Darla had taken her cell into the stairwell to make a call, lost her footing in those high heels she rarely wears, and tumbled. What came next was a blur: Nurses swept Darla into X-ray, rolled her in for the CT scan, set her wrist and her leg. The whole time, Darla kept apologizing for the inconvenience.
She was embarrassed, and showed it by talking even more than usual. But all the chatter was okay, considering. Darla had gotten a decent-sized bump on her noggin. The CT scans were a precaution. (I'm certain hospital administration was doing everything it could to avoid a lawsuit.)
Until we knew for sure whether Darla had a concussion, she needed to stay awake. We had to keep her talking.
Thank God Becky Henderson was there for Darla to latch onto. Besides, it wasn't like Becky could help her brother Trick right then. He was still unconscious in ICU. The best anyone could do was hover and watch him.
And with Trick's ex-wife, his manager, his business partner, and his mom all waiting in line to see him, Darla guilted Becky into staying with us a while.
Soon we had Darla situated in her room. "Tom," she asked, "where's my phone?"
"It's broken, Hon." I forced a wink. "It wasn't quite as sturdy as you."
"Could you call George?"
That was out of left field. George Chavez is our friend on the police force. "Why? Weren't you alone in the stairwell?"
"Oh, sure. It was just a stupid accident." She waved it away.
"Oh." Whew.
"But George was going to stop by the store for the signing." She paused significantly.
I shrugged. "So Maggie can tell him we're here."
Darla, fussing with her blanket, checked the nightstand. "I just wish I had changed my shoes before we ran out." She sighed. "I had that pair of flats right under the counter! I wasn't thinking."
"You couldn't know what would happen."
"Those high heels are no good for walking around."
Becky glanced from her newspaper at the aforementioned shoes on the sill, one now with broken heel and strap. "They were darling. Where'd you get them?"
"Shooz. My last major splurge."
"In Green Hills?" Becky pulled her chair closer to Darla's bed, and off they went on a verbal tour of Nashville shoe stores.
I returned to the waiting room but saw everyone was gone. As I passed the nurses station I mentioned that Trick's sister was with Darla if they needed her. Asking about the others, I found that Ms. Kroenig had left instructions to call her at the Henderson residence if there were any changes. Trick's mom was down the hall using the pay phone.
Back in Darla's room, Becky was saying, "My mom always defended him to the neighbors. When he got famous it was somehow acceptable behavior."
"I guess it was a thankless job," Darla said, "being the dutiful child."
"Yes."
Darla noticed me. "Hon, I need a change of clothes and shoes. Can you run home and get those for me?"
"But you have that lovely hospital gown."
"Ah, but at some point we need to go home. And my dress is ripped."
"But you don't need them now do you?"
"Now is perfect. Becky can stay with me meanwhile!" Darla smiled big at me, but there was something else in her eyes.
Becky rattled her newspaper. "Well, I really should see how Trick is doing ... "
"Don't worry," I said. "I told the nurses you're here. Especially since the others left."
"The others ... left?"
"Except your mom; she's using the phone. Ms. Kroenig said to call with any news. She's at the house."
"At ... Trick's house?" Becky rolled her eyes. "She could at least pretend she's concerned."
Becky didn't notice Darla first looking at her, then at me with raised eyebrows. I put my hands in my pockets and asked Darla what she wanted to wear.
"You know, skirt, blouse, shoes. Oh! Maybe you can help these ladies out here and swing by Trick Henderson's house to get him some personal things, too? That way they can stay near him. I'm sure Becky can give you the directions."
"Oh. Um, sure." Becky looked like she was on the spot. "I guess the housekeeper can get them for you. Thanks."
I was on the spot, too. "Okay, sure. So what all should I get?"
"I'll write it down." Darla pulled a pen and scratch pad from her purse.
"Wait-you had paper?"
"Sure. Need some?"
"Like two hours ago."
"You didn't ask." Darla arched that eyebrow she does, then scribbled out a note and handed it to me. I was trying to figure out the message when the nurse came to check Darla's temperature. "Doing all right?"
Darla nodded and mumbled, thermometer in mouth, "Mmfhmf."
I looked at the note again before tucking it in my shirt pocket.
