The Day Will Come (8 page)
The cows were remarkably willing to re-enter the barn for milking. I guess they really did feel the call to empty their tight udders. But they were eager to get back outside when they were done, and scurried away (if grown cows can scurry) as soon as their collars were unclipped.
“You know evenings are my job,” Lucy said, scraping some sodden newspaper onto the manure conveyor.
I tossed some clean bedding into a nearby stall. “Yeah, I know. But what else am I going to do?”
She paused, leaning on her pitchfork. “Anything you need to figure out before, say, Saturday?”
Oh.
“Clothing stores aren’t open this time of night,” I said. “Especially on Sundays.”
She gave me a level look.
I feigned surprise. “They are? I guess I wouldn’t know.”
“No.” She stuck her pitchfork into another lump of paper. “I guess you wouldn’t.”
I spread out my remaining bedding and went to get some more. When I came back I said, “I’ll figure something out, Luce. Really.”
She didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.
Once we made it inside, washed up, and ate, I was feeling the effects of Friday night’s lost sleep. I said goodnight to Lucy and Tess and went upstairs. Nick still hadn’t called, and I wasn’t sure what to do about that. I stared at the phone, willing it to ring.
But the next sound I heard was my alarm clock, telling me it was time to get up and start another day.
***
Jordan still wasn’t on the news, which was a good thing, but the bomb and Genna’s murder had practically disappeared, which wasn’t. They were mentioned in passing, when the call went out that Robert “Bobby” Baronne was still missing, but only because they were associated with the time frame of when he disappeared. The dead Mafia guys, being more newsworthy, apparently, got at least two minutes of air time.
A few of the cows lay in their stalls in the barn, but this morning I needed Queenie to help me round up the rest of the herd from the pasture. I was still slapping the flanks of a last lazy few when Zach arrived, dropped off by his dad. He didn’t usually work weekday mornings, but his school was closed for a teacher development day, or something.
“You wanna get them clipped in?” I said.
He started on one aisle while I did another. We worked in silence until we met at the end of the row.
“Jordan’s home,” he said.
“Oh?”
He squinted at me. “I thought you knew. At least, he said so.”
“Right. I just didn’t know that you knew I knew.”
He nodded slowly, clearly thinking I was being a weird adult. “I’ll get the buckets.”
“Great. You do that.”
He didn’t talk to me again for a while.
I spread out the hay and distributed the grain while Zach milked. When I finished I went and stood beside him while he wiped off Lady’s udder. Seemed I was always looming over him while he was doing this.
“So did you actually see Jordan last night?” I asked.
He glanced up. “Huh-uh. Jermaine called to say Jordan was back, and my dad and mom drove over to his place.”
“What did they say? How was he?”
He looked at me again. “You saw him.”
“I know. I just wondered what they said.”
He sat back on his haunches, his elbows resting on his knees. “They said he looked terrible, like he hadn’t slept since Friday. And that he told them all to just leave him alone.”
I was afraid of that. “Anything else?”
He made a last swipe at Lady’s teats and stood up. “Not that they’re telling me.”
So nothing about the police interrogating him or anything.
We finished up and headed outside, where Zach helped me check the silos that had been emptied over the winter. We’d soon be filling them again, and they needed to be ready. We worked for about an hour until the milk truck came, and I went over to make sure the driver had everything he needed.
Lucy and Tess were in their vegetable patch, Lucy planting tomatoes and Tess putting cages around them. Lucy was determined to have the crops entirely in before the weekend, so she could go on her honeymoon free of guilt. Knowing her, she’d still feel guilty about leaving me on my own, but at least she’d know the garden was in good shape.
A little while later Zach and I had seen off the milk truck and were sitting in the side yard drinking lemonade and taking turns wrestling with Queenie when a police cruiser pulled into the drive. I watched it come with growing tension, until it stopped and Detective Willard got out.
“Break time?” he said.
“Yeah. Want some?”
He looked at the glass I held up. “What is it?”
“Lemonade.”
