The Quartet Singer

By Edgar James

Jackson wants to sing. A billionaire hears God speaking. A seductress has her own agenda.

Jackson Fullerton III is one of the best quartet baritones and music arrangers in Southern Gospel music. His downfall? Getting bored and quitting after a year or two with a quartet. Now, no group will hire him.

Jackson’s fortune changes when Vicky Valure comes along. She is gorgeous, sexy, and smart. Even better, she is working on behalf of Christian billionaire, Sonny Day, who feels God has told him to create and sponsor a Southern Gospel quartet. Vicky uses her innate sensuality to seduce both Jackson and Sonny. The adventure begins.

Jackson and Vicky put together a quartet of phenomenal talent with dubious backgrounds. Two are ex-felons, one is a womanizer, and one absconded with a firm’s money and got away with it. But they can sing like few others. They are lulled into false sense of security as they are promised large paychecks and new homes in Minnesota.

Then, Harry Weston shows up. In her former career, she acquired unique skills, making her one of the most dangerous people in the world. Her specialty is making problems disappear. When her twin brother is murdered and she discovers the guilty party has originated with the quartet, she’s out to balance the equation.

The music keeps getting better. For one, the music stops.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edgar James
• Release date: Jun 13, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370933099

Edgar James

Edgar James grew up in Southern Illinois, completely in love with its personality, quirkiness, and values. He quick to assert: Southern Illinois is NOT Chicago. He sang in numerous Southern Gospel quartets, often supporting himself at other types of work while pursuing the joy of singing in a quartet. He quit singing at the age of sixty-six. He maintains he was like an aging ball player who knew it was time to quit when he could no longer hit the high hard one. Upon retiring, he set a goal for himself of using the unique inner workings of quartets to write a novel. He now lives in rural Minnesota.

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Edgar James

The Quartet Singer

By Edgar James

Copyright © 2017

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All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.

…

This book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations within are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance to actual living or dead persons, businesses, or events. Any similarity is coincidental.

Published by Pau Hana Books

May 2017

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. No part of this book can be reproduced or sold by any person or business without the express permission of the publisher.

ISBN:9781370933099

Published in the United States of America

Edited by Marie C. Collins

Stock images: Shutterstock

Table of Contents

Chapter 1: The Beginning

Chapter 2: The Pitch

Chapter 3: Personnel

Chapter 4: Sonny Day

Chapter 5: Conflicted Thoughts

Chapter 6: Getting to Know You

Chapter 7: The Carjacker

Chapter 8: Truck’s Demise

Chapter 9: Vicky’s Phone Call

Chapter 10: The Seduction of Sonny

Chapter 11: Three Months Later

Chapter 12: When Harry Met Scotty

Chapter 13: Scotty Comes to Dinner

Chapter 14: The Forest Brothers Quartet

Chapter 15: The Christmas Party

Chapter 16: The Messengers’

Chapter 17: A Christmas Dinner and a Fixup

Chapter 18 December 29th, 3:00a.m., Dramatic Changes

Chapter 19 December 31st, The Trip to Sioux Falls

Epilogue: A Final Word from Jackson Fullerton III

Acknowledgements

I started out with a story and much less ability to write than I anticipated. Fortunately, I was befriended by a published author, June Kramin. My deepest thanks to her and all the help she provided. Without her, this would never come to fruition.

Through June, I made contact with a wonderful editor, Marie C. Collins. She provided me with concepts I would have never learned without her. She is graciously tough.

These two ladies helped beyond measure and I will always be in their debt.

Chapter 1

The Beginning

During mid-July, three hundred fifty miles south of Chicago, in a region of Illinois referred to by the locals as Little Egypt (although most didn’t know why), life was miserable for every living thing.

Withered crops turned brown and stopped growing. Beagles hunted only shade as they refused to jump, bark, and chase rabbits. Rivers dried up, leaving behind dirt, debris, and dead fish. Trees reluctantly produced shade although their leaves were beginning to curl, displaying the anguish of oaks, gingkoes, elm, along with all other species of their sort.

People were cranky. They snapped at their neighbors, kids, spouses, and machinery. No one felt like working or doing chores. It was a time to survive and persevere.

This was due to unbelievable heat—dry, unyielding weather—sucking the very soul out of everyone. For weeks, the temperature during the day was five degrees more than a hundred. The evening offered little relief as the temperature only fell to the low nineties. To top it off, humidity was so thick it could be tasted.

In the midst of all this misery, it was the last night of the annual ten-day revival known as the Old-Fashioned Spiritual Revival Camp Meeting. The event was held at the chapel in the Saved and Redeemed Campground. There was no air conditioning in this bare-bones chapel, an open air building. Simply put, it was a large tin roof supported by wooden columns around the perimeter.

The chapel was furnished with discarded pews from churches all across the southern half of Illinois. Racks on the backs of pews held an ample supply of worn-out hymnals along with handheld fans furnished many years ago by a local funeral home. The organ had been donated by a failed theater in Pinckneyville. The instrument had seen better days and could only produce a mournful sound similar to a tired accordion.

On this final evening of the revival, there were almost three hundred people present. Most were using the handheld fans in the hope of neutralizing the heat and humidity. It was a hopeless quest. Despite the vigorous waving being done by sweaty hands, more body heat was being generated than providing any meaningful relief. The air was rank with the stench of body odor.

At exactly seven o’clock, the song leader, Jackson Fullerton III, stood and welcomed everyone. He then led the large group in congregational singing of hymn favorites.

While leading the singing, he got a good look at the woman. He had seen her before and after previous services where she seemed to be visiting other pastors and deacons. She simply didn’t blend in with the other females in the crowd. Her bright-red dress fit her curves quite well. Somehow, the dress actually complemented her red hair which was conspicuous because it was actually styled. All the other women had either home perms or inexpensive haircuts from the local cut-rate shop. This woman was fairly tall with a figure reminiscent of movie stars of the 50s and 60s. In other words, she was full-figured and not ashamed to carry it. Her neckline stopped just short of showing cleavage while the hemline ended two inches above her knees. Throughout the singing, she had a wry smile some would have interpreted as mocking.

Jackson followed up the group singing with a solo. During his song, he still couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was dominating his thinking. When he finished his solo, he stepped off the platform to sit in a pew just behind the woman and to her left, making it possible for him to watch her throughout the remaining service.

Then, the Reverend Bobby Lee leaped to the pulpit to begin preaching.

Lee was a shouter who seemed to be unaware he was using a microphone. He accented his words by pounding the handmade pulpit until many in the front row cringed with fear it would disintegrate. He told jokes so old they brought forth groans rather than laughter. He ranted of hell-fire and damnation. Yet, nothing seemed to work to grab this sleepy, tired crowd.

This audience was listless. They saw no end in sight with this evangelist. He was in the fiftieth minute of his sermon and it was obvious he didn’t know how to end the message.

The preacher recognized he was losing the crowd so he began shouting automatics at the end of sentences. These included, Say amen?—Praise God.—and, his favorite, Je-He-Sus! On the imaginary middle syllable of the Messiah’s name he would raise his voice to a scream. None of these was working

At the very beginning of Lee’s rant, Jackson had assumed a posture he called pretending to be interested in the sermon. He leaned slightly forward with his eyes seemingly riveted on the preacher. Jackson’s right hand supported his left elbow as his left hand supported his chin. Although he wasn’t actually listening, some part of his brain was tuned to the dynamics of the preacher’s ranting and, at each appropriate time, Jackson’s head nodded up and down. It was a pose he had practiced for years and could hold for hours. People would often comment as to how much the sermon must have touched him. However, Jackson had to admit after fifty minutes of mindless preaching; he was beginning to waver in his pose of sincere listening.

Reverend Lee was desperate. He was there because he was between churches. In his past he had pastored three churches in succession. He had led each of them through expensive building programs they couldn’t afford. When the bills finally became payable, he left at the urging of the Board of Deacons. When asked about his departure, he simply said he was preparing for some future unknown ministry.

Now, on this hot night in this campground near Pinckneyville, Illinois, he was trying to stir up the crowd in the hope a church call-committee would hear the voice of God saying, Lee’s the one to fill your pastoral vacancy. To help motivate God to speak up and to increase the hearing ability of any potential church, the preacher knew he had to have a successful altar call.