***
And so I drove out to Trick Henderson's estate. One hand on the steering wheel, the other clutching directions to his place of residence.
It was a nice drive. Rolling hills, green trees. Not that I could enjoy it: My excuse to visit the Henderson home may have been to get some of his personal belongings back to the hospital, but I also had a hidden agenda.
Darla had written down three items on the note:
Night of wreck.
Birthday party.
Call George.
Well, I didn't need to bother our friend in the police. If Darla suspected one of these people of foul play, I could certainly figure it out for myself.
Driving through the neighborhood, I gawked as I drove past each set of fancy gates. The upscale area of Brentwood is populated by many a music millionaire: artists, managers, record execs-I tried to imagine who all lived privileged lives behind these privacy hedges. (George Jones? Faith Hill? Garth Brooks? If only some kid with a corner stand was selling maps to the stars homes.)
I found the driveway. The big double-gate was wide open, so I drove in up the hill, past the immaculate lawn and parked at the enormous house. Scaling the steps to the front door, I pressed the button. I was disappointed to hear a common doorbell. The door opened and I was face to face with the Mrs. (Or, rather, the ex-Mrs.) Feeling foolish, I gave her my best grin. "Uh, hi! I expected the housekeeper to answer."
"She is not here." Ms. Kroenig looked at me uncertainly. "You were at hospital, Mr. ... "
"Booke."
She shifted her weight, regarding me. Then shook her head and stepped back, opening the door. "Ach! But I am sorry, come in, come in."
The lobby (it was too big to call a foyer) had a huge chandelier overhead. Black-and-white checkerboard tile led right to the staircase. "Hey," I said sincerely, "this is nice."
"Danke." She reached toward an elegant side table. She grabbed a slim case, picked out a cigarette, then lit it. Smoke rising, she motioned. "Would you like tour?"
I wondered why that would be the first thing she asked a stranger entering her house. I just nodded. "Sure."
It was like a house out of legend, filled with all the weird and exotic things a few hit songs can bring a person. Trick had his own personal styling room, complete with barber chair facing a giant mirror. Even a huge game room, with pool table, pinball, and slot machines.
At every stop I kept saying, "Wow. Nice."
And she kept puffing on the cigarette and agreeing in a bored voice, "Ja."
At one point we reached a tasteful if enormous bedroom. She said, "Here is guest room. This is where I stay sometimes."
"You know, most divorced couples go their separate ways."
"Our relationship is—complicated. I think he loves me, but he just made life so unbearable."
"Was he abusive?"
She stopped in the winding hallway and squinted through the cigarette smoke. "He always played these games, you know? It is one thing when you are local promoter and Trick leaves town at end of night. But to live with him ... "
"It must have been hard."
"It is."
The kitchen was huge, like in those TV cooking shows. She said casually, "I never learned how to use this stove."
But I was still stewing on her previous comment. "What kind of pranks do you pull on your own wife?"
"Ohhh." She let out a big sigh. "All kinds. He would fake illness."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
"No, no. He would fake your illness." She waved the cigarette again. "He would put something in your food to make you sick. Then convince you it is some terrible thing."
I was too stunned to answer.
"One time before bed, he gives me something to make me have to pee. After I am asleep, he rearranges furniture between bed and bathroom. In the dark, I trip over end table and almost break my leg."
I had no reply for that either.
Next to the kitchen was the recording studio, walls lined with shag carpet and Gold records and Platinum records. My heart no longer in the tour, I smiled politely. "So, Trick does all his albums here?"
Ms. Kroenig shrugged, waving her cigarette. "Many. Not every time."
"It just seems weird he would have left in the middle of the night to go to a studio, when he has this one right here."
She waved my comment away.
I checked the names on some of the plaques. "So these are his big hits, huh? Look at that, 'King of the Trailer,' 'The Killer In Me'—" Something struck me. "Say, isn't that the song where ... "
"We need to keep going. In case there is word from hospital."
"Oh. Of course."
The next stop on the tour was the living room. It was huge, decorated with statues of lions and velvet paintings and couches that belonged in a movie about Mozart. From there, a side door led to the garage (well, warehouse), filled with all manner of road vehicles. I gasped. "Is that a ... tank?"
"Ja."
