Fiddler's Lament: Fiddling With Murder, #3

By D. H. Parker

Constancy Grace Stafford, fed up with murder, dreams of living a normal, peaceful life.  But death at a music show, the clammy darkness of an unmapped Ozarks cave system, and a desperate fiddler's lament threaten to destroy that dream--and the two most precious people in her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings ePress, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 11, 2023
• ISBN: 9781597053709

Book preview

What They Are Saying About

Fiddler’s Lament

D.H. Parker's Fiddler's Lament is everything you could wish for in a cozy mystery! Parker's characters are likeable and believable. Her setting is fun, adding an extra dimension of enjoyment to the story. Put that all together with a well-thought-out plot, and it's a big dose of good entertainment.

Christine Lynxwiler, Jan Reynolds,

and Sandy Gaskin, of authors Alibis in Arkansas

D. H. PARKER HAS CRAFTED a fast-paced tale of mystery and intrigue that will keep you guessing as Constancy and her fiancé, Danny, try to help a long-lost friend in his hour of need. It is seldom we see faith interlaced into such well-told mysteries such as this, but Ms. Parker has found the perfect balance of faith and nitty-gritty action in Fiddler’s Lament.

Wilburta Arrowood

Ladies speaker and author

D. H. PARKER HAS WRITTEN another spine-tingling page-turner with her newest book, Fiddler’s Lament. If you like mysteries, you will not want to miss any of D. H. Parker’s thrilling stories. She is a very talented author, and I am looking forward to reading many more books authored by her.

Fiddler’s Lament is the continuation of D. H. Parker’s first two stories, but it easily stands alone. I was instantly engaged in the story line and I had to keep reading to find out what would happen next. An expert in dialog, the story completely comes to life. Don’t miss Fiddler’s  Lament or any of D. H. Parker’s books.

Laura V. Hilton,

book reviewer, and author of Hot Chocolate

Fiddler’s Lament

Fiddling With Murder: Book Three

D. H. Parker

A Wings ePress, Inc.

Cozy Mystery Novel

Edited by: Leslie Hodges

Copy Edited by: Christie Kraemer

Senior Editor: Christie Kraemer

Executive Editor: Marilyn Kapp

Cover Artist: Patricia Evans

All rights reserved

NAMES, CHARACTERS AND incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

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 permission in writing from the publisher.

Wings ePress Books

Copyright © 2009 by D. H. Parker

ISBN  978-1-59705-370-9

Published In the United States Of America

Wings ePress Inc.

3000 N. Rock Road

Newton, KS  67114

Dedication

To all my friends and relatives who grew up around the real-life counterpart of Winterhill and Foggy Bend Resort.  I hope you can pardon the poetic license (including the addition of the cave system) enough to enjoy this fictional version.  As I wrote this, I couldn't help but remember Adolph and Tony, and Adolph's burning desire to get the Rock Island back on the rails.

With Special Thanks To:

The ladies on the forum at called Handcuffed Hearts (especially Meg Fetting, Regina Johanns and Lexxi), who helped me with Rose's advice to Constancy. 

Elizabeth Manley, musician's wife, for help with Beverly Duncan; and musician friend, Karen Cunningham, for answering my musical questions these many years.

The kind cavers at the U.S. Cavers Forum, and Andy from the Carroll Cave Conservancy for their caving and cave communications insights.

Photographers, Jim Ridge and Steven Vogt, for helping me see Foggy Bend Resort more clearly.

One

The thing arrived in the Thursday morning mail, tucked snuggly and innocently between the local newspaper and the electric bill.

Dear Constancy Stafford,

You were a good kid in high school. I hope you still are because I need some help from a good kid right now. If you can spare a few minutes to listen to my story, I’ll be grateful. If you don’t want to help, I won’t pressure you. I guess this letter sounds crazy, but I promise I’m not crazy. I just need some help and it’s nothing hard or illegal.

I won’t sign this in case the wrong people get hold of it. I don’t want to put you in any danger!! See you soon, I hope.

No signature.

I had to read it again before it even began to make sense.

An anonymous letter, of all things. I sat down at the kitchen table in a patch of warm sunlight and read it one more time. Not that the third reading enlightened me any more than the first two. Who on earth would write me something like that?

The envelope didn’t tell me a thing except the mail carrier had delivered it to the right address. White, letter-sized, perfectly plain. The only clues, if they could be called that, were the handwriting and a postmark. That handwriting, small, precise and all in caps, looked like text on a blueprint or on an engineer’s schematic drawing. Not a bit familiar. The postmark, Springfield, MO, didn’t get me any further. My acquaintances weren’t required to report in to me when they moved from place to place, but as far as I knew, none of them lived in Springfield now.