Instead of calling on Jackson to lead the congregation in Just as I Am while Bobby begged sinners to come forward, the desperate preacher decided to kick-start the singing himself. He got the congregation to begin the all-too-familiar hymn. Then, when it was evident folks could continue singing on their own, he jumped in with a fervent plea to come forward and find Je–He–Sus.

The congregation actually sang with surprising vigor as they realized all they had to do was make it through five verses and they were out of there.

While they sang, Bobby screamed, cajoled, cried, and held his hands up to the heavens, begging the unsaved sinners to come up and do the right thing.

Of course, his appeal was futile. Unclaimed sinners were much too smart to come out to this type of meeting during such oppressively hot weather. Only saved ones filled the seats; they either had nothing else to do or thought their attendance would buy them extra points with God.

The five verses went by and nothing happened. People were already looking for the best exit when Bobby made an announcement, causing them to groan inwardly.

Brothers and sisters, he screamed, God is telling me there is someone here who wants to come forward to make a decision for Christ. We cannot leave this lost one alone. We must sing those five verses again.

Everyone sagged as their hopes were dashed and their spirits beaten down. Regretfully, and with much less vigor, they began the whole rigmarole again.

Five more verses came and went with no spiritual moves. Now they were surely finished.

But Bobby said, I know there is someone here who needs to move.

Everyone shuddered. Perhaps fatigue had set in. Lord knows the folks listening were worn out.

Preacher Lee spoke with a deeply serious voice, getting his words mixed up. I want everyone to bow their eyes and close their heads tightly.

Almost no one caught the error. The members of the congregation quickly bowed their heads and closed their eyes, assuming the sooner they acquiesced the sooner they would be gone.

There were two exceptions to those blindly following directions. One was Jackson; the other was the red-head. Their heads bent forward slightly as they did everything in their power to keep from giggling while continuing to watch Preacher Bobby sweat through his antics.

He prayed for the Holy Spirit to reach down and touch the one soul there just for this moment.

The soul never materialized.

Then, Bobby pulled a trump card. God is telling me there is one unsaved soul here tonight. I want heads bowed and eyes closed while the Holy Spirit works on this poor soul. No one look around. No peeking. I want this lost person who is wrestling with a decision to raise a hand high in the air so I can pray for the Holy Spirit to work.

Not a hand went up.

Bobby took some spiritual license. He said in a quavering voice, Yes, I see that hand. I see that lost soul; I see that searching hand reaching out for Je–He–Sus. The poor soul is sitting right here on my left in the second pew. All of us need to be praying for this one poor soul to find Je-He-Sus before it’s too late!

Jackson and his anonymous partner in cynicism both moved their eyeballs toward the location of the mythical hand reaching for Je-He-Sus. They each recognized the words as preacher bullshit.

But, even though it was an imaginary victory for the preacher, it was the only spiritual victory Bobby could generate.

Bobby closed with prayer. Je–He–Sus, we want you to send the Holy Spirit down to touch this poor person’s soul. Help bring about a realization that anyone who doesn’t know your salvation is surely doomed to Hell if your saving grace is not accepted. Now, Je–He–Sus, I’m going to go to my private place in the back to pray to bring down the Spirit to work with this soul, wrestle with the devil’s forces, and bring this lost sinner to accept Christ. The preacher paused for a quick breath and then beseeched God for more practical needs. And now God, I ask for your blessings on the pie and ice cream served in the dining hall, with a basket at the entrance for a love offering, with two lines formed on each side of the serving table. God, please leave a piece of apple pie for me. And so oh Holy One, dismiss this marvelous congregation with your love and peace. Amen and amen.

A collective, audible sigh went up throughout the congregation.

Bobby Lee slinked through an opening in the curtain behind him.

With the agonizing meeting over, everyone was busting to get out of there as quickly as possible. They had one of two goals. Some wanted to be as close to the front of the line as possible to get the pie and ice cream before the ice cream melted. Others were headed for their cars to get out of there quickly with a vow to themselves to never come to one of these damn things again.

