KIller Tunes

By Karen Cunningham

Bailey MacIntyre thinks she's going crazy when the ghost of Angus MacNiall appears, drawn by his connection to her old fiddle, and the Scottish tunes she plays on it. He wants Bailey’s help to find his daughter who disappeared during the chaotic period of post Civil War Reconstruction. When Bailey's cousin is murdered, and his daughter goes missing she follows clues that lead down a dark path of greed, witchcraft, and a century-old curse, unleashed

• Language: English
• Publisher: Karen Cunningham
• Release date: Mar 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301928996

Karen Cunningham

After listening to stories swirl around in her head for years, Karen Cunningham attended Murder in the Magic City Mystery Conference, in Birmingham, Alabama, and decided to start writing them down. She joined Sisters in Crime and soon became a member of the Southern Sisters writing critique group. She has also attended the North Carolina Writers Workshop and Killer Nashville Writers Conference. Karen has been an active part of Celtic culture since 1982. She taught Scottish dance for many years, earning a Full Certificate from The Royal Scottish Country Dance Society of Edinburgh, Scotland. In 1997 she also started teaching Irish Step Dance and co-founded the Birmingham School of Celtic Arts in 1998, where she acted as instructor and choreographer. Karen has also played the Irish drum in two regional Irish bands and is a regular at the local Celtic music sessions, where she mostly plays drum, but fiddles around on the easy tunes. Karen and her husband, Rick, currently live in Hoover, Alabama, where she drives a school bus full of middle school students to and from school every day.

Book preview

KILLER TUNES

By

Karen Cunningham

Published by Karen Cunningham

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Karen Cunningham

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher except for where allowed for by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and didnot purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to. Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

To Rick for all his loving support.

You are my rock.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks go to: Eric Jackson of Jackson violins for his expertise on fiddle making, past and present, Stayce Hathorne, for her help with the archaeological information, Scott Rich for information on local police procedures, and Troy, who told me how the world of Game Wardens works.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

I was driving home from my final divorce hearing on the last day of October when the naked man ran across the road in front of me. He’d been spotted in the area several times over the last few weeks, but when the Harris police came out to look for him he was nowhere to be found.

The unexpected sound of my own laughter filled the cab of my Ford pick-up. I’d been driving in the company of my own morose thoughts since leaving the courthouse. It felt good to realize that my marriage might be over, but life could still be funny.

Digging the cell phone out of my purse, I speed dialed Joe MacNiall, captain of the Harris, Alabama, police department. It went straight to voice mail.

Joe, I don’t know if you’re at work or not, but that streaker who’s been seen out here on Preserve Road, just ran across in front of my truck. I’ll call it in to dispatch.

Since a naked man running across the road wasn’t an emergency, I dialed the Harris Police dispatch directly instead of 911. The operator on duty was Glenda, a friend of mine from high school. When I told her what had happened, she hooted with laughter.

Bailey MacIntyre, why on earth would anybody be out running around nekkid in the woods tonight? It’s more than a little cool outside.

I don’t know, but he looked like he was in a hurry to get wherever it was he was running to. He crossed the road from east to west if that’s any help.

I’ll send Jenkins out, but I doubt if he’ll catch ‘im. Heck, he wouldn’t know what to do with him if he did.

Outside my truck windows, wild acres of what people in Harris called The Preserve, rolled by. Huge water oak trees lined the road, forming a tunnel. Dense, tangled thickets of privet and honeysuckle grew in an almost impenetrable wall underneath them. A couple of narrow roads sliced part-way into the fifteen hundred acre Preserve, but nobody lived within its borders.

Angus opened his eyes and saw the man sprawled at his feet. He wasn’t altogether sure the man was dead, but the blank stare and blood soaking the ground beneath his throat made it look that way. There had been so much death in the last few years he should have been used to it, but he was a farmer, not a soldier. His back was up against rock but he realized it wasn’t the cliff. He was in a rough circle of boulders, all about head height. Huge trees loomed above and blocked out most of the twilight. To the east, between gray tree trunks, he could just make out the rising moon.

