The Fame Equation (10 page)

“Looks like a lot of fans had the same idea,” she said, mashing her finger into her phone. Before I knew it she was talking with a Cheatham County police dispatcher. “Mavis? Buffy Thorndyke.” She was quiet for a moment, listening. “I’m glad to hear that,” she said finally. “Have you seen the end of your squash, then?”

I listened as Buffy and Mavis first talked about gardening, then Mavis’s Thanksgiving plans. It wasn’t until the crowd started to sing the chorus to “Do Good,” that Buffy switched gears.

“Listen, Mavis, I’m here at Melody Cross’s house . . . I know. So tragic. Yes, the house is in Pegram and . . . That’s right. That’s the address. Mavis, there’s a huge crowd out on the road in front of her house. A couple of news vans, too. Can you send someone over to do crowd control? I don’t want to head out of here until the fans have settled down a bit.”

Buffy finally hung up. “Mavis Hawkins is married to a cousin of my mother’s maid’s neighbor,” she explained.

Of course she was.

Buffy stood and I followed her into Melody’s spare bedroom, which she had used as a closet. Country music stars needed a lot of clothes, and Melody had all of hers organized by color and fabric. Lightweight blue over here, heavyweight blue on the other side of the room.

“Pink was her favorite color,” I said, fingering a stunning sleeveless v-neck that was made out of a fabric that looked as if it could float.

“Then pink it is.”

We quickly found a knee-length pink dress that was covered with faded yellow and gold butterflies. Tall white and gold cowgirl boots and a pink headband completed the outfit.

“What about . . . underwear?” I asked.

Buffy and I looked at each other, stricken at first, and then we bubbled into laughter. Grief sure had my emotions running all over the place. We rummaged through a few drawers, came up with a set of undergarments and added them to the pile. I hoped Melody would have approved of our selections.

We found a small canvas tote, folded the clothes, and put them in. Then Buffy cautiously peeked through a blind in one of the front rooms.

“Police just got here. We might want to wait until some of the fans leave,” she said. “Are you in a hurry?”

I shook my head, and looked around the room wishing that Melody was sitting here with me instead of Buffy. Nothing against Buffy, of course. I just missed my friend.

Buffy had grown up in Belle Meade, Nashville’s old money neighborhood. She was pleasant enough, even when she had been a newspaper reporter, but we didn’t have much in common. Right now, I felt sure I’d never have another close friend like Melody.

Before I could get too maudlin, Buffy asked, “Have you met her family?”

I had not, but when I was with her Melody didn’t have much good to say. “My brother couldn’t punch his way out of a wet paper bag,” she’d once said. Another time she said of her mother, “She thinks the sun comes up just to hear her crow.”

“They can be overly dramatic,” Buffy said. “Davis hopes they will be respectful, but that media circus outside the window? That’s nothing compared to what her mother, Claudine, will stir up. I’m afraid they will turn everything about Melody into tabloid trash.”

“Can’t you stop them?” I asked.

“I’m a publicist, not a miracle worker,” Buffy answered with a wry smile.

We were quiet for a while, then I asked the question that had been kicking around inside my head all day. “Who . . . do you have any idea who––”

“Who killed Melody?” she asked. “It could be one of those fans out there. Or, it could be someone we know. Someone she met on the road, maybe. Or Brandyne. That’s Melody’s crazy, jealous sister. It could even be me . . . or you.”

I didn’t like the speculative look on Buffy’s face when she said that.

Before I could give her words too much thought there was a knock on the front door. Buffy and I both jumped before we heard, “Ladies? Mavis sent me over. You still in there?”

“That you, Bobby Lee?” Buffy asked. “Go around to the back door, hun.”

Turned out Bobby Lee was a tall, thin, thirtyish fellow who would have had a shock of bright red hair, had his buzz cut not stripped him nearly bald. He was also Mavis’s grandson and used to mow Buffy’s lawn. After Bobby Lee explained that he was assigned to escort us through the now thinning crowd, Buffy asked for a lesser presence from him. “I don’t want photos of us, or anyone, coming out of Melody’s house under police escort.”