Images of former classmates and teachers began to chase each other through my head. Nothing clicked, but my curiosity wasn’t going to be happy until I figured it out. I grabbed a couple old yearbooks off the library shelf, resettled myself at the table, shoved letter and envelope to the side and began to search for a likely suspect.

Autographs first. None of the inscriptions matched the writing in the letter. Not even close. On to the portraits of teachers and staff and my senior classmates. Still nothing. The phone rang halfway through the junior class.

I’m just getting off work. Got any coffee at your place?

The sweet Irish voice of my dark-haired, green-eyed fiancé, Danny Egan, never failed to warm my heart, but his tone this time kicked the beat rate up several notches. We hadn’t seen each other for two whole days.

I answered in kind. Mom left the pot on. It’s been stewing since about five this morning. By now it ought to be sludgy enough even for you. I’ll leave it on if you’re coming over. Besides the fact that I couldn’t wait to see him, if anybody could help me solve the Mystery of the Anonymous Letter, he could.

I am unless otherwise instructed.

Good!

Are you all right, my soul?

Sure. It just seems like a year since I’ve seen you. Why?

You sound a bit... tense.

Trust him to notice that even before I did. Marrying somebody who had been trained to be so observant might create some interesting moments. Hiding his Christmas and birthday presents would be a major challenge.

If I am, it’s not because of you, but come as soon as you can. I have something here that might be of interest to you.

Besides yourself?

Sheer joy made me laugh. You certainly know how to brighten a morning with that Irish blarney of yours. But I did have something else in mind—something that should interest your professional side.

Constancy! Not another corpse!

Not this time, thank the Lord!

Amen! Don’t be scaring me like that. What is it, then?

Let it be a surprise.

Good or bad?

Just weird. So far.

I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.

The promise of Danny’s imminent arrival didn’t banish my curiosity over the letter. I put out an over-sized mug for my caffeine-addicted future husband then went back to perusing the pictures in my yearbook.

Some of my former schoolmates still lived in the area. Our paths crossed from time to time, though I wasn’t close to many of them. Some had moved away because of marriage or jobs, or because they just couldn’t stand Fraserton any longer. One of them had lost her life in a traffic accident. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine any of them writing me an anonymous letter. Maybe it was just a joke. If not, I hoped Danny could shed some light on it. His job skills were more suited to such things than mine were.

I gave up on the yearbooks, stuck them back on their shelf and prepared to enjoy myself with the newspaper while I waited. We called our local paper The Gossip Gazette. That was a fair and accurate description, even if it wasn’t the name on the masthead. Most of the time, we used the term more in fondness than in derision.

Fraserton folk who wanted expanded print news coverage on a daily basis subscribed to papers from Springfield or St. Louis, but I was partial to the Gossip Gazette, which arrived faithfully in my mailbox twice a week. We had our share of horror headlines, of course. Today was no different.

The city police, with the help of Danny’s Missouri State Highway Patrol, had discovered one more meth lab. They were also concerned about the sudden increase in the local availability of marijuana. Somebody else had crashed a car on the approach to the old one-lane bridge two miles west of town. One irate resident was threatening to sue the city because the sewer line was backing up on his property again.

More mundane fare provided both comfort and continuity: The high school band was sponsoring a chili supper to raise money for new uniforms. Two obits and three birth announcements confirmed a net gain of one in Fraserton’s population. The locally renowned bluegrass group, Hillbilly Hoedown, was coming to Fraserton to play for the Historical Society’s major annual fundraiser. My recently deceased Gram’s best friend, Irma West, and I already had our tickets. News from the outlying neighborhoods told of supper visits and birthday celebrations, family reunions and trips for shopping or doctors’ appointments.

Except for some of the names, neither those chatty columns nor the town’s everyday activities were much different from when I was a kid. Very comforting it was in a world of constant and sometimes tragic change.

Danny’s familiar knock sounded on the back door. I ran to answer it.

Top of the mornin’ to you, Constancy, my love, he said and bestowed a most welcome kiss along with a careful hug. Even though Danny and his family had moved to America when he was eleven, he enjoyed flaunting his native Irishness—sometimes to the point of stereotype. It tickled me, but it could be a help on his job.

Likewise to you, darlin’ Danny. Oh, Danny, come on in. I know it’s only been two days, but I’ve missed you so much.

And I, you. Once inside, he headed straight for the kitchen table and sank down into a chair like he was exhausted—which he probably was after working all night.

Are you ready for your coffee?

Come sit, love. You needn’t wait on me. I’ll get it in a moment. He glanced around the room. Where’s Lauren this fine morning?

Until our long-delayed reunion, my mother and I had been parted for twenty years. That had been her choice, but I knew now she regretted it with all her heart. Renewing the family bond after that long hadn’t been totally smooth sailing, but we were doing pretty well. Along with our blossoming mother/daughter relationship, we were becoming best friends.

