The Fame Equation (12 page)

“Jared’s brother’s name is Coops?” I asked.

“Maybe short for Cooper,” Brent murmured.

That made sense.

“Jared’s dad is an elder and is always goin’ to meetings and stuff,” said Bubba. “An’ when his dad comes home Jared says he’s always madder than a wet hen.” Bubba added that he’d overheard some people who wanted to repave the parking lot, but others said they needed to raise the money first, before they repaved. Bubba had also heard a discussion about filming the service and either broadcasting it, or offering it for sale via DVD or online download.

“Sounds like a typical group of church people to me,” Brent said as we turned into my driveway. “Lots of different people, personalities, and opinions.”

Later that afternoon, after I’d kissed Brent goodbye, my friends Tony and Annie Zinner arrived with Ringo and their Jack Russell terrier, Mickey. I hugged them all with genuine affection, then Mickey ran off to have a friendly butt-sniffing reunion with Hank. Tony opened the back door of their big, gooseneck trailer, as Annie lowered the hydraulic loading ramp. I liked that their trailer, like mine, was a diagonal haul. If you turned a horse loose in a trailer, he’d stand diagonally, rather than face forward, as it was easier for him to brace for hills, turns, starts, and stops.

Ringo unloaded easily, and looked around without too much excitement. He was a big, bay near leopard gelding, which is to say that his head, neck, and upper legs were a rich, glossy brown; and his lower legs, forelock, mane, and tail a silky black.

The rest of his body was bright white with rich brown spots scattered throughout. Ringo’s spots ranged in size from about the size of a silver dollar, to the imprint a coffee mug might make on a wooden surface. His spots were round-ish, but some were teardrop in shape, while others were more irregular. One spot on his hip looked like a miniature replica of the state of Texas. I wondered if his Houston-based owner knew it was there.

One concern I had actually involved Ringo’s color. While it was stunning, any horse with this many spots was called “loud.” Loud horses often had trouble placing as well as they should in the show ring, and this was for several reasons. Some judges preferred a more subdued color pattern. Color was not supposed to matter in the judging process, but it was hard to dampen the subconscious effect. The other reason is that it sometimes was hard to tell if the horse was moving evenly and soundly. All that color, which was different from side to side, hip to hip, and leg to leg, could confuse even the most experienced eye.

Ringo was so perfect in every other way, though, that he could have been stallion quality. But Gusher wasn’t in the horse game for the money stud fees might bring. Gusher had gelded Ringo as a weanling, so he could win the weanling gelding class at the world championships. And he did. A successful race career was now going to be followed by a successful show career, and after Ringo won a national or world championship performance class, I knew Gusher would send him to a distance trainer so he could succeed there, too.

It would be nice to be part of a story like that. But first, I needed to get Ringo settled. Jon appeared from the barn to give Annie a warm hug, and Tony an awkward handshake. Last summer I found out that Tony and Jon had a long history, and that Jon had a problem with the connection. I looked at the two and hoped they could someday find common ground.

Collectively, we got Ringo tucked in. Sally Blue, who had been morose since Melody first went missing, even perked up some. Earlier in the day she had been lying flat out with one front leg straight out and the other bent at the knee to form a cross. Or as Jon said, an X. X marks the spot. But what spot? Maybe she knew a spotted horse was headed her way. Sally also had her back legs crossed in the same manner. She must have thought Ringo as handsome as I did, as she got up, shook the shavings off her body, then stuck her head out to inspect the newcomer.

Tony parked the trailer and cleaned it out, as Jon, Annie, and I brought bags and suitcases into the house. The Zinners were only going to stay few days, but they’d brought food and photo albums in addition to their luggage.

There was a problem, however. I only had one guest bedroom, which also doubled as an office. Bubba had used it Friday and Saturday and was supposed to have gone home when Hill picked him up at four o’clock this afternoon. But Hill had yet to show up.

“Maybe one of the horses wouldn’t load and your dad is running late,” I said to Bubba. Nothing was for certain when you hauled horses.

“He might’ve had him a flat,” Bubba replied. “One a them trailer tires has had a bubble in it for a month of Sundays.”

Only Hill Henley would attempt to pick up horses with a trailer that had a bad tire. In the same vein, I often thought Hill couldn’t find water if he fell out of a boat. But, it takes all kinds. Bubba’s things were packed up and one more for dinner would not be a problem. I called Hill’s cell phone, but it went to voice mail, so I left a message. Good for him. I wouldn’t pick up when I was driving either. Maybe he’d call when he got closer.

Annie’s surprise dinner was a huge pan of tender pot roast, baked corn and potatoes, buttery sliced carrots, the best Southern biscuits that could ever melt in your mouth, and sweet potato pie. She’d cooked it all the day before and kept it cold on the long drive from Oklahoma to Tennessee. We heated it all up and dug in, setting small bowls of samples on the floor for Hank and Mickey.

Darcy even appeared. “Math homework,” was all she said, her bubblegum of the day a bright green. Math was not Darcy’s best subject. That we had not heard screams of frustration from her room, or textbooks being thrown at the wall, said a lot. The studying must have gone well.