Bobby Lee nodded his understanding, in a way that reminded me of Martin. In a department of several dozen, as Cheatham County had, they probably knew each other. I’d have to ask my favorite detective about ol’ Bobby Lee. Our new law enforcement friend went back out and shooed away a few more fans. He then organized the remainders into an orderly line across the lane from Melody’s fence. When we came out they all started to rush toward us and clamored for information, but when Bobby Lee told everyone to back off and hush up, they did.

I locked the gate with my key. Then Buffy’s words came back to me.
It could even be me . . . or you.
Had Buffy killed Melody? Or, did she really think I had? By the time I got into my truck, key still in hand, I was shaking. Too much stress did that to me. I tried some deep breathing exercises to relax, but they didn’t help much.

On my way home, Carole called. “The kids and I are going to my mother’s for a while,” she said. “Keith’s label suggested we go, as the label has received two death threats this afternoon.” Carole’s voice broke. “Someone wants to kill Keith.”

M
Y HEART THUDDED SO HARD
inside my chest that I almost drove off the road. Keith? No way. He had to stay safe. Carole and the kids needed him. I was glad they were going to stay with her mom, who lived in a small town near Indianapolis.

Carole told me the label had added extra security and that the tour would go on. The promoters liked the idea of the songwriters, so at each concert there would be one or two as opening acts. Some artists had even asked to perform. That would make each event different, and very special for the fans. Keith had also worked up a Melody Cross tribute for his show. All that was the business of show business. The show must go on, no matter how much the entertainer hurt inside.

By the time I got home I was so distraught that I thought I might hyperventilate. Then Hank came trotting up and wedged himself and the short stick he was carrying through the kitchen door along with me. I closed the door and sank to the floor, Hank in my arms. He snuffled my face, but soon sat quietly, as if he knew that was exactly what I needed.

Get a grip
, I thought. At this moment I was filled with so much energy and anger that I wanted to beat my head into the wall and pound my fists into the floor. I did neither. Instead, I gave a couple of good, deep Irish sighs, heaved Hank off my lap, got myself up from the floor, and got on with my day.

I was just finishing a restorative cup of hot chocolate (and if there was a wee smidge of brandy in there, I’m sure I don’t remember putting it in) when Bubba rumbled in from the barn.

“Jon an’ I got all the chores done, ’cept for fixin’ a stall for that new horse,” he said cheerfully. “What’s his name again?”

The registered name of the new horse was Ringo’s Jetstar. “I think they call him Ringo, but I’m not sure,” I said. “If Annie and Tony don’t know, I’ll call the owner.”

The horse was supposed to arrive with a completed questionnaire filled out by his former groom. I sometimes asked the owner to do it, but most often the person who actually cared for the horse needed to fill it out. Basic information such as feed schedule and veterinarian and farrier contacts were asked, as were questions about stable name, quirks, likes and dislikes, etcetera. I also asked that any new horse come to me with all of his medical records. I hoped the horse came with everything I needed, as I liked to make new arrivals as comfortable as possible by offering a similar environment to the one they had just left.

I desperately needed this horse. Wheeler, the squat palomino, was owned by a little girl who rode with me last summer. But they had moved away and Wheeler would soon be leaving us. Sally Blue would be four the next show season, her last year in the junior performance classes.

Reddi (Red Girl’s Moon) was going to be bred in the spring. She was athletic in the English classes, but could be excitable. Agnes had the idea of breeding her to a warmblood, a quieter sport horse type, and that was actually one of Agnes’s better ideas. There was a lot still to work out, like which stallion, and whether or not Reddi would gestate and foal here, or at a breeding farm closer to Agnes in Louisville. But for sure, Reddi would not be in my show string come spring.

Agnes was currently “communing” with her three dead husbands about all of this. After they had “spoken” I was sure Agnes would tell me what they all had to say. If I haven’t mentioned it before, Agnes carried a purse the size of Montana so she could bring along some of the ashes of her dearly departeds wherever she went. She has trouble letting go.

Jon, Mason Whitcomb, and I had not yet made a decision about showing Gigi next year. That usually was a collaborative process between trainer and owner. I still thought she needed time to grow up. She needed to be a horse for a while. Petey took up a stall, but he was Darcy’s project. Bob was being retired, so the only horses I currently had to show for next season were Sally Blue and Ringo, if that indeed was his name.

