The Fame Equation (26 page)

I
YAWNED WHEN
I
WENT
through Kingston Springs and thought I’d much rather take a Saturday afternoon nap than attend a meeting––even a meeting for Melody. I had a killer headache, too. But soon I was on West Kingston Springs Road and the church was in sight. I rolled down my window, and stuck my arm out and waved when I turned into the drive of the riding center. But, Jon pulled into the driveway anyway. He idled his ancient car while I got out of my truck and was greeted by a Mighty Happy volunteer in a gold sweatshirt. Only then did he turn his car around and leave.

Even though I was a few minutes early, Buffy was there ahead of me, in the aisle, a sleek, black messenger bag draped over her shoulder. I guessed that the bag was full of her devices: tablet, computer, phone, and all the related chargers. Whatever happened to pen and paper? But, I hadn’t brought those either, so probably shouldn’t voice my opinion.

“There were a few committee meetings at the church, so Ruthie suggested we meet over here,” said Buffy. “There’s a lesson finishing up, but no one is in the parent room, so we can meet in there.”

When I drove up, several people were outside the barn, conversing at a picnic table on the thin, grassy strip between the parking lot and the covered arena. It didn’t take a light bulb going off inside my head to figure out that those were the parents. It was a nice afternoon for sitting in the sun.

The parent room had a few bottles of water sitting on a table so I grabbed one and swallowed a tired-looking aspirin that I found after scrounging around in the bottom of my purse. Then I turned to the large window that looked over the arena. There was also a speaker, so anyone who was in the room could hear what was going on during the lesson.

Today Emily had more advanced riders, and two teenaged boys made up her class. One had Down syndrome, and the other was a tall, blond boy who was very interested in waving at me when he rode by. The boy with Down syndrome rode by himself, without the aid of a leader or a sidewalker. The other boy just had a leader, although I saw three volunteers spaced around the arena. Spotters, I guessed. They would quickly step in if either rider needed assistance.

“In a few minutes we are going to trot.” Emily’s slow, clear voice came through the speakers, along with the tiniest bit of static. “When you get to the green cone by the far wall you will ask your horse to trot, and when you get to the red cone, you will ask your horse to walk. Now Henry, can you repeat that back to me?”

The tall boy looked at Emily and smiled. “Juan, how about you? Henry, please listen to what Juan has to say.”

“Green cone trot, red cone walk,” said Juan.

Juan was riding Noodle the Haflinger, and Henry was on the brown Saddlebred/Quarter Horse cross, Cinnamon.

“Good explanation, Juan!” said Emily. “Henry, can you tell me how you get Cinnamon to trot?” asked Emily.

Henry waved at me as he passed by again, then turned to Emily and shouted, “Trot.”

“Very good, Henry. Yes, you will tell your horse to trot with your voice, but maybe not quite so loud. Can you say the word using more of an indoor voice?”

“Trot,” Henry boomed with a little less force.

“Better. Juan, what else do you do to ask your horse to trot?”

Juan mimicked thumping his legs against his horse’s sides without actually doing so. Then Emily brought both boys through the same process, but this time going from a trot to a walk. Only when both boys had practiced saying whoa and pulling back on their reins, did she actually allow the boys to trot, one at a time.

Juan did his trot mostly standing up, with his seat out of the saddle. He did a relatively good two point, except that his toes kept pointing toward the ground, which threw his upper body forward. Emily asked him to point his toes toward the sky, and he did better the second time.

Henry did a nice sitting trot both times, but was too busy waving at the spotters and me to keep his hands on his reins. During both trots, Juan had relatively good control of his horse, although I wasn’t convinced he could maintain if he went around a corner. After his second trot Juan was so excited with himself that he dropped his reins to clap his hands. One of the volunteers stepped forward to grab Noodle, on the off chance the Haflinger might decide to move faster than a moseying walk. But Juan remembered himself and picked up his reins before the volunteer could get there.

I was having such a good time watching the lesson that I hadn’t realized that the rest of the committee had arrived. Chas was the one I knew the least about. He arrived last, and full of impatience, which seemed to be his natural state.