I had met Annie and Tony some years ago when, by chance, they happened to be stalled next to me at several major horse shows. We struck up a friendship and they had become like parents to me. Tony and Annie conditioned and showed halter horses, horses that were judged on their build and conformation, as well as showing western and English pleasure horses. Tall and blond, Annie was in her fifties and looked like the truck stop waitress she once was. Tony was short, round, bespectacled, and gray, but these high school sweethearts had stayed madly in love for more than thirty years.

Would Brent and I still be together thirty years from now? To me, a long-term relationship is like eating with chopsticks. It looks easy until you try it. I still wasn’t sure I was up for the try with Brent, or with anyone else.

H
ILL NEVER SHOWED UP
. I bedded Bubba down on the couch in the living room and called Hill what must have been a bazillion times. I also called him a few other things that probably shouldn’t be repeated here.

I set my alarm early, but apparently not early enough for Bubba to catch the school bus. I hustled him into the truck and drove as fast as I could to the school, keeping a lookout for patrol cars. I did not need to get a ticket, although I had sweet talked my way out of the last one. It helped when you dated the brother of a detective.

Bubba ran inside, and I debated going in after him to talk to someone in the school office. I settled on a phone call. I did not want to get too involved and the distance a phone call provided was within my comfort zone. If I had gone in, someone might have roped me into helping with arts and crafts or some other equally hideous activity that I didn’t have time for.

On my drive home, I called the school office and was routed to the school secretary. I explained the situation, and that Hill probably had trouble with a horse on the way home. The battery on his phone could be dead. But he should be home by the time the bus dropped Bubba off. I hoped.

In reality, I had a bad feeling about Hill. He’d gone off before and left Bubba home alone for days. This time I figured he’d just left Bubba home with me.

As soon as I ended the call my cell rang. I normally use the cell for my convenience rather than for that of other people, meaning I called out more than I answered, but this call was from Carole, so I picked up.

“Have you heard?” she asked. There was a frantic tone to her voice.

“Heard what?” I wondered if this was news I needed to pull over for. I didn’t want to be shocked so badly that I drove off the road.

“Saturday night,” Carole stopped to gather herself. “Saturday night . . . Keith’s monitor blew up on stage. Not a big thing, and it didn’t cause a fire or anything. Just some smoke and, of course, the monitor stopped working.”

As she spoke, Carole’s words gathered steam and they now flowed in a pace that matched her frantic tone. I tried to remember what a stage monitor was and thought it was the little black box that sat in front of an artist or musician. Possibly, it allowed them to hear themselves and the band better.

“Then Sunday afternoon,” Carole continued, “a set of lights almost fell on Keith during sound check. Well, they didn’t actually crash to the ground, but they were hanging by one end right there above him. This is after the death threats the label received. Someone really is trying to kill Keith.”

Carole started to cry and even through the cell connection I could feel how terrified she was. I wasn’t sure what she needed from me, though. Reassurance? Indignation? Commiseration? I settled for practicality.

“Where are you, Carole? Still at your mom’s?”

“Yes.” She sounded so fragile that my heart broke for her.

“So you and the kids are safe,” I said. “Now let’s think about this. This does not have to be related to whatever kook sent the threats to the label. Monitors blow up sometimes, don’t they?”

The only response I got was the sound of Carole blowing her nose.

“Carole? Don’t monitors sometimes blow up?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted.

“And banks of lights occasionally fall. They’re not supposed to, but they do sometimes don’t they?” I asked.

“Sometimes,” she said. Her voice was quiet.

“And the tour has brought on extra security. Does Keith have security at home?”

“He does now,” she said. It was the first time I had heard any backbone in her voice. “We hired a firm. A different firm than the tour did. Cat, I don’t trust anyone. What if the murderer is someone on Keith’s team? What if it’s someone at the label?”

“You need to call Detective Giles. Call Martin. Because it happened outside of Cheatham County, outside of Tennessee, he might not have heard about this.”

“But it was all over TMZ,” Carole exclaimed. “The tabloids are bad enough, but now we have to have this horrible gossip site online, and now they even have their own television show.”

I knew she was frightened, so I tried to be patient. “I haven’t had time to log onto the TMZ site and Martin may not have had either.” A smile almost came to my lips. Like many others in the entertainment business, her world revolved around TMZ, as well as more reputable industry news sources such as Country Music Television,
Billboard
,
Country Weekly
, and even E! Online. Carole didn’t understand that the rest of us had other fish to fry.

After a pause, Carole said, “I’ll do that. I’ll call Martin right now. Thanks, Cat.”

And with that, she was gone.

I had no time to wonder if someone was after Keith. Back at the farm I rushed into the house to change for Melody’s funeral. Her funeral. A part of me still could not believe this was really happening. I pulled my curly mane into a low ponytail and secured it with a silver barrette. Then I found my one pair of dress pants, a dark charcoal gray, and paired it with a cream colored blouse and a long, black knit vest. With the addition of some lipstick and small amount of waterproof mascara, I was ready to go.

I met Darcy, Jon, Annie, and Tony in the kitchen. Darcy had taken the day off from school. Annie and Tony did not have to go with us, but they insisted and I was glad to have their support. I wished Brent could have come, but he was on duty at the clinic. This would not be an easy day, and his solid presence would have made it easier.