His eyes lit up. “Lucy’s homemade?”
“You called it.”
“I’d love some.”
Zach drained his cup. “I’ll get it. I need a refill, anyway.”
“Here,” I said. “Fill me up, too.”
He grabbed my glass and went inside.
Willard stuck his hands in his pockets and surveyed the farm.
“What’s with the cop car?” I asked. “And the uniform?”
He looked down at his clothes. “I’m heading to do security for a big library function. Special fund-raiser tea thing, with some cash involved.”
“Why are you, Mr. Fancy Detective, pulling guard duty?”
He smiled. “I do my share of grunt work. Keeps the officers on my side.” He sank to the ground beside me and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Glad you didn’t bring your little buddy Alexander today,” I said.
Willard grimaced. “He’s no buddy. But as a favor to the Philadelphia police I did tour guide duty.” He looked sideways at me. “And I’m here today to ask something else.”
I glanced back to make sure Zach was still inside. “What?”
“Do you have any idea if Jordan knows Robert Baronne?”
“The guy who’s missing?”
He nodded.
“I guess he probably does. I mean, working at the club and all, he’d at least know who he was. Why? Does Alexander think Jordan had time to kidnap Baronne at the same time he was murdering Genna and trying to blow up the club?” I couldn’t keep the sarcasm from my voice.
Willard held a hand up. “He’s just covering all the angles.”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. So why are you asking?”
He was quiet for a moment, but he looked like he wanted to tell me. I waited him out.
“Seems like Jordan’s been talking on the phone to Mr. Baronne,” Willard said. “A few times last week, including the morning of the concert.”
“So what? Baronne worked at the club. Jordan is the band’s sound man. Wouldn’t it be a natural thing for them to be talking logistics?”
Willard plucked a long grass strand and put it between his lips, talking out of the side of his mouth. “It would.”
“And I’m sure Baronne was talking to lots of other people, too.”
“He was.”
“So there’s something else?”
He raised his eyebrows, not looking at me.
“What?” I said.
He took the grass out of his mouth. “Jordan say anything to you about arguing with Baronne before the concert?”
“Oh, good lord.”
The screen door slapped shut, and we stopped talking while Zach came out and handed us each full cups. I took mine and downed half of it.
“I’ll be out helping Lucy till you’re ready for me again,” Zach said.
I nodded. “Thanks, buddy.”
Willard held up his cup in a salute. “Thanks for the drink.”
Zach loped to the garden, sipping as he went.
“Nice boy,” Willard said.
I ignored him. “So not only was Jordan fighting with Genna before the show, he was also fighting with Baronne? Anybody he wasn’t fighting with, according to your sources?”
“These things are coming to us—”
“And Alexander’s not looking for them? Give me a break.”
Willard’s mouth straightened into a hard line, and his eyes grew thoughtful.
“What?” I said. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”
He sighed, dropping his head.
“Come
on.
”
He raised his face and looked at me straight on. “You keep reminding me that Jordan is the Tom Copper Band’s sound man.”
I lifted a shoulder. “He is. That’s why he was there.”
“Well, you see, that’s the problem.”
I stared at him. “Why would that be a problem? It’s a legitimate occupation.”
“I know that. But the thing is… You know the bomb? The one the building was evacuated for?”
“Of course.”
“It was rigged up as part of the sound system.”
The memorial service was not at a church. Instead, Jordan and I pulled into the packed driveway of Tom Copper’s beautiful stone house in New Hope, a haven amid the tourists and antique shops and traffic. We hadn’t talked much on the way down, me a bit freaked out by Willard’s revelation, Jordan in his own world. I wanted to ask Jordan about the sound system, if he’d noticed anything unusual, why there’d been that delay before the second set, how those cables Annie had taped down had come unsecured. But he wasn’t really with me in spirit, and I figured it could wait until our ride home.