Buffy took charge of the meeting, and passed around a one-page agenda. It seemed there was a consensus that the memorial event should be held next June during the CMA Festival, country music’s huge fan fest held in Nashville.

“The Ryman Auditorium books out early, but if we call now, we might get a daytime slot,” said Davis. “Sometimes during CMAFest they have more than one event going on within a single day there. If we had a morning event––”

“The day and time don’t matter,” said Chas, looking at his watch. “Let’s just find an avail and snag it.” I was pretty sure I didn’t like Chas.

The Ryman Auditorium had once been a church, and a number of memorial services for stars of country music had been held there over the years. Melody would have liked knowing that hers would be held there, too.

“I’ll see if I can book it,” Davis said.

“The label will pay for the venue rental, and for the sound,” said Chas.

“I’ll do event PR and media credentialing,” said Buffy.

Emily popped in late, having finished her lesson and having returned the kids back to their parents. After she arrived, there was some argument over whether or not Buffy should be paid for her services, with Davis finally insisting that this was not part of the four months retainer fee that was outlined in Melody’s will. Davis would pay Buffy’s fee out of the estate.

On and on it went. My role seemed to be to say if Melody would have liked something or not. Ruthie said she’d perform the memorial service. Davis and Chas offered to line up a few top celebrities to perform. I mentioned that Melody would want Keith to be one of those celebrities and maybe he could perform their duet, “Do Good,” with another female artist. Buffy took notes. Emily didn’t have much to say.

During the meeting I had been looking closely at faces. These were the faces of Melody’s friends and co-workers. Had one of them killed her? If so, the murderer wore the face of innocence well. We agreed to meet again, as soon as Davis had the venue secured and we knew more about the day and time.

When we all stood, I made a point to reach out to Emily.

“You look tired,” I said.

Emily eyed me as if I had a hidden motive for talking to her. Well, I did, but she didn’t need to know that. I tried again. “You put a lot of thought into your lessons. I saw part of this last one. The boys did well.”

That earned me a little smile. “They’ve come a long way,” she said. Then she gave me a curious stare. “Did you ever ask Allen or Ruthie about our funding?”

“I haven’t had time,” I admitted.

“I didn’t mean to be short with you at orientation,” she said, relaxing her body a smidgen of a degree. “We had a lot to cover. It’s no secret, though. Most of the horses are donated, as is some of our hay, grain, tack, and supplies. Fees from riders make up about 15 percent of our budget. Beyond all that we rely on fundraisers, grants, and donations. Now,” she said looking at her watch and stiffening her body back up, “I have to pick up Rowan.”

Guess our time together was over. Too bad, as I thought for a second there that she was thinking about being friendly. I had also wanted to ask why her husband had been looking so angrily past the camera on the b-roll footage from the wrap party, but that would have to wait for another time. She and Davis, both were so self-contained that it was almost impossible to see who they really were, and that bothered me. Killer, or not? I hated that I had to think this way about almost every person I saw.

When we opened the door to step into the aisle, Darcy was there talking to Robert Griggs. I’d almost forgotten she was going to follow me home.

“Robert’s telling me about this new horse that’s coming in,” Darcy said.

“He’s a former Olympic jumper,” Robert added with the most animation I’d ever seen in him. “He’s twenty, but will give us a few good years before he is turned out to pasture.”

“And guess what? Robert said I might be able to exercise him.” Darcy was almost jumping up and down with excitement. “After you’ve volunteered here for a couple of months you can apply to be an exercise rider.”

“Sounds perfect,” I said, and I meant it. Riding a variety of horses was a great way to advance one’s riding skills. I wanted to ask more about the horse, but I had another question for Robert.

“Changing the subject,” I said, “what did you think of the video shoot? That was the first time I’d been involved in one of those.”

“Me, too,” he said. “The video will be good for both the church and the center. That day, though, was more hectic than I had anticipated.”

“How so?”

