The Fame Equation (11 page)

As I read, my insides felt like they were turning into a big black hole, especially when I saw the photos of the fans and the fence. Who would want to kill a beautiful soul like Melody?

I didn’t want to read any more, but felt I had to. I needed to absorb every scrap of information. As her friend, I hoped a trivial fact would jump out at me and I could put two and two together in a way that no one else could. I slogged on.

Every site I went to had varying details of what
The Tennessean
had, but TMZ was the worst. TMZ had a photo of Buffy and me walking down the short drive of Melody’s house. The caption read:
THE PLOT THICKENS. ON SATURDAY AFTERNOON, PUBLICIST BUFFY THORNDYKE AND AN UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN LEFT THE HOME OF MURDERED COUNTRY MUSIC STAR MELODY CROSS WITH A MYSTERIOUS SATCHEL.

A mysterious satchel? Come on. It was a canvas tote filled with burial clothes. At least I was not identified by name. Although, I wondered how long that would last. Then I clicked on a link to the
Enquirer
and saw it. Melody’s mother, Claudine Potts, had sold her story. That hadn’t taken long. The tabloid was teasing online readers about their upcoming exclusive with Melody’s family. In addition to Claudine, Melody’s sister Brandyne would be interviewed, as would their brother Bodine, who was in prison. A picture of Claudine and Brandyne accompanied the tease. In it, Claudine had her nose so high in the air it was a wonder she hadn’t drowned in a rainstorm, and Brandyne’s hair was so messy it looked like it had caught on fire and somebody put it out with a brick.

I sighed and closed my laptop. My web surfing had taken up the better part of an hour and I hadn’t learned anything new. Not about Melody’s murder anyway. I did have my suspicions about her family and the sliminess of tabloid reporters confirmed, though.

Bubba was still reading, so I headed toward the kitchen. Another restorative hot chocolate was needed.

Much later, I called Brent. “Do you want to go to church tomorrow?”

“Uh . . . sure. I guess so.”

Whether he was confused or hesitant, I wasn’t surprised. Neither of us were regular church goers, and together, we’d only gone to services a few times. Catholic for me and Brent was Southern Methodist. My horse show travel schedule made regular church attendance difficult eight months out of the year, but I sometimes went to the Cowboy Church services they had at some of the horse shows. Okay. Twice. I’d gone twice.

Mama Giles had beaten church attendance into her kids so hard that as soon as the boys were old enough, they ran as far away as they could from it. Brent and Martin’s sister Alison, though, stuck with it. She, of course, was a great cook, and at thirty was happily married with two kid––and another on the way.

I had nothing against church, and in fact, my faith was very strong. Maybe after I got married and learned to cook like Alison, church would come back to me.

“I thought we could try a new church,” I said. Before, we had gone to his home church, and also to a local Catholic church.

“Let me guess,” Brent said. “You think we should go to Sunday services at the Holy Church of the Mighty Happy.”

I hated that he could read me so well. “Are you in?” I asked.

“I’m certainly not going to let you experience that for the first time by yourself. Just tell me when to pick you up.”

B
RENT
, B
UBBA, AND
I
SAT
in one of the rear pews. Not the very last pew, but a pew far enough back that we could make a hasty exit without interrupting much, but not look like we were going to bolt at the first opportunity.

I hadn’t been sure about bringing Bubba. Taking a child to a religious service without parental consent probably wasn’t a good thing. But I knew that Hill and Bubba didn’t go to a specific church. I had seen them over the years at various neighborhood weddings and funerals, so Bubba had been to church at least a few times, but I wasn’t sure what Hill would think about me bringing Bubba to this particular church.

To complicate matters, Bubba hadn’t wanted to come. It wasn’t as if I could pick him up and throw him into the truck, as I had done a few times when he was in elementary school. It wasn’t until I told Bubba why I wanted to go, that I wanted to gather information to learn more about the people Melody knew, that he changed his mind.

“You mean I could be like a spy?” he asked.

Whatever worked. “Just like a spy, Bubba. I need your good eyes and ears to see and hear things I might miss. Melody spent a lot of time at the church and knew just about everyone there. We might pick up on something that could solve the case.”

We might learn something good from the sermon, too, but I thought if I mentioned that it would kill the deal. A girl should always know when to stop her mouth from ruining her life, as my grandma used to say.

Bubba held a red windbreaker in his hands. He looked as if he was ready to put it on, then said, “I’m not sure if ’n my dad would want me to go.”

I looked at my watch. Brent was waiting in the driveway and we’d have to hustle to catch the first part of the service. “How about I deal with that when your dad picks you up later today? That sound okay?”

Bubba thought about it, then nodded his head. “I want to help you help Miz Melody. She was a nice lady.”

Yes, she was.

At the church, I hadn’t known what to expect. After we parked we got the traditional “mighty happy” greeting at the door. Inside, the church looked like most other small, nondenominational churches I had been in over the years. Light colored wooden pews. Tan tile floor with a carpet running down the center and side aisles. There was a spot for a small choir or band up front to the left, and a pulpit to the right. This church also had a second floor balcony that was accessed by a stairwell to the right of the small lobby. Another set of stairs, these on the left, led downward.

Several parents led young children downward and I thought they might have children’s Bible classes going on during the service. I hoped so. The only thing worse than being stuck next to a screaming baby in church was being stuck next to one on an airplane.

Turns out we had plenty of time. We got there at least five minutes before the ten-thirty service was to start. The makings of a folk band were unpacking instruments in the choir area up front. Two acoustic guitars, a mandolin, and a flute, with one microphone between them all. Two other microphones were set up nearby for vocalists. They each tuned up and played a few notes, then, without any obvious signal, they broke into a lively hymn that I didn’t recognize. Then Ruthie appeared from a door behind the pulpit.

