Still, they were to Dance, as apparently they had been to Bobby, works of art.
She found hundreds of concert souvenirs, mostly from the sixties through the eighties. Mugs, T-shirts, caps, even pens—an item, not surprisingly, commemorating that most intellectual of singer-songwriters, Paul Simon, whose “American Tune” had inspired the name of her music website.
The majority of these artifacts, though, involved the country world. Photos covering nearly every square foot of wall space revealed the history of the genre, which, Dance believed, had reimagined itself more than any other musical form in America over the years. She spotted photos of musicians from the traditional era—the Grand Ole Opry and rockabilly styles—in the 1950s. And from the era of country rock a decade later, followed by outlaw with the likes of Waylon Jennings, Hank Williams, Jr., and Willie Nelson. Here were photos and autographs of Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers and Eddie Rabbit, who were part of the country pop trend in the late seventies and eighties. The neotraditionalist movement in the eighties was a move back to the early era and brought superstar status to Randy Travis, George Strait, the Judds, Travis Tritt and dozens of others—all of whom were represented here.
In the nineties country became international, with artists like Clint Black, Vince Gill, Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Mindy McCready and Faith Hill, on the one hand, and a strong alternative movement that rejected slick Nashville production values on the other. Pictures of Lyle Lovett and Steve Earl, who were part of the latter, stared down from one wall.
The present day was on display too. Here was a picture of Carrie Underwood (yes, of American Idol fame) and an autographed copy of the sheet music for Taylor Swift’s “Fifteen,” which spoke not about truck driving or God or patriotism or other traditional country themes but about high school angst.
Kayleigh Towne’s career was, of course, well documented.
Dance knew there were many historians of the music scene in the past fifty years but she doubted they had as many artifacts as Bobby did. No death is worse than any other but Dance felt a deep pang that Bobby Prescott’s devotion to archiving all aspects of country music in the twentieth century had died with him. It was the entire world’s loss.
Dance pulled herself away from the archives and walked carefully through the place. What she was looking for, she didn’t know.
Then she noted something out of the ordinary.
She stepped to a bookshelf, containing a number of binders and manila folders of legal and other official documents like tax bills and boxes of cassettes and reel-to-reel tapes, including some labeled “Master Tapes.”
Dance was studying this portion of the trailer carefully when she happened to pass the window where Tabatha had said she’d seen the intruder that morning. Dance blinked in surprise as she found herself staring eye-to-eye at a very unhappy P. K. Madigan, a foot away on the other side of the glass.
His expression was: Come on out here to the woodshed.
But she summoned him first, calling loudly, “I’ve found something.”
He grimaced and hesitated, then reluctantly joined her.
“Actually I’ve found something missing.”
He looked around. “Body language of the trailer tell you that?”
Madigan was being snide. But Dance said, “You could put it that way. People have patterns in their gestures and speech and expressions. They also have patterns in their living spaces. Bobby’s a highly organized person. People who are organized don’t happen to be that way accidentally. It’s a psychological drive. Look at those shelves.” She pointed.
“They’re messy but so? I got a teenage boy.”
“None of the others are. And your Crime Scene Unit marked where they’d taken things. Somebody else went through those boxes. Probably the intruder. It’s near the window where Tabatha saw somebody.”
“Why do you say something’s missing?”
“I’m not sure it’s missing. I’m making the deduction that if only those shelves were disturbed, the intruder was looking for something and he found it so he stopped.”
Madigan reluctantly walked over to the shelves and, pulling on latex gloves, poked through the tapes, the papers, the pictures, the tchotchkes. He said, “Some of these snaps of Kayleigh, they’re not souvenirs. They’re personal.”
That was one thing Dance hadn’t noticed.
Madigan continued, “The sort of thing a son-of-a-bitch stalker’d want for a souvenir.”
“That could be it, yes.”
Madigan ran a finger over the shelf and examined it. The coat of dust was thick. Bobby was organized but not particularly concerned about cleaning. “Cement plant right up the road here. Looks like dust from there. I know it. We got a conviction in this trailer park ’cause of it, placing the perp here. That could be helpful.” A cool glance her way. “You find anything else?”
“No.”
Without a word he left the trailer, Dance after him. He called to Harutyun, “You guys find anything? Witnesses?”
“Nothing.”
Stanning shook her head too.
“Where’s Lopez?”
“Just finishing up at the convention center.”
Madigan pulled a phone off his thick shiny belt and placed a call. He stepped away from the others and had a brief conversation. Dance couldn’t hear what was said. His eyes swiveled around the yard as he spoke, absently examining the deceased’s residence. Dance was included in his gaze.
As he disconnected, Madigan said to Harutyun, “I want you to find Edwin. