wow. Nice."
And she kept puffing on the cigarette and agreeing in a bored voice, "Ja."
At one point we reached a tasteful if enormous bedroom. She said, "Here is guest room. This is where I stay sometimes."
"You know, most divorced couples go their separate ways."
"Our relationship is ... complicated. I think he loves me, but he just made life so unbearable."
"Was he abusive?"
She stopped in the winding hallway and squinted through the cigarette smoke. "He always played these games, you know? It is one thing when you are local promoter and Trick leaves town at end of night. But to live with him ... "
"It must have been hard."
"It is."
The kitchen was huge, like in those TV cooking shows. She said casually, "I never learned how to use this stove."
But I was still stewing on her previous comment. "What kind of pranks do you pull on your own wife?"
"Ohhh." She let out a big sigh. "All kinds. He would fake illness."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"No, no. He would fake your illness." She waved the cigarette again. "He would put something in your food to make you sick. Then convince you it is some terrible thing."
I was too stunned to answer.
"One time before bed, he gives me something to make me have to pee. After I am asleep, he rearranges furniture between bed and bathroom. In the dark, I trip over end table and almost break my leg."
I had no reply for that either.
Next to the kitchen was the recording studio, walls lined with shag carpet and Gold records and Platinum records. My heart no longer in the tour, I smiled politely. "So, Trick does all his albums here?"
Ms. Kroenig shrugged, waving her cigarette. "Many. Not every time."
"It just seems weird he would have left in the middle of the night to go to a studio, when he has this one right here."
She waved my comment away.
I checked the names on some of the plaques. "So these are his big hits, huh? Look at that, 'King of the Trailer,' 'The Killer In Me' … " Something struck me. "Say, isn't that the song where … "
"We need to keep going. In case there is word from hospital."
"Oh. Of course."
The next stop on the tour was the living room. It was huge, decorated with statues of lions and velvet paintings and couches that belonged in a movie about Mozart. From there, a side door led to the garage (well, warehouse), filled with all manner of road vehicles. I gasped. "Is that a ... tank?"
"Ja."
I shook my head with disbelief. "He can't possibly take that out on the road."
She gave me a smile. "Once he takes it to store to get eggs." Took another drag
from her cigarette. "It make ruts all over yard. After that, only times he tries taking it out is when drunk."
"I assume you hide the keys?"
She shrugged. "I am sure someone does."
To the side of the warehouse were dozens of cases labeled Blue Wolfe Beer.
I blinked. "This is more beer than I have ever seen in one place in my life. Well, in someone's garage, anyway."
"Trick has not yet escaped endorsement deal. They send more every week. He started putting it out here when he stopped drinking."
"He doesn't drink at all?"
"Not since accident."
"Why not just throw the beer out?"
She took another drag on the cigarette. "Manchester will not allow." She waved the cigarette at the stockpile of beer. "He says it is still worth much money."
"So ... Trick turned himself around."
"He says Jesus met him out on that road and spared his life." She took another puff. "He and I were talking about reconciliation. At least, before he ... " Her lip trembled.
All I could think to do was keep her talking. "So that was some big birthday party, right? Was that here?" She nodded, wiping a tear. I continued, "I guess everybody was there, huh?"
"Friends and family. His mother very proud. They had been, what you say, strangers."
"You mean estranged?"
"Ja. Trick and family had not spoken for long time. But after accident, he wanted to have family again. His mother threw him big party for birthday."
"And his medication was locked up somewhere?"
She wrinkled her brow. "No. He left it all out on counter in bathroom."
"And I guess Trick did a lot of, um, celebrating ... "
"I tell you." Ms. Kroenig shook her head, leading us back into the house. "He does not drink since accident."
"Tell me about the night of the wreck. Were you here at the house?"
Something about the question made her nervous. She nodded tentatively.
"And so you were here when Becky showed up, and the three of you started drinking."
"Nein. I left maybe eleven o'clock. Manchester had come to house to discuss something."
"He came out at eleven?" I wrinkled my brow. "Kinda late for business, isn't it?"
"Trick and Manchester do business at the weird hours." She chuckled. "Pfft.
Musicians. That is why Trick has studio in house. He will work on track all night."
"So when you left, it was Trick and Becky and Manchester."
"No, she wasn't here. Just Manchester."
"And Trick was drunk?"
"He was working on it."
"Then he got behind the wheel of his truck and drove away … headed for a recording studio?"
She bit her lip. "He sometimes wants to work on Music Row."
"Even though he has this nice studio right here in the house." I frowned. "So he took Franklin Road to Music Row?"
She shook her head. "He was not on Franklin Road."
"But I thought … "
"He fell into rain ditch at end of driveway."
"Oh." I remembered my drive in. The house was on a hill up away from the road.
"Yeah, I guess that is a steep drop-off there."
"Please! May we talk of other things?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Of course."
