High Strung Read online

  Cafton felt Bynum was ready to get to the heart of the matter. “So the cops interrogated all of you?” Cafton asked, unexpectedly tensing up. He sensed something disconcerting in his question, but he wasn’t sure what. He did that sometimes. His mama called it a gift. They both had it. He called it a curse. He could sometimes just sense something was wrong before it came to light. He was feeling it now.

  “Me and the boys, and about twenty or so other hotel guests, all white folk, were herded into a ballroom. Us and about a dozen cops. I have to tell ya, I got a little scared. Black folks sometimes don’t fare too well when somebody’s been murdered and the law is giving you stink eye, no matter how many white folk they’ve rounded up.”

  “Yep. That’s the truth.” Cafton tried to sound nonchalant. “What did you tell them?”

  “I told them we were too gol-darn busy to get checked in, chop off somebody’s head, and then somehow get it on a float, unload the equipment trucks and our gear, get the venue set up, and do a sound check for the show. We don’t have time to be murdering people.” Bynum huffed.

  “Hah! Did they laugh?”

  “Laugh? Heck, no. They gave me one of those looks. It even shook up the boys, and they’re white!” Bynum paced back and forth in front of the picturesque view, with the phone in one hand and the receiver in the other. Mattie thumbed through the Wall Street Journal that had just come sliding under the door.

  “But you’re okay, right?” Again, Cafton tried to downplay the concern in his voice.

  “Yeah. They didn’t kick anybody’s teeth in, or slap the cuffs on anybody, or stop us from leaving. But they did read us all the riot act threatening us that if we knew something and didn’t inform them, we would be an accessory to the murder. That’s a little troubling,” he conceded.

  “They’ve got something stuck in their craw about this.” Cafton’s forehead vein began to bulge. “Guess it embarrassed them during their big party. But there’s no need to threaten innocent people, unless they think one of them is hiding something.”

  “That’s what I thought, too. Thank the Lord Mattie and I have an alibi, just in case they need a scapegoat and start looking at the black guy. We were at the venue with lots of witnesses before the show. And we have dinner and room service receipts placing us right where we should have been, with our hineys in our hotel room when we weren’t at the venue. Afterward, we went straight from the concert to our hotel room, which the limo driver can confirm, and then we ordered dinner. The concierge personally brought up our dinner and said he was a big fan. I gave him an autographed photo, so he should remember us being here. Besides, if they have security cameras, they will show we didn’t leave the room until we were escorted down to the conference room to be interrogated by the police.”

  “Good to hear. Hope you never need alibis, but that’s good thinking, By.”

  “I don’t know about the boys, though. I asked them if they had proof, just in case, of where they were that night.” Bynum didn’t sound suspicious, but he was slightly uneasy. He knew an alibi would simplify things if push came to shove, and would eliminate everyone from further scrutiny so their tour wouldn’t be disrupted. “They said they all went to dinner except for Chad. He stayed in the room. He said he wanted to keep working on his handmade mandolin he’s been obsessed with the whole trip. I told the brothers to make sure to keep their dinner and drink receipts, which they were already doing for their expense report and reimbursement from us.”

  “Sure. So is that the end of it? They didn’t arrest anyone?”

  “No. No arrests. I was sweating bullets, probably looked like I was guilty as sin, but they let us all go. They did, however, check out everybody’s IDs, take down our home contact information, and wanted a copy of our itinerary ‘just in case.’ We complied.” Bynum got a little jittery in his gut just recalling the interaction.

  “Sounds like some tourist just lost his head during Mardi Gras and embarrassed the brass.” Cafton threw in some comic relief as much for his own emotional state as for Bynum’s. “Next crisis: What are we going to do about Chad?”

  Bynum was happy to change the subject, too. “I’m not sure. He already had his ass on his shoulders about something, and he smelled like he had been in the pits at a stock car race when he met the bus at the rocket,” Bynum grumbled. “They showed up in Chrissie’s car. He said he had to work on her rolling wreck to get it going and that’s why he was late. I don’t know why she didn’t just drive his fancy foreign car his daddy gave him and take it back home for him.”