Jackson was trying to keep track of the red-haired woman so as to catch up to her. With typical male unawareness, he didn’t notice she had been looking back at him and slowing down so he wouldn’t lose her.

With significant insight, she was well aware he had been eyeing her.

He finally came up behind her and spoke softly so only she could hear. I didn’t see the phantom hand either. I think it was a bunch of B.S.

She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to look at him. With a quick recovery she replied, I guess our heads were closed too tightly.

They both broke out in laughter, causing those around them to wonder what on earth could be funny after this long, boring sermon.

Jackson quickly moved beside her. Let’s skip the pie and do something else.

She raised her eyebrows questioningly; then extended her hand. I’m Vicky Valure.

Her handshake was firm and sure. Her next words surprised him.

Could you give me a ride to my motel? I came here on the camp shuttle and I really don’t feel like waiting for all of the other riders to finish their pie and ice cream.

He pointed to a gap in the crowd and they slipped out through one of the openings in the side of the huge tin-roof structure.

Jackson continued with a seemingly innocent question. Which motel are you staying at?

She laughed. Are you kidding? There’s only one in the county and wait until you see it.

As he led her to a red Mustang convertible, he was somewhat flummoxed she didn’t seem to be the least bit surprised. He walked around with her to the passenger side and opened her door.

She now had some choices. She was certainly experienced enough to know how to slip down and into the car without showing too much skin. But, she also knew how to slip into the car while showing a large amount of leg. She opted for the latter.

Her skirt hiked halfway up her thighs as she bent and raised her left leg to enter the low-slung vehicle. Jackson immediately determined her thighs were quite good. Although he could have been a gentleman and looked away, he decided she probably was unaware he was staring since she was occupied with getting herself into the car.

In fact, she was well aware of his stare because she was a veteran at this sort of thing. She actually slowed her movements to give him more opportunity to enjoy the view.

As they left the parking area of the campground, Vicky turned to him and said, Why don’t you put down the top? I’m not worried about my hair. If it gets messed up, it gets messed up. Besides, red hair looks good when it’s messed up, don’t you agree?

Jackson hoped it was a rhetorical question and said nothing. To his chagrin, she was beginning to make him uncomfortable. She seemed to anticipate all of his thoughts and head them off.

Vicky added to his unease as she raised her hands in the air, well above the windshield. Her hands caught the air and, just as she suggested, her red hair became a billowing mess that somehow achieved a quite sensual vision. She was also well aware of this.

Jackson saw the effect in his peripheral vision and it was all he could do not to turn and stare. In fact, he was now well off his usual game. He began to wonder what was going on with this woman.

When in new situations, he typically applied the question, does this make sense. In this situation, nothing made sense. From his work in quartets, he had often seen groupies who followed quartets with fervor in hope they could seduce one of the members. They were successful more often than not. Yet, this woman seemed too mature to be a groupie and nothing made sense that she would come to an agonizing religious camp meeting in the middle of July.

He now wondered if she was trying to set him up in a compromising situation with hope of extracting money from him. This, too, didn’t add up. He wasn’t poor but he also did not have a lot of assets. Money and possessions didn’t mean a lot to him as long as he had a place to sing and enough money to pay his bills. Something was going on and he didn’t understand it. Being somewhat paranoid when he was at a lost to understand a situation, he assumed the worst—whatever that might be.

Vicky sensed his trepidation and she felt good about her plan. She was always happy when a plan was working and hers was working just fine.

Chapter 2

The Pitch

Jackson decided it was time to change the conversation to safe ground. There’s a couple of CDs loaded in the sound system. Turn them on if you’d like. They’re set to random play.

To her surprise, one CD was Willy Nelson. The other contained Bach organ music. It was a bit strange to hear My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys followed by Toccata and Fugue in D Minor. She decided it served no purpose to comment about the diversity of the music.

He knew where her motel was and he knew it was a dump. Nonetheless, he innocently asked, What’s wrong with the motel?

Let me count the ways. The air conditioner has a fan banging constantly while delivering no cool air whatsoever. The television gets one station, a Jesus station, as though I haven’t heard enough of that crap already. To top it off, everything on the TV is tinted green. It looks like ‘Preachers from Outer Space.’