I sat in the truck, awestruck at Tom Copper’s green yard, which lay fenced in by stone and framed by tall oaks and blooming fruit trees. This all fronted the house like a movie set from
Gone with the Wind
, although I guess that would’ve been a different sort of house. A glimpse of the back yard promised a lot of space, too; several acres, at least. Beside the house, about twenty yards away, stood a small old barn, with two horses in a fenced-in paddock eating something out of people’s hands.
“I guess Tom has done well for himself,” I said.
We got out of the truck and started up the flagstone walk.
“The band used to be just a local college group,” Jordan said. “But their fan base grew like crazy when they began touring out of town. Makes the home crowd think you’re a more valuable commodity when other people are listening, too.” He smiled crookedly. “You know that old saying, ‘You don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.’” He swallowed, obviously thinking of something other than the band. “Now whenever the band plays locally it’s to a sold-out crowd.”
We walked around the house, making our way to the back yard, which was just as big as I’d guessed. There must’ve been over a hundred people spread out on the lawn, blankets under them. Several circles of occupied chairs also dotted the space. A long buffet table sat under a tent, filled with an assortment of goodies from quiche to cherry tarts to melting Brie. The music of the Tom Copper Band spilled from two large speakers at either end of the enclosure, Genna’s voice in the mix. Several large coolers held beer, water, and soda packed in ice, with open wine bottles on a small table beside them. People in the yard balanced plates on their laps, their soda cans and beer bottles on the ground beside them.
“Hungry?” I asked Jordan.
He didn’t answer.
A group of people to our right burst out in laughter while one man jumped up, his pant leg wet with whatever drink had spilled.
“You think they even remember why they’re here?” Jordan asked, his voice quiet.
“Makes you wonder.” I looked around, trying to find someone who looked appropriately sad. “Is there anybody you want to talk to?”
“Not yet.”
We stood there a little longer while he studied the people, until I realized one group was staring at us. I stared back until I saw a few familiar faces. Ricky was at the center of the now-silent cluster, being comforted, I was sure, by the attentive young women surrounding him. I recognized Marley, the dark-haired girl from the concert, sitting at his left elbow, gazing into his face. Annie, the smaller, blonder one, sat next to her friend. She looked from Ricky to Jordan, her face unreadable. Ricky’s expression, however, was plain. He pushed his way up from the blanket and stalked over to Jordan.
“You’re not here to cause problems, I hope,” Ricky said.
Jordan sighed, not looking at him. “You know I’m not.”
“Because Genna was
my
girlfriend, you know. Not yours.”
Jordan looked at Ricky, and for a moment I thought he was going to tell the bastard his little secret about being engaged to his “girlfriend.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jordan said. “I’m so glad to see you have plenty of other girls to ease your pain.”
Ricky’s mouth twitched. “Yeah, well, just don’t try to make this into your show. Because it’s not.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jordan said.
One of the girls from Ricky’s posse came up and put her hand through his elbow. She looked me up and down, conveying the impression that she wasn’t sure what on earth I was doing there. “You okay, Ricky?” she asked.
He broke eye contact with Jordan and looked down at her. “Sure, yeah, I’m okay. Just chatting with a friend.” He turned back to Jordan. “I’ll see you later. If you decide to stick around.”
Jordan regarded him stonily as he situated himself back among his groupies. Ricky said something we couldn’t hear, and the girls had a round of tittering, stealing glances at Jordan and me. I wanted to slap some sense into them, but realized it wouldn’t teach them anything. Annie, at least, looked like she had the sense to be embarrassed by the little scene.
The group beside us, the guy with the wet pants sitting down again, had stopped their laughing. Now they were in the midst of a loud rendition of “Kum-By-Ya.”
“Come on,” Jordan said. “Let’s see if we can find anyone who actually cared about Genna.”
We’d only taken a few steps when a young woman flew up and threw her arms around Jordan. I grabbed his arm to keep him from falling backward, and held on until he got stabilized. The girl sobbed into his shoulder loud enough the group beside us cut off their song mid-verse.