I shook my head with disbelief. "He can't possibly take that out on the road."
She gave me a smile. "Once he takes it to store to get eggs." Took another drag from her cigarette. "It make ruts all over yard. After that, only times he tries taking it out is when drunk."
"I assume you hide the keys?"
She shrugged. "I am sure someone does."
To the side of the warehouse were dozens of cases labeled Blue Wolfe Beer.
I blinked. "This is more beer than I have ever seen in one place in my life. Well, in someone's garage, anyway."
"Trick has not yet escaped endorsement deal. They send more every week. He started putting it out here when he stopped drinking."
"He doesn't drink at all?"
"Not since accident."
"Why not just throw the beer out?"
She took another drag on the cigarette. "Manchester will not allow." She waved the cigarette at the stockpile of beer. "He says it is still worth much money."
"So—Trick turned himself around."
"He says Jesus met him out on that road and spared his life." She took another puff. "He and I were talking about reconciliation. At least, before he ... " Her lip trembled.
All I could think to do was keep her talking. "So that was some big birthday party, right? Was that here?" She nodded, wiping a tear. I continued, "I guess everybody was there, huh?"
"Friends and family. His mother very proud. They had been, what you say, strangers."
"You mean estranged?"
"Ja. Trick and family had not spoken for long time. But after accident, he wanted to have family again. His mother threw him big party for birthday."
"And his medication was locked up somewhere?"
She wrinkled her brow. "No. He left it all out on counter in bathroom."
"And I guess Trick did a lot of, um, celebrating ... "
"I tell you." Ms. Kroenig shook her head, leading us back into the house. "He does not drink since accident."
"Tell me about the night of the wreck. Were you here at the house?"
Something about the question made her nervous. She nodded tentatively.
"And so you were here when Becky showed up, and the three of you started drinking."
"Nein. I left maybe eleven o'clock. Manchester had come to house to discuss something."
"He came out at eleven?" I wrinkled my brow. "Kinda late for business, isn't it?"
"Trick and Manchester do business at the weird hours." She chuckled. "Pfft.
Musicians. That is why Trick has studio in house. He will work on track all night."
"So when you left, it was Trick and Becky and Manchester."
"No, she wasn't here. Just Manchester."
"And Trick was drunk?"
"He was working on it."
"Then he got behind the wheel of his truck and drove away—headed for a recording studio?"
She bit her lip. "He sometimes wants to work on Music Row."
"Even though he has this nice studio right here in the house." I frowned. "So he took Franklin Road to Music Row?"
She shook her head. "He was not on Franklin Road."
"But I thought ... "
"He fell into rain ditch at end of driveway."
"Oh." I remembered my drive in. The house was on a hill up away from the road.
"Yeah, I guess that is a steep drop-off there."
"Please! May we talk of other things?"
"Oh, I'm sorry. Of course."
In the living room again, my eyes drifted to the opulence surrounding us. Was there a tasteful way to ask whether she was still in Trick's will? I couldn't think of one, so I took a different tack. "If Trick should pass, that would be bad for the manager, right?"
"That is schlecht of thing to say."
Not sure what the word meant, I still caught the tone and blushed. "I apologize. I'm just trying to piece it all together. The manager was here when Trick was getting drunk, then Trick had the accident ... "
"Manchester still gets percent, whether Trick alive or ... or ... " She couldn't finish the sentence. She waved her cigarette. "I shall tell you, he was upset about Trick's plans."
"Why? Was Trick going to change managers?"
She shook her head. "He was going to stop with all those honky-tonk songs."
"And do what?"
"Religious music." She nodded. "Says he will not do any of old songs anymore."
"That's unbelievable."
She regarded me thoughtfully. "You do not believe a man can change?"
"I would like to."
Her eyes grew earnest. "So why are you here?"
"I'm sorry, I thought I said. I'm just helping out Becky. I came to grab some of his things ...?"
She gave me an annoyed look. "I am doing that already."
"Well, I thought—"
"Why else would I leave hospital? I get his things and go back."
"Oh."
"Then why questions? Really?"
"Have I been asking a lot? Sorry." I grinned. "Just an old habit. I'm just a magazine writer from way back-"
"You are media?" She stormed over to the ashtray on the table and stabbed her cigarette out. "You need to leave." She started muttering in German.