By now, my intrepid mother is probably several hundred feet underground with a lamp on her head, squirming on her stomach through sticky-icky red clay, cave salamanders and bat guano while trying to find and map some spectacular new bunch of speleothems.

She’s gone caving? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?

I was more or less quoting her basic description of it, except she tried to make it sound more enticing than that.

He chuckled. She’s not gone alone, I trust.

Of course not. When she mentioned an interest in cave-mapping, I introduced her to a couple of cavers. You know Pete and Shelby Tanner, don’t you?

I do. They’re involved in the local search and rescue team.

Their grotto had something scheduled today, so she went with them.

That would be another bid at getting her to move back here.

Lauren’s leave from her job soon would be over, but she loved the Ozarks and was playing with the idea of making Fraserton her home base. Danny accused me of aiding and abetting. Danny, as usual, was right. I was particularly proud of today’s effort. Why not? Missouri’s the cave capitol of the country. What more could she ask?

Why didn’t you go with them?

Not me! I’m all for preservation and conservation, and show caves don't bother me much. I can stand an occasional tour through Onondaga or Meramec Caverns, but I’m not going into any wild cave if I can help it. Not even with a bunch of people who know what they’re doing. Besides, I have my battle wounds. The doctor wouldn’t approve of me crawling around in damp caves with my arm still a little stiff and sore. At least that’s what I told my mother.

You’re afraid of wild caves?

Let’s say I get claustrophobic in really tight places.

‘God is our refuge and our strength, abundantly available for help in tight places.’ That’s an alternate reading of Psalm 46:1. Danny never failed to have a Bible quote handy for every situation.

I made a face at him. My mind believes that, but my body still doesn’t like the idea of wild caves. I guess my faith has some growing to do.

One way and another, we all could admit to that. He gave me a sideways glance. If you don’t fancy wild caves, how about a tame date Saturday night?

Despite knowing each other for several months and being officially engaged for a tad over three weeks, Danny and I had yet to have a traditional date. Oooooh. A real date? You mean you’ll actually be off work on a Saturday night?

I will. If I can’t marry my beloved immediately, at least I can provide her some entertainment while we wait.

That hit another sore spot. Hard. I don’t know what right that ornery doctor has to tell us we can’t marry yet, anyway.

He wants what’s best for you. So do I. That means getting you thoroughly healed and up to strength. It hasn’t been so very long since your run-in with those bullets. You don’t recover from that kind of trauma overnight.

They do on TV.

He raised an eyebrow.

But it’s been nearly four weeks and I feel fine.

Oh?

Well, almost.

His mouth quirked up at the corner, but he didn’t push it. I assume tomorrow’s appointment with your doctor is still on.

Yes. Because one of the bullets had nicked an artery and bruised a nerve in my arm, I wasn’t allowed to drive yet. Fraserton didn’t have public transportation. I sighed. Will you be able to play chauffeur? If you can’t, Mom will. Otherwise she’s going caving again.

I’ll do it. I’ve a few questions for the man myself. We’ll see what he says then.

He’d better release me. If he doesn’t, I’ll... I’ll marry you in spite of him.

I want it as badly as you do, love, but the waiting will only make it sweeter when it does happen.

That ever-lurking fear for his safety shoved me into speaking when I should have kept quiet. But, Danny, what if we wait and...

And?

Never mind. I stomped it down. I’m being stupid. I just have this irrational fear I’ll lose you.

You’re in no way stupid, but you’ll never lose me. Not permanently. You know that.

It’s like the caves. I know the big picture, but it scares me to think about not having you around for the rest of my life on this earth.

Don’t be thinking about it, then. ‘Borrowing trouble’, your Gram would have said.

I know, I know. I’ll try not to think about it.

He eyed the coffee pot.

I had to laugh. Okay. I’m comforted for now. Go and get your coffee before you have some kind of drastic withdrawal event right in front of my eyes.

I could give it up if I wanted to, he said as he headed for the pot.

I didn’t doubt that for a minute. Danny Egan was a man of exceptional determination.

He filled his mug and took a long swallow, without benefit of sugar or cream, before he sat down again. Ummmm. Perfect.

"I don’t know how you can drink that stuff. It has the look and consistency of filthy engine oil and smells like burning trash.

It’s part of our police training, learning to drink it like this.

You got an A in that class, of course.

An A+, he said, green eyes twinkling.

I propped my chin in my hands and watched him guzzle more of that nasty coffee. Danny, about Saturday night. I’m sorry. As much as I would love to, I can’t go with you. I already have a date.

Is that your surprise?

No. That’s just a simple fact. I picked up the note and passed it to him. Here’s the surprise. It came this morning.

He read it quickly, scrutinized the envelope then looked at me. Any idea what’s up with this?