I was surprised to see her wearing a flowing, brilliant green robe. I’m not sure what I had expected her to wear, but this wasn’t it. She walked front and center, raised her arms and shouted, “How are you all this fine Sunday morning?”

The entire congregation raised their arms and in reply, shouted, “We’re mighty happy!”

Eyes wide, Bubba turned to me and stage whispered, “This ain’t anythin’ like them other churches I been to.”

“Me either,” I whispered back.

The band did a little number, and then there was another song where the congregation got up and clapped and stomped their mighty happiness loud enough that everyone up in heaven was sure to hear about it. I was on the aisle and saw Robert four rows from the front on the opposite side of the center aisle. He looked . . . happy. Allen, Emily, and their daughter, Rowan, were sitting in front of Robert. They looked happy, too. I was beginning to understand why Melody had liked to come here.

Two children that I had seen at the riding center sat across the aisle from me, one in a pew in front of the other. The little boy with Down syndrome who rode the Haflinger, Noodle, during the demonstration at the wrap party was one of them. He grinned with his entire body, wiggled his fingers at me, then clasped his hands and brought them to his heart. Oh boy. I almost had a moment there, but if I was to learn more about Melody’s life, and thus her death, I needed to stay uninvolved. I hoped they’d all stick around after the service, though, as I wanted to talk with as many people as possible.

My attention drifted back to Ruthie, who had just started to speak. I have to say, she was as electric in the pulpit as she had been when she spoke at the wrap party. Brent slung his right arm across the back of the pew behind Bubba, who was between us. His fingers nudged my shoulder and I turned to look at him.

“Charismatic,” he said, with a nod toward Ruthie. I agreed.

Without being specific, Ruthie began to speak about loss. I, and probably everyone else in the room, realized she was speaking about Melody, but she did not mention her by name.

“Think of a life well lived,” Ruthie said. Rather than stay behind the pulpit, she walked across the front of the church as if she had been born there. “Now use that thought to empower yourself to live just as well, to make a difference, to help others, to fulfill all that God wants you to be.”

Her passionate words incited much whooping and hollering among the congregation. Who would have imagined that drab, dumpy Ruthie could inspire such passion? The service was turning out to be part concert, part Southern revival, part black spiritual, and part theatre.

Carole once told me that some entertainers were always on, while others kept their “it” factor turned off until they hit the stage. Keith was always turned on. He was always vibrant and engaging, and drew everyone from the mail clerk at the post office to his kids’ teachers to him. Ruthie was apparently of the other variety. She contained her energy until she needed it, then it exploded out of her. After the service, in a receiving line at the front of the church, Ruthie’s eyes were shining. I wondered how long she could keep the bright light turned on.

“Cat, I am mighty happy to see you here today,” Ruthie said as she grasped my hand in both of hers. I introduced Brent and Bubba, who both suddenly became shy and mumbled their hellos.

It was too bad, I thought, that Darcy and Jon weren’t here. I would have loved their thoughts about the service and the people. But, when I asked Jon he gave me one of his looks and I knew, without him saying a word, that the answer was not only no, but that there would be no discussion about it. Darcy had planned to go, but when it came time for her to get up, she threw a pillow at me and told me to go away. Guess her day with her dad had been a mite exhausting.

People were drifting to a door behind where the band had played, and our little party began to follow. On the other side was a large, sunny room that looked over a garden and a playground that were bordered on two sides by evergreen trees.

Bubba tugged on my jacket. “Can I go around now, an’ be like a spy?” he asked quietly.

“You go,” I said. “But be nice to people and don’t look like you’re spying.”

I listened to myself. Was I really encouraging an eleven-year-old boy to listen in on other people’s conversations? Guess I was. I was glad I didn’t have kids. This parenting stuff was a lot harder than it looked. Probably, I should back off on my criticism of Hill. On second thought, maybe not.

While Ruthie had not mentioned Melody by name in her sermon, it was clear by the conversations I listened in on that my friend was on everyone’s mind. Across the board it sounded as if Melody had been well liked, and I heard words such as sweet, kind, dedicated, talented, and genuine. There were even a few tears.

Melody would have been touched. She had been going to the Holy Church of the Mighty Happy since she first came to town, long before she became a star, and it was apparent that she had real friends here.

I did, however, hear contradictory opinions of Ruthie. Most seemed to feel that she was just what their church needed in a leader, but others felt she was pushy. Even the nay-sayers, though, seemed committed to the church and the accompanying programs, including the therapeutic riding center. They knew they were making a difference.

As I kept an eye on Bubba, Brent and I were welcomed by many of the adults.

“Thank you. We’re just church shopping,” I repeated over and over. Some members were far pushier than Ruthie ever could be and put on a lot of pressure for us to come back. It was just that kind of pressure that made me want to stay away. Far, far away.

After our fill of lemonade and some amazing cookies and brownies, Brent and I rounded up Bubba and eased our way out the door. I could tell that Bubba was bursting with news, and as soon as the car doors were closed he let loose with a stream of unrelated tidbits.

“That Allen guy? He’s not all that nice to his wife, Miz Emily. People say she’s a good ridin’ teacher, though. Miz Emily home schools Rowan. Rowan’s okay for a girl, but she’s studyin’ all these things I never heard of. Astro-nomy, I think is one. And archaeology. Is that where you dig up dead people?”

“Sort of,” I said. “It’s the study of how people lived many years ago. Like in ancient times.”

Bubba went on as if he hadn’t heard me. “People said Miz Melody was a good sidewalker. I want to do that when I get old enough, an’ lead horses in lessons, too. An’ I talked with a kid named Jared. He’s eleven, just like me. His brother’s the one with the squinty eyes who smiles all the time. Coops is nine. He rides at the center.”