“Come on, San, honey,” Jordan said. He gently picked her up, swinging her legs into his arms, and carried her back toward the house, where a few seats sat vacant on the patio. Once away from prying eyes he eased onto a wrought-iron loveseat, cuddling the girl on his lap. He allowed her to cry herself out, his own eyes remaining dry. I wasn’t sure if he was all done crying, or if his grief was still too raw for tears.
I took a seat close by, not sure exactly where I should be looking or what I should be doing. My sole reason for coming was to support Jordan, but it was kind of hard to do that with a woman on his lap.
The girl, from what I could see, was small, her black hair pulled up in a messy bunch. There was no way to be sure how old she was from that angle, but I guessed her to be in her early twenties. If she was merely another groupie, she’d taken this a lot harder than the other female fans.
Finally she quieted, and I’d almost decided she’d gone to sleep when she hiccupped and scooted off Jordan’s lap onto the other end of the loveseat. Jordan kept his arm around her, and she leaned the top of her head on his chin.
She suddenly noticed I was there, and jerked upright.
“That’s Stella,” Jordan said. “A friend of mine from home. She’s cool with everything.”
The girl looked at me with wide eyes, obviously unsure about my presence.
“This is San Powell,” Jordan said to me. “Genna’s sister.”
“Oh,” I said. “I’m so sorry for…for what’s happened.”
She shrank even further under Jordan’s arm. “Can I…can I just talk to Jordan?”
Jordan winced, but I stood and patted him on the shoulder. “Of course. I’ll be around when you need me, Jordan.”
His eyes told me thank you, and I walked quietly away. San obviously needed a loving hand right now, and not some stranger taking the attention of the person she wanted.
At a loss among the crowd, I spotted the buffet table and realized I was hungry. It was noon, after all, and I hadn’t eaten anything since a half a bagel after milking.
I loaded my plate with cheese, French bread, and little spinach quiches, then stopped to study a small arrangement of photos on an adjoining table. The photos showed the range of Genna’s lifetime: as a toddler in a wading pool, as a teen-ager—with another girl I assumed was San—and with Ricky in front of the Art Institute of Philadelphia. I was leaning over to check out a photo of her on stage somewhere when I felt someone next to me.
“Finding what you need?” Tom Copper asked.
I stared at him for a moment, words escaping me. Even in this situation his celebrity was a bit tongue-tying.
“You’re here with Jordan, right?” he asked. “Didn’t he introduce us one time?”
“Friday night,” I finally said. “Before the concert. Backstage.”
He slapped his thigh. “That’s right. Can’t forget that tattoo.”
I reached up to touch the steer head on my neck. “Yeah. It’s a memory trigger.”
He grinned. “Why don’t you come join us? We’re sitting over there.” He gestured toward a small group at a lone round table under the far corner of the tent. I recognized LeRoy, the bassist, his big smile non-existent today as he leaned back in his chair, his hand loosely around a beer bottle. A woman I didn’t know sat beside Donny, the guitarist. Her eyes were red and swollen, I guessed from crying.
“If you’re sure,” I said.
He picked up a red pepper cream cheese cracker thing and gestured me along with him. The group looked up at us.
“You guys remember…Stella, right?”
I nodded, dumbfounded.
Tom Copper
had remembered my name.
“Jordan brought her backstage Friday night,” Copper said.
Recognition lit both guys’ eyes.
“And this is my wife, Tonya.” Copper put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “She and Genna go way back.”
“We have pictures of us playing in a wading pool, diapers hanging down. There’s one on the display over there.” Tonya smiled crookedly, her eyes tearing up. She swiped at them with a tissue she had crumpled in her hand. “Sorry. I think I’m okay, then it hits me again.”
“Please, don’t worry.” I hesitated by the table, not sure I should really intrude on these people’s grief.
Tom pulled out a chair, the one next to LeRoy. “Have a seat.”
I sat.
“So you’re friends with Jordan?” Tonya asked. “He brought you to the concert where you met these guys?”
“Known him ever since I was little,” I said. “Although not since the diaper stage. He got us the tickets for Friday. He also connected the band with my friends who are getting married this weekend.”
