XO (5 page)

The hotel room wasn’t ready yet but that didn’t matter, since she was meeting Kayleigh and some friends in a half hour, at one. She checked her bags with the front desk and jumped back into the Pathfinder, which was already the temperature of a hotplate.

She punched another address into the GPS and dutifully headed where directed, wondering why most of the programmed voices in sat-nav were women’s.

At a stoplight she picked up her phone and glanced at the incoming call and text list.

Empty.

Good that no one at the office or the children’s camps had contacted her.

But odd that there was nothing from Kayleigh, who was going to call that morning to confirm their get-together. And one thing about the performer that had always impressed Dance: despite her fame, she never neglected the little things. In fact, in life, and performances, she seemed to be utterly responsible.

Another call to Kayleigh.

Straight to voicemail.

KATHRYN DANCE HAD
to laugh.

The owners of the Cowboy Saloon had a sense of humor. The dark, woody place, giddily cool, had not a single cowboy artifact. But life in the
saddle was well represented—by the
women
who rode the range, roped, branded and punched cattle … and did some fancy six-gun work, if you could believe the poster showing an Old West version of Rosie the Riveter shooting bottles off a fence rail.

According to the movie art, blown-up book jackets, lunch boxes, toys, paintings and photos, the era must have been saturated with flip-haired, excessively busty gals in five-gallon hats, cute neckerchiefs, suede skirts and embroidered blouses, as well as some of the finest boots ever made. Kathryn Dance loved footwear and owned two pairs of elaborately tooled Noconas. But neither came close to the ones worn by Dale Evans, Roy Rogers’s partner, from the 1950s TV show, on impressive display in a faded poster.

At the bar she ordered an iced tea, drank it down fast and got another, then sat at one of the round tables, overvarnished and nicked, looking at the clientele. Two elderly couples; a trio of tired, jumpsuited utility workers, who’d probably been on the job at dawn; a slim young man in jeans and plaid shirt, studying the old-fashioned jukebox; several businessmen in white shirts and dark ties, minus jackets.

She was looking forward to seeing Kayleigh, to recording the songs of the Workers; looking forward to lunch too. She was starving.

And concerned.

It was now one-twenty. Where was her friend?

Music from the jukebox filled the place. Dance gave a faint laugh. It was a Kayleigh Towne song—a particularly good choice too, considering this venue: “Me, I’m Not a Cowgirl.”

The song was about a suburban soccer mom, who seems to live a life very different from that of a cowgirl but in the end realizes that maybe she’s one in spirit. Typical of Kayleigh’s songs, it was lighthearted and yet spoke meaningfully to people.

It was then that the front door opened and a slab of powerful sunlight fell onto the scuffed linoleum floor, on which danced geometric shapes, the shadows of the people entering.

Dance rose. “Kayleigh!”

Surrounded by four others, the young singer stepped into the restaurant, smiling but also looking around quickly. She was troubled, Dance noted immediately. No, more than that, Kayleigh Towne was scared.

But whatever she’d been concerned about finding here was absent
and she relaxed, then stepped forward, hugging Dance firmly. “Kathryn, hey. This is so great!”

“I couldn’t wait to get here.”

The singer was in jeans and, oddly, a thick denim jacket, despite the heat. Her lovely hair flowed free, nearly as long as she was tall.

Dance added, “I called a couple of times.”

“There was … well, there was a little problem at the concert hall. It’s all right. Hey, everybody, this’s my bud, Kathryn Dance.”

Dance greeted Bobby Prescott, whom she’d met a few years ago: thirtyish, an actor’s looks belied by a shy smile, curly brown hair. There was also pudgy and terminally shy Tye Slocum, with long reddish hair in need of a trim. He was the band’s guitar technician and repairman. Unsmiling, athletic Alicia Sessions, who looked to Dance like she belonged in a downtown Manhattan punk-rock club, was Kayleigh’s personal assistant.

And someone else was in the entourage. An African-American man, over six feet tall, well into the 250-pound range.

Security.

The fact that Kayleigh had a bodyguard wasn’t surprising, though Dance was troubled to note that he was intently on the job, even here. He carefully examined everyone in the bar—the young man at the jukebox, the workers, the businessmen and even the elderly couples and the bartender, clearly running their faces through a mental database of potential threats.

What had prompted this?

Whatever threat he was here to guard against wasn’t present and he turned his attention back to Kayleigh. He didn’t relax, though. People like him never did—that’s what made them so good. He went into a waiting state. “Looks okay to me.”

His name was Darthur Morgan and when he shook Dance’s hand he examined her closely and his eyes gave a flicker of recognition. Dance, as an expert in kinesics and body language, knew that she gave off “cop” vibrations, even when not intending to.

“Join us for lunch,” Kayleigh said to the big man.

“No, thank you, ma’am. I’ll be outside.”

“No, it’s too hot.”

“Better there.”

“Well, get an iced tea or soda. And come in if you need to.”

But without ordering a beverage, he steamed slowly through the dim restaurant and, with one glance at a wax museum cowgirl twirling a lasso, stepped outside.

The skinny bartender came around, carrying menus and a fierce admiration for Kayleigh Towne, who smiled at the young man in a maternal way, though they were about the same age.

Kayleigh glanced at the jukebox, embarrassed that it was her voice serenading them.

“So,” Dance asked, “what happened?”

“Okay, I’ll tell you.” She explained that as she was doing some prep work for the Friday-night concert a strip light—one of the long ones above the stage—came loose and fell.

“My God. You’re all right?”

“Yeah, fine. Aside from a sore butt.”

Bobby, sitting next to Kayleigh, gripped her arm. He looked at her protectively. “I don’t know how it happened,” he said in a low voice. “I mean, it was a strip light, a cyc light. You don’t mount or dismount it for a show. It was there permanently.”