A trainer cannot make a living on two horses. I also gave riding lessons (on occasion) to Keith and Carole Carson’s kids and did some consulting, but I needed two or three more high profile horses, and possibly a youth kid or two, to haul down the road to next years’ shows. At eighteen, Darcy had finished her last year in the youth classes and would move to non-pro next year. It was early days yet, so I wasn’t too worried. The season had just ended a few weeks ago and I was making calls and putting out feelers, so the right horses and riders should come around soon.

Bubba and I went out to prepare a stall for the new horse. I debated where to put him. There was a spot on the end, across the aisle from Sally. He could look outside a lot there. Or, I could sandwich him between Petey and the feed stall. Petey was a calming influence who engaged well with other horses. I ended up going with the end stall. This horse was coming off the track. He was used to being stalled in a shed row type stall where he could see outside.

I wished once again that we had open concept stalls like they had at the Mighty Happy center. The more that stalled horses could see each other, the more “herd-like” they felt. Horses are herd animals so I tried to cater to their instincts by regular, small group turnout. My horses got more of that in the winter than in summer, as summer sun could bleach out shiny show coats, and show horses who were turned out often ended up with scrapes and other dings on their perfect bodies. It was a balancing act.

Bubba made several trips with a large wheelbarrow filled with shavings, while I filled two water buckets and dropped a mass of hay on the floor. We used to have mangers, but a horse’s natural position for eating is with their head down at ground level, so Jon took them out. We kept the shavings away from the hay as best we could.

After we were done, we went back to the house and I settled Bubba with a Harry Potter book. At eleven, Bubba was in remedial classes. When I found out he was into all things Hogwarts, we watched the first movie together, and then I bought him the book. I’m sure he thought it was the lamest gift ever, but when Darcy and I kept hinting at events that took place in the book that weren’t in the movie, he cracked the book open. It was slow going for Bubba, but he was now about a third of the way through and seemed to be enjoying it.

Across the room I settled in a big easy chair, opened my laptop, and clicked over to Google. Then I went to the news section and typed in “Melody Cross.” As the last technological holdout of my generation, I felt as behind the game online as Bubba did in school.

I grew up in the small Tennessee town of Bucksnort and my grandmother didn’t have Internet. Really, I can’t remember knowing anyone who did. When I went to college at Middle Tennessee State University, it was my first foray into technology and I already felt so behind the game that my stubborn Irishness made me not want to join in.

Darcy had been helping me, though, with my new smart phone, and with our stable website. Surprising even myself, I was catching on, although I thought of it all more as a necessary evil than as something fun.

Now, I looked at hundreds of news stories about Melody’s death. I picked one at random, a story from
The Tennessean
, Nashville’s biggest newspaper.

“Country Star Murdered,” screamed the headline. I started to read:

Rising country music star Melody Cross was found dead Friday afternoon in the Harpeth River, just south of the Hwy. 70 bridge in Kingston Springs. An unidentified male called 911 to report a body in the river. The caller had a “no contract” disposable cell phone, which does not allow law enforcement personnel to trace the user of the phone. This man is not currently a suspect, however, investigators in Cheatham County would like to talk with him. If anyone has any information on this unidentified man, please contact the sheriff’s office.

The medical examiner’s report put the cause of death as drowning. An autopsy also discovered marks on the victim’s neck that indicate she was held underwater prior to her death. Due to the cold temperature of the water, the victim’s estimated time of death ranges from midnight Wednesday night, to mid-morning on Thursday.

Melody Cross was signed to the Southern Sky label and was the reigning New Artist of the Year for the Country Music Association. Her debut album launched three number one hits, and her second album, scheduled for release December 1, is currently in the number one country album slot on Amazon.com. Her current single, a duet with country superstar Keith Carson titled “Do Good,” is the top single on the
Billboard
Country Airplay chart.

An Arkansas native, Cross was known for her kindness to her fans, and when the news of her death broke, hundreds of them gathered at her home west of Nashville. Masses of wreaths, flowers, letters, and other mementos were left along the fence next to her property.

Cross was also a volunteer at the Mighty Happy Therapeutic Riding Center in Kingston Springs, Tennessee. Calls to her representatives were not returned, and funeral arrangements have not yet been announced.