"But I'm retired."
She shrieked, "Leave!"
"Ma'am, I apologize." Things were spinning rapidly out of control; I just needed to get out of her way quickly. "Uh. If you could just show me the way to the door."
She huffed and stomped out of the room. I followed, hoping she was stomping for the front door. She grumbled loudly, "So this is all just some big story for you."
"No, ma'am," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I'm not writing anything. I just stopped in as a friend."
Yanking the front door open, she stood to the side, hand on her hip, waiting for me to leave. "Some friend."
On the porch, I turned to apologize again but the door was slammed in my face.
Driving home for Darla's clothes, I tried not to let Ms. Kroenig upset me. After all, the woman was under a lot of stress. Still, I regretted leaving her with the wrong impression.
When I got back to Darla's room at the hospital, I found Mother Henderson and daughter Becky having a disagreement. Darla was trying not to intrude.
Becky was saying, "Momma, you know I can't eat sandwiches."
"Just take off the bread."
"I can't eat any if it's already touched the bread."
"Why do you always have to be so difficult?"
"I'm not being difficult. It's a medical problem, Momma."
"Who gets allergic to bread? Your brother is never so difficult."
"How can you say that? He wouldn't even talk to you until after his accident. Why, I bet he ... "
The women noticed me. The first words out of Darla's mouth were: "Hi, Honey!"
Followed immediately by: "Did you call George?"
I made like I didn't hear, too busy setting her stuff on the end table. "Here are some clothes."
"Was the house ... okay?" She raised her eyebrows.
"Of course it was." I gave her an extra nod that would help her understand the house was, indeed, okay. "Oh, and I stopped by Trick's house." I turned to Becky. "But Ms. Kroenig is already bringing some of his personal things."
Becky gave me a blank look. "Oh."
Darla said, "Dear, could you run another errand for me?"
"But I just got back."
"I'd really appreciate it."
I couldn't argue with that. "Yes, dear."
"I really wish I had something to read."
"You don't want to get sleepy, Hon. The doc said to stay awake. You know, 'concussion'?"
"I should have asked you to bring my Bible." She gave me an odd look.
"You'll be home tonight," I soothed. "Read it later."
"I was just thinking of our friend Luke."
"Luke?"
"You know, from church. The guy with the two sons?"
I blinked, trying to remember faces, names, anything. Nothing clicked.
Darla kept prodding. "His sons are 15 and 11? The little one left home?"
"You mean he ran away?" I looked into her eyes, wondering whether she was delirious. "If he's 11, isn't he like in the sixth grade?" Which of our church friends had a kid who ran away?
"Well, reading the Bible really helped Luke out during that hard time." Darla paused and looked at me a long moment. I still couldn't see what she was getting at. "And while you're out-"
"While I'm out?"
"-can you get Becky and me some baked potatoes?"
"There's a sandwich here," Mother Henderson said. "Becky's too good for it."
"Momma, please."
Darla said, "Thank you, ma'am, but I have celiac, too. I can't have anything with bread."
"I see." Mother Henderson sniffed and got up. "Where do I throw these out?" She headed for the hall.
"I'll eat it." I raised my hand, but I guess she didn't hear me.
Becky followed her out. "Momma, please don't be like this."
The others out of the room, Darla grabbed my shirt and pulled me close. "What happened with George?"
"I went and had a talk with Ms. Kroenig."
"I know that already. What I wanted to—" She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean 'had a talk'?"
"You don't have any reason to be jealous."
"I'm not."
"Oh."
"You mean you haven't called George yet?"
Before I could reply, Becky returned to the room. "I'm so sorry about that. She doesn't understand."
"No harm done," Darla said sweetly. She turned to me. "You go do your errands, Tom. I'm sure you'll be back before they let me go."
"Oh." Becky was pointing toward me. "Since he was back, I was hoping-"
Darla shot her the syrup look. "Becky, would you be a dear and stick around a little longer, please? Tom's going to bring us back some loaded baked potatoes."
"I could get those."
"He's already going back out. Tom here still needs to grab something for me."
All I could do was mumble. "Yeah. Grab. Something."
"And since my phone is broken, would you give Tom your cell number?"