Hey Diddle Diddle the Corpse and the Fiddle Read online

  Hey Diddle Diddle, the Corpse

  and the Fiddle

  F R A N R I Z E R

  No Dummy

  "And bless the food we consume to the nourishment of our bodies and to--"

  "Ooohh." A loud collective gasp and assorted cusswords rose from folks in the audience who hadn't bowed and closed. Heads popped up. My gaze darted back to Kenny Strickland. The bass case now lay unzipped with the sides flapped open. A tiny Nike stuck out. I'd seen those gag stuffed legs poking out the back doors of eighteen-wheelers on the highway. The little blue jeans and tennis shoes made it look like a child's leg was caught in the door. Kenny's expression combined confusion and anger. He grabbed the shoe and yanked. A small but complete body tumbled onto the stage. Kenny flinched, then keeled over flat on his back. Other musicians rushed over. Two of them fanned Kenny as he lay spread-eagled on the floor. The scene reminded me of an old Three Stooges routine. Other folks must have thought it was a joke, too, because some of the audience laughed.

  The guitarist placed his fingers against the carotid area, looked up, and solemnly shook his head. My breath caught in my chest. I realized the figure might not be a dummy. Not a joke. A real body . . .

  "Callie Parrish is a hoot! This mystery had me laughing

  so hard that I dropped the book in my bathtub."

  --Gwen Hunter, author of Sleep Softly

  Berkley Prime Crime Titles by Fran Rizer

  a tisket, a tasket, a fancy stolen casket

  hey diddle diddle, the corpse and the fiddle

  Hey Diddle Diddle, the Corpse

  and the Fiddle

  F R A N R I Z E R

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's

  imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business

  establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over

  and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  HEY DIDDLE DIDDLE, THE CORPSE AND THE FIDDLE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright (c) 2008 by Fran Rizer.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in

  violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 1-4362-0136-5

  BERKLEY(r) PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The name BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design

  are trademarks belonging to Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  This story is dedicated to the memory of Randall

  Hylton--an honorable man, a dear friend, and a musical

  genius.

  Acknowledgments

  Special appreciation to Jeff Gerecke, my agent, and to Katherine Day, my editor, for leading Callie into print.

  Thanks also to Gene Holdway and Mark Harvell, for bluegrass and musical expertise, and to Lucy Ballentine for sea island research. No, she is not Loose Lucy!

  Chapter One

  The sweat trapped in the bottom of my bra was making

  me crazy. I slipped a hand under my "Bluegrass Rules" tank top and pulled out the elastic. Water trickled down my midriff, and I flapped the fabric to create a little breeze.

  Cousin Roger of radio WXYW stood on the outdoor stage, sopping perspiration from his forehead with a red bandana while he prayed into the microphone, "Heavenly Father, be with us as we break for lunch and bring us back for some more of this fine music and . . ."

  I didn't mean to. I promise I didn't mean to, but I peeked. Glanced around to see who had their eyes closed. My friend Jane, sitting to my left, had her eyes squeezed shut. Like it mattered. Politically correct folks call her visually handicapped, but I, Calamine L. Parrish, call a spade a flipping shovel. Jane is blind--completely, totally, politically incorrect blind.

  The fellow on my right had his eyes open. His hair was as bushy as Kramer's on the old Seinfeld show, and he ogled me like SpongeBob SquarePants making the big eyes. He was grinning and staring at the skin I exposed when I flapped my shirt. Like he'd never seen a bare navel!

  I snatched the top down and looked up at the stage, which was elevated several feet above the ground. Three of the pickers--Dean, Arnie, and Van--stood motionless behind Roger, heads bowed, eyes closed, sweat dripping off their noses. Dalmation! Kenny Strickland, who played the stand-up, doghouse bass, had already unplugged his equipment and was steadily packing it up. During the prayer.

  I try not to curse, not even kindergarten cussing, but Kenny almost made me say shih tzu.

  Tacky, tacky, tacky. Kenny Strickland had sung three gospel songs during Broken Fence's set, and now he plodded back and forth behind Cousin Roger as he beseeched God's blessings on the festival. Granted, Kenny wasn't up at the front where Roger was praying into the center vocal microphone, but he was plenty visible. He carried his personal amplifier and cords to the back of the stage and placed them near his instrument case, lying against the worn-looking, dark blue velvet curtain at the rear.