I’ve racked my brain. I’ve even been looking through my old yearbooks. I can’t figure out who wrote it, or what it means. With any luck, it’s only somebody’s idea of a joke.

It’s not the usual anonymous letter.

I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had one before.

Most of them are threats in some form or other. This one goes to great pains to assure you he’s not a direct threat. But is he telling the truth?

You’re sure it’s a he?

I’d not be willing to swear to it in court, but the handwriting looks masculine.

If somebody needs my help, I’ll be glad to do what I can, but why couldn’t he just come right out and ask?

He sighed. All I can tell you at the moment is keep your eyes open. I don’t like this. Especially the bit about the wrong people.

I shrugged. At this point, I couldn’t do anything about it, one way or the other. I didn’t want to waste energy worrying about it—not if I could help it. This is one of those things we’ll just have to leave with the Lord, right?

Exactly, but take care even so. Show this to Lauren when she gets home. See what she makes of it.

I will.

Are you going out with her?

What?

Is she your Saturday night date?

Nope. She’s staying home.

He got up, switched off the coffee pot, drained the remains of the thick liquid into his mug and came back to the table. Then it’s a date you can break.

Not possible. But you can come along with us, if you like. You want something to eat with that coffee?

No, thanks. I’m sure it’ll make your date deliriously happy to have a third person with you.

It will, as a matter of fact, especially if the third person is you. It’s a good thing she’s not sixty years younger, that’s all. I might have to fight her for you.

Danny smiled and looked amazingly relieved. Ah. Miss Irma.

Danny Egan, I believe you were jealous.

He ignored that. I’m only glad I needn’t choose between the two of you, he said.

Me, too. I couldn’t ever compete with her home-baked cookies.

Nobody could.

I sighed and Danny’s eyes danced. Never mind. You have your own unique attractions.

Oh?

Tell you what, darlin’, I’ll begin to make a list for you, shall I? A never-ending list. I’ll take great pleasure in compiling it over the next seventy-five years or so of our lives, and I’ll read it to you each time you begin to feel the least bit insecure.

Very nice save, Irishman. I just wish we could get started on those years together.

Patience, my soul. ‘To everything there is a season...’

Hmmmph.

All right then, he said. Back to a previous, and maybe safer, topic. How will you and Miss Irma be spending your Saturday evening?

I picked up the newspaper and pointed out an article on the front page. We’re going there.

Ah. Hillbilly Hoedown, is it? In the Fraserton High School gym. I heard they were coming.

"It would be funny if you hadn’t heard. It’s the fall fundraiser for the county Historical Society, and they’ve publicized it enough. It ought to be a good show. Did you know these guys have a locally famous radio spot on one of the minor stations in Springfield? I’ll admit I don’t listen to it, but a lot of other people do."

You should listen, darlin’, Danny said. I’ve known some of them for years. I’ve even played with them a time or two, as a matter of fact.

"Have you? On the show?"

Occasionally they need an extra fiddle. Are you impressed?

Maybe the teeniest bit.

He laughed. It’s great fun playing music with them. They’re talented lads.

They couldn’t be anywhere near as talented as you are.

Just you go on believing that, love. Danny changed his mind about eating, and the subject along with it. Any chance of a piece of toast and some of Gram’s blackberry jelly?

I don’t have any jelly open. You can get a jar out of the pantry or you can try some of her apple butter. There’s a jar of that already open in the fridge.

Apple butter will be grand, he said and busied himself making the toast.

I’m glad to hear you approve of the musical abilities of the Hillbilly Hoedown guys, I said. Even if they weren’t talented, though, we would go. Miss Irma and Gram and I always liked to support the Historical Society in just about any kind of fundraiser they had. Gram would have loved this one.

Gram had been gone less than two months. I swallowed hard, trying to keep back the tears thoughts of her so easily invoked now. Yes, Danny had seen me cry before, and would again, but I didn’t want him to think I spent all my time blubbering. To hide my face until I could get my emotions back under control, I immersed myself in the newspaper.

Maybe it was the tears that did it. Maybe I just hadn’t looked closely enough the first time I saw the picture that accompanied the article about Saturday night’s fundraiser. Maybe I was just imagining things.

That really couldn’t be Eeper Powers there with the fiddle. Could it?

Two

Ihadn’t heard anything from or about Eeper for years. Not that I’d tried, but in a town the size of Fraserton any news about former residents spreads nearly as fast as news about current residents. Even if you don’t seek out gossip, you hear it sooner or later. I certainly hadn’t heard Eeper was playing fiddle with Hillbilly Hoedown.

The man in the polka dot shirt and overalls sure looked like him. His hair partially hid his ears and a beard hid his chin. Even so, those features were distinctive. I’d always thought he looked like a young Abe Lincoln, although I never had dared say it to his face.