He laughed appreciatively.

She continued. The mattress actually has slashes in the side. There are stains all over the mattress cover, the chair, the little table, and on the floor. I try not to think of what caused these. There’s actually pubic hair on the bathroom floor. The plastic glass in the bathroom has fingerprints on it. All in all, I think it’s a preview of what Hell must be like.

His mind was turning over several possibilities for what would be considered by some to be a bold suggestion for a so-called religious man.

Again, she headed off his thoughts as she asked, Where are you staying? Obviously, not the motel.

I guess I should be a bit embarrassed at my good fortune. I have a two-level retreat home loaned to me by a friend vacationing in Vancouver. He’s ultra-rich and the amenities in the home are unbelievable.

You’re kidding, right? Why would he let you use it?

Believe it or not, there are rich Christians who feel a need to help out Christian singers. They fear we’re all living hand-to-mouth and they want to keep hearing us sing. I think the music is the only thing they can stand in these long meetings and they want to keep it going.

And the car?

Once again, my good luck. A car dealer in Harrisburg lets me use it. I was leading music at a local church homecoming and he heard me tell someone I had always wanted a red convertible. The next thing I knew, he invited me to his dealership, handed me the keys, and told me he would let me know when he wanted it back. That was ten months ago.

You’re a lucky shit. No one knows about these kinds of benefits to singers, do they?

He didn’t flinch at the vulgarism. For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone. I don’t want to lose these fringes.

She noted he hadn’t flinched at the word shit. Her use of it was actually her first test of how sensitive he might be. He had just confirmed her suspicions.

Wanting to change the subject, he asked, What’s your story? I’ve seen you talking to a lot of pastors but I get the feeling you’re only sitting through these agonizing meetings to project a certain image for some self-serving purpose.

I work for a tour agency. We used to book a lot of tours for trips to the Holy Land. With all the problems in that area, those markets have dried up. So now we’ve switched to Bible study tours to Alaska, the Caribbean, and Hawaii. We’ve set up several preachers as teachers. We give them and their families free accommodations on the ship, provided they enroll a minimum number of paying customers. Then, we also give them a small percentage of the fees paid by their enrollees.

How’s business?

Very good, but then I’m quite convincing when it comes to selling Christian tours.

Somehow, he felt there was more to her story than being a booking agent. "Is that your sole reason for being here?’

No, I’m also scouting you.

You’re kidding me. Do you actually think I could book people for trips such as this?

No, you don’t have enough of a following.

With this quick dismissal, he felt somewhat offended. So what the hell are you scouting me for? You don’t even know me.

I know more about you then you could ever imagine.

This startled him as he continued the questioning. How could you possibly know a lot about me?

I warn you, I’m a magician with computer research. You would be shocked at what’s available about you.

Such as?

Your driver’s license says you’re 5’11, although I suspect you’re more like 5’10. It also says you weigh 190 but you look at least 210 to me.

He shrugged.

She continued. From other sites, I learned you have sung with four different gospel groups over the years. You have served as music director in three different churches. You have a good voice, but you’re not a great soloist, although you do know how to sell a song. You’re outstanding at getting people to sing with vigor. You’re a better director than you are a singer, although you prefer singing. Why is that?

Singing provides more instantaneous feedback than directing. You’re facing the audience and you know if what you’re doing is working. What else?

You married a piano player when you were much too young to be a husband. The marriage failed after a year when the music stopped.

Again, he shrugged.

You’ve probably had a couple of serious relationships; however, you don’t seem to screw around helter-skelter—at least not openly.

Never caught.

You’re good at selling yourself, although I suspect you would rather be alone than in a crowd.

Guilty as charged. Obviously, you’ve done a lot of good research.

They arrived at a dump called Cumfy Motel. However, several of the letters on the sign were burnt out and its name was now Cum Mo.

When they stopped in front of the motel, he decided to take a chance. I’m going to make you an offer and if it’s too forward, I understand.

She resisted smiling because she knew what was coming.

"The place I’m using is huge and beautiful. It was even featured in Architectural Digest. The upstairs is similar to a loft overseeing what’s called the Great Room. Upstairs, there’s