  Most outdoor stages don't have any drapery at all, but Happy Jack Wilburn had cleared part of Surcie Island and built the campground and stage area for this festival last fall about the same time the county remodeled the cafetorium at St. Mary Elementary School. The same school that now has new burgundy curtains. The same school where Happy Jack's mother is principal.

  Kenny reached down to pick up the empty case, grabbed it, and strained. Wouldn't budge. He pushed it over and unzipped it.

  Puh-leeze. What kind of wimp can't pick up a pile of cloth? I hoped someone had filled it with rocks. Would serve Kenny right, what with him being so disrespectful to God and Roger. Ex-cuuze me. That wasn't a hundredwatt idea. The case had been onstage since Kenny emptied it and left it there at the beginning of the show. It had been in sight of everyone in the audience since then, so I wa
sn't the only one who'd have seen if somebody put something in it.

  My eyes returned to Cousin Roger, and I tried to concentrate on his words.

  ". . . and bless the food we consume to the nourishment of our bodies and to--"

  "Ooohh!" A loud, collective gasp and assorted collegelevel cusswords rose from folks in the audience who hadn't bowed and closed. Heads popped up. My gaze darted back to Kenny Strickland. The bass case now lay unzipped with the sides flapped out.

  "What happened?" Jane's eyelids popped open beneath her rose-tinted sunglass lenses, but of course she couldn't see the tiny Nike sticking out of the case. I'd seen those gag stuffed legs for sale at the truck stop in Beaufort, and I'd seen them poking out the back doors of eighteenwheelers on the highway. With the little blue-jean and tennis shoe hanging out, it looked like a child caught in the door. Not humorous to me, and an artificial limb protruding from the bass case during prayer was just as bad, if not worse.

  Kenny's expression combined confusion and anger. He grabbed the kid-sized tennis shoe and yanked. A small but complete body tumbled onto the stage. Kenny flinched, then keeled over flat on his back. Phlap!

  Roger had stopped praying and turned to see what was going on. "What the . . ." he said, but everybody was talking, and I doubt most folks heard the graduate-level third word. The other musicians rushed over. Two of them fanned Kenny as he lay spread-eagled on his back. Reminded me of an old Three Stooges routine. Other folks must have thought it was a joke, too, because some of the audience laughed.

  The tall, gray-haired guitarist knelt beside the mannequin. Dean Holdback. I'd played banjo at bluegrass jams with him at Lou's Pickin' Parlor back when I lived in Columbia. Dean placed his fingers against the carotid area, looked up, and solemnly shook his head. My breath caught in my chest. I realized the figure might not be a dummy. Not a joke. A real body.

  A muscular bald-headed man in a green T-shirt with "Staff " printed on the back in all caps climbed onto the stage and bent over the small form, held the wrist, and touched the neck as Dean had. He stood and stepped to one of the microphones. "Is there a doctor here? All security officers report to your stations," he announced. "Everyone else, remain seated," he added when several folks in the audience jumped from their seats.

  A few of them rushed toward the stage to get a better look. Others headed toward the path to the campground, following that age-old teacher admonition to get away when trouble starts. They were stopped by more staffers who looked like bouncers standing around the music arena. In a firmer, louder voice, the guy onstage repeated, "Remain seated. Return to your seats!"

  Jane's fingernails clawed into my arm. "Girlfriend, if you don't tell me what's going on, I'll hit you," she said. That's how Jane and I are. Always polite to each other.

  I leaned over and cupped my hand between my lips and Jane's ear. "I think there's a dead body on the stage," I whispered. "It looks like a little boy."

  "Callie Parrish, I swear. Corpses follow you around ever since you started working at the funeral home. I guess somebody's been murdered, and you'll solve the crime."

  "Not this time, Jane. I'm not getting involved."

  That was my second unintentional fib of the day.

  Chapter Two

  The audience remained seated, kept in place by the staff

  members posted around the area like guards. There were a lot of verbal complaints, but no physical challenges against the mandate to remain in our seats. One man in the back kept screaming that he'd paid money and he wanted to hear bluegrass music. I turned around and recognized the shouter. He was Billy Wayne Wilson, who'd been a year ahead of me in high school.

  The plastic webbing of my lawn chair scorched my bare legs below my shorts, and I squirmed.