  Bynum continued to vent. “He is on thin ice with me. He messes up the whole equilibrium of the tour. Keeps us off balance, even when he’s not pulling some stunt, ’cause we’re worrying about not if but when his next stunt will be. He’s always creating a ruckus that ripples through everything and everyone around him.” Bynum put the phone down on the coffee table and sat down next to Mattie. “If it wasn’t for his brothers begging me to overlook his behavior like they have done all their lives, I’d put his infantile ass out on the side of the road.”

  “That boy is about to go from your thin ice to my hot water.”

  “Mine, too, Caf. I’ve already got the caldron heating. If he keeps playing crap like he played in New Orleans, I’ll be the first to toss him in.”

  “What happened? He should know his set cold by now. Y’all have rehearsed ad infinitum. Plus, those songs are on Jump Steady’s album.” Cafton started to steam.

  “Oh, I think he knows the songs, but he doesn’t have the chops to keep up with his brothers. He sounds like a train wreck out there. Praise the Lord his brothers play well enough to cover him, and our board man backs his mic down, so the audience doesn’t seem to notice it, but honestly, he’s dead weight.” Mattie handed him a bunch of grapes to snack on.

  “You know what happens to dead weight, right? It gets chucked overboard,” Cafton said.

  “Oh, it gets worse. He kept signaling to our engineer to up his mic, and when he wouldn’t, Chad gave him the finger onstage!”

  “Oh, hell, no! That’s not how we present ourselves. We’re a family show. His behavior is out of bounds.” Cafton was furious.

  “I almost came unhinged. I was about to go onstage and yank his ass offstage when his brother walked right in front of him, turned around and obviously set him straight. The audience laughed,” Bynum said through clenched teeth. “Chad stormed off the stage in the middle of the song.”

  “At least his brothers get it. If we kick Chad off the tour, they can stay. It’s not an all-or-nothing deal, right?” Cafton tried to remember Jump Steady’s contract details.

  “Right. They have earned their place on the stage, and the audiences love them. But Chad is a loose cannon. An untalented loose cannon. Heck fire, Caf, he can’t even keep his mandolin strung.” Bynum popped off a couple of grapes and slowly chewed them. “In the same New Orleans show, before he stormed off, I guess he broke a string. He had a string in his hand and just stopped playing and made a big spectacle of giving it to a fan down front. He acted like he was Elvis reincarnate. Wouldn’t let the guitar tech re-string it for him. He stopped playing to restring it himself.”

  “He didn’t just play through it? What the hell?”

  “Beats me. When I went to his room after the show to have a little fireside chat with him, he wasn’t there.” Bynum jumped to his feet and punctuated his sentences with a mostly bare grapevine. “His brothers said he went to ‘make a delivery,’ whatever that means. Just more of his drama.”

  “You might want to have your chat with him while he’s captive on the bus and in front of his brothers. They might keep him from going off the rails and doing something stupid.”

  “Good idea. Wish me luck.”

  “You don’t need luck. You got this. Y’all get some rest before you have to get back on the bus. Give Mattie my love.”

  “Will do. Nite.”

  Cafton decided not to burden Bynum with the drama of the threatening phone calls.
There was enough craziness to go around right now without him adding anything to Bynum’s share of it.

  Chapter 9—Synchronicity

  “Hope I wasn’t presumptuous in choosing our restaurant for us.” Cafton opened the hefty car door for Leigh, making sure she was settled and belted in before shutting it with a thud that sounded like a bank vault closing.

  “Not at all. It’s a relief not to have to make all the choices,” she said. Leigh had been making all the choices all her adult life. While she had been in transitory, mildly interesting relationships, the one, the one relationship she felt was love versus amusement or basic companionship had escaped her. She had been alone most of her adult life and lived happily that way. She planned to gracefully grow old alone, emotionally nourished by her beloved animals and a very short list of true friends.