Movement caught the corner of his eye. A man with short cropped red hair, dressed in strange, green-mottled clothing stooped to the ankle of the dead man. The red-haired man stood and shook his head, paying no attention to Angus.

Angus found his voice. It was gravelly from long disuse. Did I kill him?

The man didn’t look at him, but started searching the ground outside the boulders. Several feet away, he found what he’d been looking for, scooping up something that flashed dull silver in the murkiness. Angus wondered if it was the weapon that had killed the man at his feet. The red-haired man still hadn’t even looked in his direction and now he was moving off to the east, a quiet shadow.

Tired of being ignored, Angus stepped around the dead man, and followed. He was surprised at how quietly he was able to move through the fallen leaves. He caught up to Red and got in front of him.

Just a wee minute there, laddie.

Red stopped short, glanced around, and shivered. Then, to Angus’s astonishment, the man walked straight through him. It was Angus’ turn to stop and shiver. Something wasn’t right here. He held up his hands, and looked at them. They looked younger than the last time he’d seen them. They were hard, work-worn hands, but not at all like the old and crooked hands he’d seen that night on the cliff. He reached up to feel his head and found the flat tweed cap. There was hair where he should have been bald.

In a painful flash, he remembered the fight on the cliff. Henry had given one last, mighty shove to send Angus over the edge. As he lay dying at the bottom, he cursed Henry Wellington, promising revenge on him and his descendants. High above him, Henry laughed and walked away.

Angus came back to himself. I must be a ghost, he said, trying to wrap his mind around the thought. It would explain the red-haired man not being able to see or hear him. It also meant he didn’t kill the other man. He wondered if Red had, and turned to follow him. Not that he cared at all. It was none of his affair, but he needed to get his bearings. He spotted Red as he moved from the shadow of one tree to the next.

Angus chuckled to himself. I don’t have tae worry about making noise, now do I?

He shuffled his feet in the autumn leaves but they didn’t even stir. Well, tha’s no much fun, but it’ll have tae do.

By the time I got into Harris it was almost dark. I rolled down my window to let the cool evening air in, and the aroma of leaves, and grass, and hay. Several children dressed as ghosts flitting down the sidewalk reminded me that tonight was Halloween.

Before going home, I drove past the archeological dig that was delaying the building of a strip shopping center on the edge of town. Real estate developer, Barry Wellington bought the property from Joe’s parents, Ellen and Andy, a couple of months before. The first week of site prep uncovered an abandoned well. Barry was out of the country at the time. The local historical society, led by a popular Presbyterian minister, got wind of it and quickly started a campaign to have the well excavated. Barry was livid when he got back, but Harris is a small town and popular opinion swayed him to allow the excavation. Tawnya Ross and her archaeology crew had been working there since the third week of September, but their six week time frame was about to dry up. It was almost dark, but I noticed Barry, and his sister, Rebecca, talking to Tawnya under the awning that protected the well and its excavators from the worst of the weather. Her dark face was set in a grim mask, and her arms were crossed over her chest. I stopped my truck behind Rebecca’s blue convertible BMW, and got out. From personal experience, I knew how difficult it could be to face Barry, and Rebecca Wellington alone. Tawnya’s eyes flicked toward me as I approached. Rebecca shot a glance my way. She murmured to her brother, and he wrapped up his monologue with a shake of his finger in Tawnya’s face. I got a curt nod as they walked to Rebecca’s car.

Hey, Tawnya, I said, How are things going?

She took a deep breath before she answered. Just peachy. How are you?

Is Barry giving you trouble?

Of course he is. The man thinks I’m not reporting all the artifacts. He just practically accused me of being a thief.

What does he think you took?

That’s what’s so confusing, she said, her voice rising. He won’t tell me what he’s looking for. She waved her hands in front of her like she was waving away flies. Is there something I can do for you? I was just about to pack it in for the evening.

No. I stopped because it looked like the two of them were ganging up on you.

A sudden grin revealed dimples in both of her cheeks. Aw, thanks, Bailey, but believe me, I’ve faced down worse.

Hmmm, I might have paid to watch that. I’ll see you later.