  My friend Jane remained still. She sat with her legs crossed under the skirt of her purple vintage hippie dress. Her rose-tinted sunglasses and red bangs contrasted brightly with the artificial yellow sunflowers on her broadbrimmed straw hat and her shocking pink cubic zirconium earrings. Jane's long hair fell to her waist in the back, looking fresh and dry, while my blonde hair dripped sweat, and my shirt clung to me like I was in a wet T- shirt contest. Kramer Hair kept glancing at me. Well, really at my bosom. I don't have much of my own in that department, so what he actually saw was the result of my inflatable bra. But he'd never know the difference, that's for sure.

  Jane began tapping her foot. She had her iPod earplugs in her ears, and I figured she was listening to Patsy Cline. In some ways, Jane is about as modern as a girl, or I guess "woman," since she's in her early thirties, could be. But her taste in music and movies tends to be outdated, and she likes retro hippie clothes, too. She inherited most of the clothing from her mother, who claimed to be the "first and last" hippie in St. Mary.

  I wished I had a book with me. I'd brought several mysteries to read, but they were all back in the Winnebago.

  Sheriff Harmon and several deputies arrived not long after Dr. Johnny King, a mandolin player from Beaufort, examined the short body. Jed Amick, the county coroner, whose beaky face and lanky body always make me think of Ichabod Crane, showed up about half an hour later.

  Cousin Roger and the Broken Fence pickers, including the revived Kenny Strickland, sat on the front edge of the stage. The sheriff stepped to the microphone and announced, "I'm Wayne Harmon, sheriff of Jade County. My deputies will need to talk with each of you before you're allowed to leave this area."

  Someone called out from behind me, "You mean the campground area, don't you? Can we go to our campers?"

  Sheriff Harmon shook his head no and continued, "We want you to remain where you are until a deputy takes your statement. After that, you may go to the concession stands at the back of the arena. You may visit the portable johns on the path to the campground, but don't go to your campers. Return to your seats here."

  "What about the show?" the same voice called. "I want my money back."

  "Mr. Wilburn will give you details about the festival as soon as possible. For now, just stay where you are until we've taken your statements."

  Billy Wayne still tried to argue with Sheriff Harmon, and several others joined in his complaints. They were too hot. They wanted food and cold drinks. They wanted to go to their campers. They wanted their money back. They wanted music. They wanted to leave. I was glad Daddy wasn't there. He would have been one of the loudest complainers. I craned my neck around to look at Billy Wayne. When he jumped up and headed toward the stage, several men in green T-shirts ran to him, but the man who stopped him was real law enforcement. Billy Wayne struggled, and several other officers helped handcuff him. Sheriff Harmon stood silently as they walked away. When it was over, he spoke.

  "Let me tell all of you that because you were here when this happened, every one of you can be considered a material witness. If you have a problem following my directions, we can question you back at the county jail."

  Dean Holdback's eyes locked on mine when I looked back at the stage, and he smiled in recognition. He slid off the edge of the stage and walked to me. "Callie, good to see you." He offered his hand to shake, but I gave him a little hug.

  "Welcome to Jade County," I said with a smile that I hoped wasn't too friendly. I liked Dean a whole lot, but he wore a wide gold band on his left hand. I motioned toward Jane. "Dean, this is my friend Jane." I touched her on the shoulder. "Jane, I want you to meet Dean Holdback, the guitar player with Broken Fence." She looked blank for a moment, then reached up and pulled the iPod plugs out. She turned off the music and offered her hand. Dean grasped it, and held it what seemed like a long time to me, but it didn't appear to seem awkward to the two of them.

  "Dean's from Columbia. I met him at a Friday night jam at Lou's Pickin' Parlor up there," I added.

  "Your group sounds great," Jane said and grinned. "And, no, I wasn't listening to my iPod when your band was playing. I turned it on while we've been sitting here waiting." She nodded toward me. "Callie says there's a child's body on the stage. W
hat's going on?"

  Dean knelt on one knee in front of us. He leaned close. "It's not a child. It's Little Fiddlin' Fred."

  "Little Fiddlin' Fred?" I gasped. "What's he doing here? Is he really dead?"

  "Oh, he's dead, all right. I thought he was before I checked his heartbeat. There's a short metal rod of some kind sticking out above his lip. And blood. His shirt's covered with blood."

  "We couldn't see that from out here," I said. "All we--"