In the living room again, my eyes drifted to the opulence surrounding us. Was there a tasteful way to ask whether she was still in Trick's will? I couldn't think of one, so I took a different tack. "If Trick should pass, that would be bad for the manager, right?"
"That is schlecht of thing to say."
Not sure what the word meant, I still caught the tone and blushed. "I apologize. I'm just trying to piece it all together. The manager was here when Trick was getting drunk, then Trick had the accident ... "
"Manchester still gets percent, whether Trick alive or ... or ... " She couldn't finish the sentence. She waved her cigarette. "I shall tell you, he was upset about Trick's plans."
"Why? Was Trick going to change managers?"
She shook her head. "He was going to stop with all those honky-tonk songs."
"And do what?"
"Religious music." She nodded. "Says he will not do any of old songs anymore."
"That's unbelievable."
She regarded me thoughtfully. "You do not believe a man can change?"
"I would like to."
Her eyes grew earnest. "So why are you here?"
"I'm sorry, I thought I said. I'm just helping out Becky. I came to grab some of his things ...?"
She gave me an annoyed look. "I am doing that already."
"Well, I thought ... "
"Why else would I leave hospital? I get his things and go back."
"Oh."
"Then why questions? Really?"
"Have I been asking a lot? Sorry." I grinned. "Just an old habit. I'm just a magazine writer from way back—"
"You are media?" She stormed over to the ashtray on the table and stabbed her cigarette out. "You need to leave." She started muttering in German.
"But I'm retired."
She shrieked, "Leave!"
"Ma'am, I apologize." Things were spinning rapidly out of control; I just needed to get out of her way quickly. "Uh. If you could just show me the way to the door."
She huffed and stomped out of the room. I followed, hoping she was stomping for the front door. She grumbled loudly, "So this is all just some big story for you."
"No, ma'am," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I'm not writing anything. I just stopped in as a friend."
Yanking the front door open, she stood to the side, hand on her hip, waiting for me to leave. "Some friend."
On the porch, I turned to apologize again but the door was slammed in my face.
Driving home for Darla's clothes, I tried not to let Ms. Kroenig upset me. After all, the woman was under a lot of stress. Still, I regretted leaving her with the wrong impression.
When I got back to Darla's room at the hospital, I found Mother Henderson and daughter Becky having a disagreement. Darla was trying not to intrude.
Becky was saying, "Momma, you know I can't eat sandwiches."
"Just take off the bread."
"I can't eat any if it's already touched the bread."
"Why do you always have to be so difficult?"
"I'm not being difficult. It's a medical problem, Momma."
"Who gets allergic to bread? Your brother is never so difficult."
"How can you say that? He wouldn't even talk to you until after his accident. Why, I bet he … "
The women noticed me. The first words out of Darla's mouth were: "Hi, Honey!"
Followed immediately by: "Did you call George?"
I made like I didn't hear, too busy setting her stuff on the end table. "Here are some clothes."
"Was the house ... okay?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Of course it was." I gave her an extra nod that would help her understand the house was, indeed, okay. "Oh, and I stopped by Trick's house." I turned to Becky. "But Ms. Kroenig is already bringing some of his personal things."
Becky gave me a blank look. "Oh."
Darla said, "Dear, could you run another errand for me?"
"But I just got back."
"I'd really appreciate it."
I couldn't argue with that. "Yes, dear."
"I really wish I had something to read."
"You don't want to get sleepy, Hon. The doc said to stay awake. You know, 'concussion'?"
"I should have asked you to bring my Bible." She gave me an odd look.
"You'll be home tonight," I soothed. "Read it later."
"I was just thinking of our friend Luke."
"Luke?"
"You know, from church. The guy with the two sons?"
I blinked, trying to remember faces, names, anything. Nothing clicked.
Darla kept prodding. "His sons are 15 and 11? The little one left home?"
"You mean he ran away?" I looked into her eyes, wondering whether she was delirious. "If he's 11, isn't he like in the sixth grade?" Which of our church friends had a kid who ran away?
"Well, reading the Bible really helped Luke out during that hard time." Darla paused and looked at me a long moment. I still couldn't see what she was getting at. "And while you're out—"
"While I'm out?"
"—can you get Becky and me some baked potatoes?"
"There's a sandwich here," Mother Henderson said. "Becky's too good for it."
"Momma, please."
Darla said, "Thank you, ma'am, but I have celiac, too. I can't have anything with bread."
"I see." Mother Henderson sniffed and got up. "Where do I throw these out?" She headed for the hall.
"I'll eat it." I raised my hand, but I guess she didn't hear me.
Becky followed her out. "Momma, please don't be like this."
The others out of the room, Darla grabbed my shirt and pulled me close. "What happened with George?"
"I went and had a talk with Ms. Kroenig."
"I know that already. What I wanted to—" She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean 'had a talk'?"
"You don't have any reason to be jealous."
"I'm not."
"Oh."
"You mean you haven't called George yet?"
Before I could reply, Becky returned to the room. "I'm so sorry about that. She doesn't understand."