Minutes later, I pulled into the circular driveway of my parents’ house, where I’d been living since Reid and I separated. It was originally built by Angus MacNiall, Joe’s many times great grandfather for his young wife in the late 1830s. My parents bought it when we moved to Harris the summer I turned fourteen.

Usually, I parked on the side of the house in front of their huge RV. They were taking a trip up the East Coast to view the fall colors, so I parked in front of the brick steps that led up to the wide front porch.

Inside, a small lamp on the foyer table cast a warm glow across the Oriental carpet on the wide planked, hardwood floor. I locked the door behind me and made my way to the kitchen. After plopping my purse onto the granite counter top, I started looking for candy to give the trick or treaters who would soon be ringing the door bell. Lucky for me, my mother is the perfect hostess, and knew I wouldn’t remember to get candy for them. Two bags of Snickers candy bars were on the shelves in front of the pantry. I found a large bowl, and emptied both bags into it.

Even though it was dinner time, I wasn’t hungry. The stress of officially ending my marriage had taken a heavy toll during the day. I opened the fridge out of habit more than anything. A large bottle of white zinfandel wine lay on the middle shelf. Hmmm, white zinfandel and Snickers for dinner? Maybe later.

I kicked off my high heels, and padded to the front of the house to turn on the lights, and unlock the door. After setting the bowl of candy on the foyer table, I trudged up the front staircase to change clothes.

Upstairs, I crossed the creaky landing to my room on the back of the house. Soft light played off the sage green walls and white iron bedstead. There wasn’t a closet, but a large armoire in the corner held most of my clothes. I pulled off dress pants and blouse and thankfully pulled on my favorite pair of jeans and University of Edinburgh sweatshirt.

My fiddle case sat on the window seat. I walked over and opened it. The smell of varnish and resin tickled my nose. My fingers itched to play but I resisted, and only pulled my forefinger across the strings in a promise to return later.

Across the hall in the bathroom, I caught sight of myself in the mirror over the sink.

So that’s what a divorced woman looks like, I said to my reflection.

The same green eyes stared at me, but when I looked closer I could see the fear hiding behind them. Annoyed, I wrenched the vanity drawer open and took out an elastic band to pull my hair back with. The strawberry blond mass wouldn’t stay put for long. The summer freckles across my nose were fading but my mouth was still too big and my jaw too square.

The door bell chimed downstairs. I stuck my tongue out at the reflection, and went to answer it.

Before I reached the bottom of the stairs the door opened, and Joe MacNiall stepped into the front hall. Hey, he said. Trick or treat.

He was dressed for work, the dark blue of his uniform shirt making his eyes look china blue.

Aw, you look so cute dressed up as a policeman. Have a Snickers.

He grinned, and snagged a candy bar from the bowl on the foyer table. Mom’s going to bring the boys around in a little while. I just wanted to see if you were home before they came down here.

Present and accounted for, sir. Did you get the message about the streaker?

Yeah, by then Glenda had already sent one of the officers out there but he didn’t find anything. It wasn’t anybody you recognized was it?

Um, no. I didn’t really notice his face.

Joe’s blue eyes crinkled at the corners. Do you think you would be able to recognize him in a line up?

I laughed. Only if you made him drop his pants and run across in front of me.

Ewww, as the high school girls say. He turned serious. How did it go in court today? Since you were gone all day, I figured you must have gotten in to see the judge.

I sighed, and selected a Snickers from the bowl for myself. We did. He ordered us to go talk one last time, and Reid gave in on almost everything. I guess the presence of the new girlfriend must have helped.

You are kidding, right?

No. He brought her with him to court today. I think she was supposed to be acting as his secretary, but they were holding hands when they walked into the courthouse. I knew he was dating but wasn’t prepared to see her today. It felt like somebody had kicked me in the stomach.

Joe put his arms around me, resting his chin on the top of my head. I’m sorry, girl. I knew I should have gone with you.

I listened to his steady heartbeat for a couple of seconds. It’s okay. Everything is over now. I’ve just got to pick up the pieces and move on.

He backed up, and looked at me, blue eyes changing to gray. Well, don’t move too far, okay?