Eyes avoiding everyone’s, big Tye Slocum offered, “And you checked it, Bobby. I saw you. Twice. All the lights. Bobby’s the best roadie around. Never had an accident like that before.”

“If it’d hit her,” Alicia said, anger in her voice, “man, that would have been it. It could’ve killed her.”

Bobby added, “It’s a thousand watts. Could also’ve set the whole place on fire, if the lamps had shattered. I cut the main power switch in case they did. I’m going to check it out better when I’m back tonight. I’ve got to go to Bakersfield and pick up a new amplifier and speaker bank.”

Then the incident was tucked away and they ordered lunch. Dance was in fighting trim after the two-week-long kidnapping case—she’d shed nine pounds—and decided to splurge with an order of fries with her grilled chicken sandwich. Kayleigh and Tye ordered salads. Alicia and Bobby had tostadas and opted for coffee, despite the heat. The conversation turned to Dance’s musical website and she talked a bit about her own failed attempts at being a singer in San Francisco.

“Kathryn has a great voice,” Kayleigh said, displaying five or six kinesic deception clues. Dance smiled.

A man’s voice interrupted. “Excuse me, folks. Hey, there, Kayleigh.”

It was the young man from the jukebox. Smiling, he nodded at Dance and the table and then looked down at Kayleigh.

“Hello.” The singer’s tone had gone suddenly into a different mode, bright but guarded.

“Didn’t mean to be eavesdropping. I heard there was some problem. You all right?”

“Just fine, thanks.”

Silence for a moment, the sort that means, Appreciate your interest but you can head off now.

Kayleigh said, “You’re a fan?”

“Sure am.”

“Well, thanks for your support. And your concern. You going to the concert on Friday?”

“Oh, you bet. I’ll be there. Wouldn’t miss it for the world. You sure you’re okay?”

A pause, bordering on the awkward. Maybe Kayleigh was digesting the last sentence.

“Sure am.”

Bobby said, “Okay, friend. You take care now. We’re going to get back to lunch.”

As if the roadie hadn’t even spoken, the man said with a breathy laugh, “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Sorry,” the singer offered.

Alicia said firmly, “Ms. Towne’d like some privacy, you don’t mind.”

“Hey, Alicia,” the young man said to her.

The personal assistant blinked. Obviously she hadn’t recognized the man and would be wondering how he knew her name.

Then he ignored her too and laughed again, his voice high, eerie. “It’s me, Kayleigh! Edwin Sharp. Your shadow.”

A LOUD BANG
echoed in the restaurant as Kayleigh’s iced tea glass slipped from her grip and slammed into the floor.

The big glass landed at just the right angle to produce a sound so like a gunshot that Dance found her hand moving to the place where her Glock pistol—presently locked away in her bedside safe at home—normally rested.

Eyes wide, breath rasping in and out of her lungs, Kayleigh said, “You’re … you’re … Edwin.”

Her reaction was one approaching panic but, with a brow furrowed in sympathy, the man said, “Hey, there, Kayleigh, it’s okay. Don’t you worry.”

“But …” Her eyes were zipping to the door, on the other side of which was Darthur Morgan and, if Dance was right, his own pistol.

Dance tried to piece it together. Couldn’t be a former boyfriend; she’d have recognized him earlier. Must be an inappropriate fan. Kayleigh was just the sort of performer—beautiful, single, talented—to have stalker problems.

“No embarrassment you didn’t recognize me,” Edwin said, bizarrely reassuring her and oblivious to her distress. “Since I sent you that last picture of me I lost a bit of weight. Yep, seventy-three pounds.” He tapped his belly. “I didn’t write you about it. Wanted it to be a surprise. I read
Country Week
and
EW,
see the pictures of you with some of those boys. I know you like the slimmer builds. Didn’t think you’d appreciate a chubby. And got myself a twenty-five-dollar haircut. You know how men are always talking about changing but they never do. Like your song. I wasn’t going to give you a Mr. Tomorrow. I’m a Mr. Today.”

Kayleigh was speechless. Nearly hyperventilating.

From some angles Edwin would be good-looking—full head of black hair trimmed conservatively like a politician’s and sprayed firmly into
place, keen, deep brown eyes, smooth complexion, if a bit pale. But that face was also very long, angular, with heavy, protruding eyebrows, like soot. He was trim, yes, but big—larger than she’d noticed at first, easily six-two or -three, and despite the weight loss he was probably two hundred pounds. His rangy arms were long, and his hands massive but curiously—and unsettlingly—pink.

Instantly Bobby Prescott was on his feet and stepping in front of the man. Bobby was large too but wide, not tall, and Edwin towered over him. “Hey,” Edwin said cheerfully, “Bobby. The roadie. Excuse me, chief of the road crew.”

And then his eyes returned to Kayleigh, staring at her adoringly. “I’d be honored if you’d have some iced tea with me. Just over there in the corner. I’ve got a few things to show you.”

“How did you—”

“Know you’d be here? Hell, everybody knows that this is your favorite place. Just look at the blogs. It’s where you wrote ‘Me, I’m Not a Cowgirl.’” He nodded at the jukebox, from which that very song was playing—now for the second time, Dance noted.

The suburbs and the cities, that’s what I’m about.

Me, I’m not a cowgirl, unless maybe you count:

Looking people in the eye and talking to them straight.

Not putting up with bigots or cheaters or with hate.

Remembering everything my mom and daddy said

About how to treat my family, my country and my friends.

Didn’t think I was a cowgirl, but I guess that all depends.

“Love that song,” he gushed. “Just
love
it. Well, you know that. I told you must be a hundred times.”