  First impressions, gut reactions, and intuitions are usually the most accurate. Plus, Leigh had a very sensitive bullshit detector, as well as professional investigations training and experience. She could pretty quickly gauge the caliber of this guy versus his public persona.

  Leigh’s first impressions of Cafton were good. Very good. That was rare. With most people, Leigh usually immediately ferreted out a chink in the armor that set her on edge. But not with Cafton.

  He had offered to drive out to the boonies to pick her up, but when she suggested he pick her up at her office, he wasn’t offended. He understood her safety and privacy were paramount. Thoughtful.

  Five-star safety-rated car—cautious, dependable.

  Dressed for comfort, but with classic style—not shallow.

  “Presumptuous”—educated, articulate, not sexist.

  Manners—considerate, not a narcissist.

  Leigh was impressed with Cafton’s impeccable, old-school manners. Some women feel allowing a man to open a door for them signals weakness or dependency. Leigh simply saw it as accepting a respectful gesture from him. She would have just as readily opened a door for Cafton. It was about consideration, not sexism. She intuitively knew Cafton’s intent.

  With some amount of effort, Cafton had pulled his car door closed with the reassuring bank-vault thud. He snapped his seatbelt into place, looked over at Leigh, smiled, and started the car.

  I like how he smiles with his eyes, thought Leigh. Very expressive. Intense.

  Cafton kicked off their first in-person conversation. “I’m a vegetarian, so I know a lot of vegetarian and vegetarian-friendly places, but I have it on reliable authority the restaurant I chose offers excellent non-vegetarian fare, as well.” It was already getting personal, but he was feeling more comfortable by the minute. Unlike with other dates over the years, Leigh’s presence was calming, comfortable, uh, easy. No filtering what he said. No second guessing. Just spontaneous and relaxed.

  “So what did you come up with?” Leigh asked, taking rascally amusement in not immediately revealing she was a vegetarian also.

  “Loaves.” Cafton loved the cozy, friendly, low-key Music Row restaurant. He was a regular there. They knew him and what he liked, and treated him more like a friend than a customer, but they treated everyone similarly. Tourists rarely showed up there. It wasn’t fancy, snooty, or high-priced. It was laid-back and served healthy, delicious comfort food. There were many things to love about Loaves, but Cafton especially appreciated that it was discreet, tranquil, and intimate. On Friday and Saturday nights, famed musicians who either lived in Nashville or were in town on business often enjoyed a leisurely meal with their friends and family there. If you were lucky, you’d be there when they would spontaneously perform a song or two perched on a wooden stool in a corner behind a single microphone. It was like sitting around your den with old friends whose records you happened to have in your collection.

  Nashvillians revered and protected their artists. This was their home. They deserved to be able to dine or watch a movie or shop in peace without being gawked at or hounded. There was an unspoken protocol observed with celebrities. If you were personally acquainted, you might stop by for a quick hello, but then you left them alone unless invited to stay.

  If you were not personally acquainted, you simply left them alone. You didn’t point. You didn’t ask for an autograph. You didn’t gush to them you were their biggest fan. You didn’t rubberneck. You certainly didn’t shove a demo in their face. You left them alone. Period.

  Anyone who broke that code of conduct was quite likely to be bitingly reprimanded by another patron or an employee to try to prevent the celebrity from being further disturbed. Loaves was a refreshing refuge for celebrity and citizen alike.

  “Yes! Loaves! Love it! Their vegan western omelet is my favorite. Followed, of course, by the carob brownie!” Cafton could not have made a better choice. Not that Leigh dated much, but when she did, she hated trying to explain to people about being a vegan and how her veganism affected where she could comfortably, enjoyably eat. So, often, she was forced to eat just a house salad or a baked potato instead of a nice meal, to avoid being difficult in social situations.

  Or she would have the vegetarian talk: “I am a vegetarian. I do not eat anything containing animals or animal by-products. If this is a problem, I can just meet you afterward.” This was usually met with some amount of inquiry that involved the other person rationalizing why they eat meat, or that humans have to eat meat, or the ever-popular, “Not even chicken?” Leigh’s response was something along the lines that although some may consider chickens to be not very bright, they are still, indeed, animals. She rarely engaged in the argument with flesh-eaters, because there was no convincing them, or her, to change positions on the subject. She picked her battles.