The doorbell chimed. I heard the high-pitched voices of candy excited children on the other side of the door.

What, and give up all of this?

Chapter 2

The trick or treaters trickled to a stop around nine. A half bottle of wine, and a few Snickers were all that was left when I turned out the lights downstairs, and went back to my room. Joe’s mother, Ellen, brought his two sons, Drew and Kevin, to our house last and barely kept them from totally cleaning out the candy bowl. From the window seat, the fiddle beckoned. I lifted it out of the case, and checked to see if it was in tune. It was. The finish on it was dark but the tone was bright. Instead of a scroll at the top of the neck, this fiddle had the head of a dragon.

I put it to my shoulder and played Farewell to Whiskey, an old Neil Gow tune. It rolled effortlessly from my fingers. Sound of Sleat followed without any conscious decision on my part.

I played, not thinking about which tune should come next until I realized that the fingertips on my left hand were sore. Sometimes I didn’t know if I was playing the fiddle, or if it was playing me.

Fingers throbbing, I put it back in the case and closed the lid. It had been a long day. My marriage was officially over. After a year of legal wrangling, and fights with Reid, he was free and so was I. It was time for me to move on. If the woman with him at court was any indication, he already had.

Even though it was late, I thought a walk might help quell some of the restlessness I was feeling. I opened the armoire in the corner of the room and pulled a jacket from one of the hangers. I thought Shades Cliff would be a good place to sit and think for awhile.

Angus followed Red through the woods, eventually coming to what looked like a small military camp. Red went straight to the largest tent, and scratched on the flap. Soft light escaped when he lifted it to enter. He saluted the older man seated at a small desk in the corner.

What’s up Austin?

Major, I think you should know there’s been a murder.

The Major sat up straighter, if that was possible. Where?

Up in the boulder field.

Damn. They’ll have the whole county out here. What happened? Did you see anything?

No, sir. I heard somebody tearing off through the brush toward the road. When I eased up there to check it out, I found him.

Are you sure he’s dead?

Yes, sir. There was no pulse. It looked like his throat had been slit and he bled out.

The Major sat quietly for a moment. Tomorrow we’ll move the camp to the other end, and just wait it out. I want you to take Martin and Smith. Travel light. If they don’t find him by tomorrow afternoon, one of you come back, and we’ll get in touch with the Sheriff’s office. Be careful not to get caught or even seen. Our lives here could depend on that. Do you understand?

Yes, sir. Austin saluted, and was on his way out of the tent when he stopped. Oh, Sir, I almost forgot. I found this near the body. Angus watched as he handed the Major whatever he had picked up in the forest.

Angus looked around the tent. Above the desk, hung a wall calendar. He strained to see the date, and was shaken. How odd to see the number twenty at the start of a year. With a little figuring, he realized he’d been dead over one hundred forty years. He let out a low whistle, but the Major didn’t hear it. He had turned to the small desk, and what looked like a book lying sideways. Half of it stood up almost perpendicular to the surface of the desk and was lit from within. The other half was laying flat and had small squares with numbers and letters on them. The Major was tapping the letters. It looked like he was writing a letter on the thing.

Angus tried to read as the letters appeared on the lit half, but was distracted by the sound of a fiddle.

Back outside, in the middle of the camp, he saw Red and two other men fading into the darkness. On their way back to the body, no doubt. Angus didn’t have any interest in going back, but was willing to tear the camp apart to find where the fiddle was. He stepped out into the woods a little way to see if he could hear it better. A glowing blue line appeared on the forest floor. It seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the tune he was hearing but couldn’t quite make out. This ghost business is going to be the devil tae figure out, he muttered.

Not knowing what else to do, he stepped on the line. The sound of the tune filled his head. It was a tune he remembered but couldn’t name. He put one foot in front of the other, following the line, following the music. Whoever was playing knew what he was doing. One tune came after the other in quick succession as Angus walked the blue line toward the source.

It stopped abruptly. Angus looked around, trying to get his bearings. To his delight he realized that he was standing among apple trees. He could smell the sweet aroma of ripening fruit all around him. Their leaves rustled and whispered.

