Obits And Deadlines: A Music City Usa Murder Mystery

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OBITS: Chapter 1

Okay, I admit it. I'm not the gentlest person who came out of the canyons of Utah, nor the most patient. But when Jake, my husband, came home one too many nights from that little one-room honky-tonk near here, I knew I'd had enough. Enough with being beaten, being broke and watching him take all of us to hell in a hand-basket.

When I first met him, Jake was a big-time bronco-rider on the rodeo circuit. He was the only glittering star in my sky at that time, which is saying a lot for a half-Ute girl who'd grown up only knowing reservation life. Maybe I'd fallen in love with him because he seemed like my only way out. But when his star burned out in the form of an afternoon free-fall from a bull they called Sky Chief, Jake's glittering career was over.

The five-figure salary he'd made in the rodeo business shrank to what he brought in on disability from his broken bones. He'd been spending most of that on cheap whiskey to bring on the sleep of forgetfulness. It became his habit to do this, but not before he'd knock me around a bit, scaring the wits out of our kids, 4-year-old Callie and 2-year-old Max.

The time came when I had it up to here; and I felt that white-hot anger of mine build up until it was time for action. After he passed out -- about three minutes after he walked in the door of our rented tar-paper house, which was six weeks behind on the rent -- I employed the sewing skills Momma, rest her soul, taught me when I was little. I sewed Jake inside the sheets, bottom to top; then I laid it to him with my two-year-old son Max's baseball bat. It was something I had picked up from watching a TV documentary about the life of Willie Nelson, when (one?) of his soon-to-be-ex-wives parted ways with him in the same manner. That woman, too, had sewn the red-headed stranger inside his bed-linens, then went after him with a bat.

Before you go getting concerned about that, Max's bat is plastic. But it still did some damage, I'm afraid, judging by all the yelling Jake did. I guess it was time for Jake to get back what he'd been dishing out. And after he quit yelling and passed back out, I told myself, Kirby, you'd better get the heck out of here, and packed up my secondhand Lindberg guitar, my electric Smith-Corona typewriter, Callie and Max, and as much other stuff as I could pack in our old Volvo station wagon, said a prayer to whatever spirits were awake at that time of night, and headed out.

It was ironic that it more difficult for me to leave behind the canyons I'd grown up with than it was to leave my husband of 12 years. Those coral, rose, yellow and sand-colored monuments of Bryce Canyon, Utah, had always been my home. Now my home, and Callie and Max's, had to be somewhere else.

That somewhere else bugged me all night long, while I drove under a Western moon so bright I had to put the visor down. What to do and where to go -- those always seem to be the decisions that can make or break a life.

Only my friend Renee Broken Rope had known what I'd been planning, and gave me some advice about a destination. You oughta go where your voice and your music will be appreciated, she said to me over two ponies we shared after a hike in the canyon. Go to the city that's famous for its music. If you're gonna hit it big, it'll be there.

Renee was right. She hadn't been around much, neither have I, really, but she was right. We grew up on the reservation and went to high school together, and she had always been a book-worm. She had been the one who helped me get past my feelings of guilt after my only sibling, my brother, had fallen down a cliff side during one of our hikes.

I still remembered that day, with the grief burned into me like a cattle brand on my soul. My brother and I had been hiking with a group of friends from the res, as we called it. I'd been the closest to him that day, and could only stare helplessly as he tripped on a tree root, then tried to save himself before falling to his death. It had happened so quickly, but I couldn’t help but replay the scene in my mind on almost a daily basis.

Since the accident in the canyon, Renee had always been careful to avoid getting me to hike in the high places, as I'd developed a dread of heights. She knew me well, and so when she advised me to go to a big city famous for its music, I figured she knew what she was talking about.

So I turned the Volvo east and drove as far as I could until the moon went down and stars shone against a sky that must've inspired the song about Elvis -- what is it, Black Velvet? I checked us into a little motel in the middle of the desert and bundled Callie and Max in one of the two double beds.

I told them a bedtime story, then waited until their breathing slowed and steadied. After they were asleep, I went into the bathroom, took out my shears, and cut my hair short. Here's to the past, I said to my reflection, flushing my dark-brown hair down the motel room toilet. I'm not gonna be known as a rodeo has-been's wife or a reservation Indian; I'm going to find another me. Maybe even the real me. I took a good look at myself, making a kind of physical inventory. Dark brown eyes that, right now, looked like they'd seen more heartache than happiness; olive complexion, still smooth and, amazingly, without scars inflicted by the love of my life; short dark hair, which showed in the hacked cut-lines that I'd been right not to have become a cosmetologist.

I thought of my feminine ancestors who would cut their hair as a sign of grief upon losing a son or a husband. This wasn't much different, I thought cynically, and flicked off the bathroom light. Then I slid between the cheap and probably already used sheets of the other bed, and slept the sleep of somebody who doesn't have anything to wake up for.

Only when I did wake up, four-year-old Callie was yelling, Max is climbin' on top of the TV! and so I got right up, and that's how my first day as a single mom started. Here I was, wanting to go headfirst into a feeling-sorry-for-myself pity binge, when I had to tend to my two little ones. Kids can keep you going, in more ways than one.

We got out of that flea-bag place and found a Waffle House, which always has good coffee and sometimes even a sympathetic waitress. While I waited for our scattered hash browns, over-medium eggs, plenty of bacon and pancakes, I sipped coffee and thought about the situation I’d just gotten us into.

I had about a thousand dollars in cash, which is good considering I didn't really have a job, unless you'd accept swiping dollars from the kitchen counter when Jake would come home sloshed as gainful employment.

I had two kids who would need clothes, ages 4 and 2. They would both need new shoes, clothes for winter and a roof over their heads. I knew I could do better than what we left behind; but all of a sudden, the weight of it all kind of fell on me, and that was just when the waitress brought me those over-medium eggs and scattered browns. Everything alright, she muttered, only it wasn't really a question, and without making eye contact, she set the plates down along with my check.

My I could use some more coffee was lost on her retreating backside. So I kept busy feeding the kids and tagged the waitress again on her fly-by. I asked her if she had ever been to the place I was considering heading, as she poured my refill.

No, she said, but I'm sure it's a heap better than bein' right here. She gave me a frown, which considering her face must really have been a smile. Drive careful, okay?

So we headed out. It was a day that would have been perfect for hanging out clothes or digging around in my herb garden at home. But that wasn't home anymore. We were headed to a new home.

We were going to Nashville, Tennessee—Music City, USA.

* * *

SIX MONTHS LATER, MONDAY

The guy stubbed out his cigar, which judging from the looks of it had been stubbed out several times earlier this morning. You don't have much experience, he told me, with his eyes on the form I'd filled out in the waiting area.

Oh, no formal experience, I said. I just want a chance at something other than waitressing or cooking. I looked down at my hands. Against the navy blue of my plain, A-line skirt, they looked even worse than usual. I never thought I'd end up here, asking for work at an employment office downtown; but after singing on sidewalks, being run off near places like Mere Bulls and Merchant's with Callie and Max in tow, I had to face reality. Unless and until I made it big -- heck, made it at all -- the kids needed something more than sharing a room with me in a boarding house and standing with me on street corners at night, while I tried to get noticed by the music industry. And Mrs. Barnes, the lady who ran the boarding house where we were staying, might not always be willing to chase after my kids during the day while I flipped burgers and waited tables.

Winter was upon us, too, and with that, Christmas. So I looked the