“That couple up in Sellersville?”
“Right.”
She dabbed at her eyes again. “Sorry. Here I go again.”
Donny reached like he was going to put a hand on her shoulder, but Tom beat him to it, laying his arm on the back of her chair and rubbing her neck. “It’s okay, hon. Nobody expects you to be any different.”
“Hey,” LeRoy said. “Isn’t that Parker?”
We looked and saw the band’s old drummer coming from the house. He passed by Jordan and San, glancing at them, then stopped at the top of the patio steps to search the yard. LeRoy waved until he caught Parker’s eye, and their former drummer picked his way through the crowd toward us.
“I was curious,” I said. “How come you switched drummers, especially since Parker’s still friends with you guys?”
“He got tired,” Tom said.
“Of what?”
“Everything, I guess. Being a drummer is a physically demanding job. All that equipment to haul around, and he’s not getting any younger. Are you, Park?”
Parker pulled a chair into the circle from outside the tent and plopped into it. “Am I what?”
“Tom here’s saying you’re too old to play with us anymore,” LeRoy said.
“Hey, now,” Tom said. “Let’s keep it in context.”
Parker laughed. “The thing is, it’s true. These old bones aren’t up to all the touring crap for even one more day.”
“Oh, come on,” Donny said. “You ain’t any older than the rest of us.”
“I don’t see you hauling a dozen pieces of equipment around. You just have one sorry-ass guitar.”
“It can get heavy,” Donny said.
I put my hands up. “Sorry I asked.”
Tom jerked his thumb toward me. “Remember Stella, Park? Jordan introduced her the other night.”
Parker looked at me. “Sure. Sure, I remember. And you’re wondering why I quit?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“That really is the reason. My body can’t take it. Plus, everybody in the business—well, besides these guys—treats us drummers like shit. Like we’re a lesser species.”
“Most drummers are,” LeRoy said.
Tom laughed. “It’s true. I remember this one drummer I played with before Park here. We could practice a song a dozen times and I still had to jump on him to tell him where to end the freaking piece. Had no touch whatsoever.” He nodded to Parker. “This guy has what it takes. Intuition, brains. He can play the drums like you’d play any other instrument, with dynamics and a good feel for the music. He can control the way a band plays.”
“Aw,” Parker said. “You’re making me feel all gushy inside.”
Tom smiled. “I mean it, though.”
“What about the guy you have now?” I asked.
They looked at each other.
“Ricky’s a good drummer,” Tom finally said.
“Not as good as Parker,” LeRoy said.
Tom made a face. “Yeah. He’s not too smart.”
“And he ain’t Parker, personality-wise, either,” Donny said. “I mean, look at him.”
We looked. Ricky was still in the midst of the groupie girls, although now he was standing up, swaying with a girl to one of the band’s ballads being played over the stereo.
“You’d think this was a regular party,” Donny said. He took a swig of beer and slammed it on the table.
Tonya made a growling sound. “He’s an ass. I
told
Genna…” She stopped, the tissue once again finding its way to her eyes.
“We know, sweetheart, we know.” Tom patted her back.
LeRoy cleared his throat. “Genna was a big girl, Tonya. And I think she was on her way to making some better choices.”
The guys looked at me. I opened my mouth, then shut it again. I wasn’t about to gossip with these guys about Jordan when I really didn’t know anything. Anything official, anyway.
“I’m real sorry about Genna,” Parker said to Tonya. “I wanted to get here today to make sure you knew that.”
She nodded, sniffling.
We sat awkwardly, Tonya grabbing a napkin from the table and switching it with her sodden tissue.
“Touring’s also hard on you emotionally,” Parker said into the conversation gap. “I needed a chance to stay home. Do something steady.”
“You guys tour a lot?” I asked. I knew they’d done some, but had no idea of their schedule.
“Oh, yeah,” LeRoy said. “We spend a good chunk of time on the road. Starts to get to you after a while.”
“It’s amazing we’re all still friends, actually,” Donny said.