Could this be my orchard? he wondered aloud.

Getting his bearings, he headed west and came to a gate. On the other side was a road. Angus looked right and then left. Bright lights blinded him.

Something huge swished by. Red lights glowed on the back of it. He realized with a start it was some kind of wagon or carriage without any horses pulling it.

Whit the devil was tha’? While staring after the machine he noticed a sign beside the gate. MacNiall Orchard, he read.

Angus crossed the road, and glanced down the steep side of the mountain. Now, I ken where I am. This is the crest trail. Those are my apple trees. Now where is my family?

The full moon was up, and casting shadows in the backyard when I let myself out the kitchen door. I walked along the verge of Kintyre Street until it intersected with Lewis, the road that would take me up to Crest Trail. The roads on this side of town were winding and narrow, mostly because they started out as cattle and pig trails when Harris was just a community on the edge of the huge orchard planted by Joe’s ancestors.

As I walked along, I took deep breaths of the cool night air, breathing in the scent of fallen hickory leaves. I scooted past the cemetery on my left, glad to get to the post office without running into any zombies.

Across Crest Trail, Rocky Top Grill, closed and dark, clung to the side of the mountain. I wandered over, and found the steps leading down to Shades Cliff. It was supposedly where old Angus MacNiall jumped to his death when he lost everything after the Civil War. I wondered if school kids still dared each other to come here on dark and stormy nights to confront old Angus’ ghost.

Rocks scuffed under my feet as I made my way down the rough timbered stairway to the flat topped boulder that was really more of a bluff. The old growth ash and hickory trees that sheltered it had dropped most of their leaves, and I had fun swishing through them. Near the edge, a wrought iron picket fence surrounded a poem Angus had carved into the rock for his wife, Angeline. The poem was carved in a simple, yet beautiful cursive script, obviously a labor of love. Just below the end of the cursive, a rougher hand had carved something in what might have been Gaelic. Local legend had it that Angus MacNiall had carved it before he’d jumped from the bluff to end his own misery during the Reconstruction after the Civil War.

As I stood there trying to read it in the dappled moonlight, an annoying tingle started at the nape of my neck, and traveled over the top of my head to the spot right between my eyes.

Behind me, a man’s voice said, Is that the poem I wrote for my wife there behind that fence?

I whirled around so fast I almost lost my balance. How had the man gotten there without making the leaves rustle? He stood between me and the stairs back up to the road. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but he was dressed in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, black pants with suspenders, and heavy work boots. He wore a flat tweed cap on his head, and he had a beard. He seemed surprised that I’d heard him.

A little voice inside my head that sounded suspiciously like my mother’s, was asking me why on earth I’d taken a walk alone without telling anybody where I was going.

You can hear me, then, lass? He took a step toward me.

Of course I can hear you. I just didn’t hear you walk up. Do I know you? I slid away from the fence, and the edge of the cliff.

No. He had a soft Scottish accent. I’ve no’ been in these parts for quite a long time now. He wandered to the spot at the fence I’d vacated and leaned over to look at the inscription on the rock.

I was edging my way toward the stairs, my heart pounding my ribs, when he turned suddenly. You wouldn’t know of anybody playing fiddle around here tonight, would you?

I stopped. Maybe. Why?

I heard it a little while ago and was thinking it might be my old fiddle. He took a couple of steps toward me. Silent steps. I looked at his feet. They weren’t stirring the leaves at all. This has to be some kind of elaborate joke. I shook my head trying to get rid of the annoying tingle.

You’d know it if you saw it, my old fiddle. It has a dragon head carved at the top of the neck.

I wondered where the cameras were and whose idea this joke was. Just about everybody in town knew I played a fiddle like that. My dragon temper started puffing. Who the hell put you up to this? Rebecca? Well, you can tell that bitch I’m not falling for it. I could imagine Rebecca and her friends sitting in front of a computer monitor somewhere, watching this and laughing themselves silly at my expense.

He leaned against the fence with his mouth in a disapproving line. "Tsk, sich language, lass. Does yer mither know ye talk