  Leigh was more interested in the time she would spend with Cafton than the appropriateness of the meal, so she hadn’t had the vegetarian talk with him beforehand. She somehow knew it would be fine.

  “What a relief. Vegan or vegetarian?” Cafton beamed.

  “Mostly vegan. Still a work in progress. Trying to get away from cheese, but that’s my only obstacle to true veganism. I’m not proud.” Leigh hung her head low in mock shame, and looked up at Cafton with big puppy-dog eyes.

  “Right there with you. No dairy, no eggs, and certainly no flesh. But damn, do I love cheese,” Cafton confessed. “But I harbor guilt every time I eat it.”

  Cafton not only had chosen the restaurant well, he had been right on target. “You obviously go to Loaves often. I wonder if we have crossed paths here or at the other vegetarian go-to places.”

  “Let’s see. The Gentle Grocer?” she probed. The thought of their crossing paths intrigued her, and she dearly loved a mystery. And kismet. She loved kismet.

  “Yes! I get my fresh produce there every week!” Cafton laughed. “Rural Life?”

  “Lunch buffet during the week for $4.95,” Leigh instantly responded.

  “Apparently the fates schemed that we narrowly miss each other until the time was right.” Cafton was grinning. Toothy grinning. Ear-to-ear grinning. Nose-crinkled-up grinning. Not his usual countenance. “I cannot imagine I would not have noticed you if I had seen you.” He wasn’t flirting. He was being his genuine, unaffected, exquisitely honest self.

  It would have been next to impossible for him not to notice Leigh. Her energy and intensity, her presence in any room, commanded attention. She was tall, thin, and regal-looking. She carried herself like a ballet dancer, with grace, confidence, and strength. Her chestnut-brown hair moved like weighted, plush velour, luxuriously framing her face and hanging halfway down her neck. Her hairstyle was natural. No poofy, blown-out mall hair. No crunchy sea-serpent bangs arching over her forehead. No spray or gel. No fake color. No teasing into a lion’s mane. Just unpretentiously classic and practical.

  Her penetrating eyes were gunmetal blue with darker blue specks and streaks, resembling polished Italian granite. Her classically Roman nose suggested European aristocracy in her ancestry. Her modest, reserved smile revealed beautiful, straight teeth, the result of growing up in a wealthy family w
ho sent her to the dentist regularly as a child. But her smile also revealed a tiny chip on the corner of her left incisor tooth. Rather than seeing it as an imperfection, to Cafton, it was charming. It confirmed her genuineness. It also reassured him she was real, not just an ephemeral creation born from his bountiful heart.

  She had the body of an athlete. Long and muscular. Sculpted, but not bulky. She was a little on the lean side, but exuded health, vigor, strength, and confidence.

  Leigh and Cafton could not have looked more different. Maybe their differences accounted for part of his powerful attraction to her. Oddly enough, and unbeknownst to him, Leigh was experiencing the same mighty attraction to him. He would have fallen on the floor with disbelief if she had told him.

  “There’s no such thing as a coincidence, you know,” Leigh continued. She faced Cafton, who kept his eyes on the road. Even so, she could see the corner of his mouth upturn in a smile, and the laugh lines at the edge of his eye crinkle up.

  “But there is such a thing as synchronicity,” Cafton added.

  “Yes. Absolutely.”

  When they arrived, walking silently to the restaurant entrance, both were content to wait until they could sit and focus on each other to begin their conversation in earnest. Cafton unconsciously rested his hand lightly on her back at the waistline as they walked. Leigh felt it, and her heart warmed even more.

  The last time he’d felt such delicious anticipation was when he was four years old and Santa was on his way. Cafton knew he wanted to soak up and relish every minute of this evening. He already felt something for her. Something deep. Something organic. Something inevitable.