“Well that Fitch guy, for starters. He was just plain rude. Then he kept changing his mind about what he wanted to eat and who could stand next to him. Me? I think he’s got a personality disorder or something.”

Maybe that explained the murderous look that Robert had given Fitch on the video outtakes. I looked at Robert again. He, too, was quite self-contained, but I knew him to be a pacifist, and a gentle person. Killer? Probably not. The growing darkness through the open door at the end of the aisle made me look at my watch. It was already five-thirty. Long past time to head home.

Darcy and I went to our respective vehicles, and after I got in I sighed and locked my doors. Darcy followed me out of the lot. My headache had gone away during the meeting, but came thumping back on the drive home. My first yawn came at the three-way stop light in Kingston Springs, and my second when I turned north on Sam’s Creek Road. I glanced in my rearview mirror to be sure Darcy was still behind me. Maybe I needed some vitamins and a few days off. I had been running pretty hard.

Up the hill and past the animal shelter my vision blurred, then sharpened. My new phone was in my purse and I had the thought that I should call Darcy. If I was engaged in a conversation I might feel better. But I couldn’t find the phone, so I gave up looking. I clicked the radio on to a Toby Keith song, but couldn’t make sense of the words. Around the curve and past Little Pond Creek Road I realized my eyes had been closed for a few seconds. I should pull over, but there was no shoulder here. I drove another half mile before my body reacted to my thought.

I remember rolling to a stop in the middle of the road, putting the truck in park, and reaching out to turn the ignition off. Then my world went black.

W
HEN
I
WOKE UP
, I was in a bed in the Cheatham Medical Center. I recognized the layout of the room from the times I had been there before: narrow bed, gray walls, and a window with matching gray blinds. My room was partially lit by an early morning sun. I wasn’t sure how I knew the time of day by the quality of the light, but I did.

I also wasn’t sure why I was there, or how long I had been there, but I didn’t care. The bed was comfy and I was tired. I decided to take a nap.

The next time I woke the sunlight was brighter and there was activity in the hall. I heard the rolling of carts and the smell of what could quite possibly be lunch. As I blinked myself awake I saw Jon dozing in a chair next to the window. I studied the sharp planes of his face and the relaxed position of his body, and wondered how long he had been there. I’d never seen Jon asleep before. Most people display a softer, more vulnerable version of themselves when they are asleep, but Jon was still very much himself. Trustworthy, smart, hard-working Jon.

For some reason I wanted to reach my hand out to touch him, but he must have sensed me watching him, because before I could do that he jerked awake.

“How are you feeling?” he asked.

I pulled my hand back and considered his question. “I’m not sure.” My arms and legs seemed to be free of casts, and my neck was not in a brace. I stretched my other limbs to be sure, and they all worked just fine. “Why am I here?” I finally asked.

“What do you remember?”

Vague thoughts and impressions flooded into my brain, none of them very clear. “I was tired . . . and I had a headache. I tried to call Darcy but couldn’t find my phone. Then I stopped the truck.”

As I spoke, I had a sense of flashing lights and distant voices, but I couldn’t place them into any kind of meaning or time frame.

“You were overcome with carbon monoxide poisoning,” Jon said.

I tried to make sense of his words, but my brain was sluggish.

“There was a leak in your truck, so you were breathing toxic exhaust fumes. With the windows rolled up you had no access to fresh air. That’s why the headache.”

And also probably the reason for the blurred vision, exhaustion, and confusion. I was glad my brain could make that connection, at least.

“So what happened?”

“As far as I know, Darcy was following you. You started to slow down and speed up,” Jon said. “First, she thought you were looking for something on the road, but then you started to weave back and forth. She called your new cell, so maybe that’s why you tried to call her. Maybe you heard the phone ring and tried to answer it?”

I tried to remember hearing the phone ring, but couldn’t.

“Then Darcy thought someone was in the truck with you,” Jon said. “She was just getting ready to call Martin when you stopped the truck in the middle of the road. She waited for you to get out, but you didn’t, so she went up to the driver side window and saw that you had passed out. When she tried to get the door open she found it was locked. The truck was still running, so she called 911.”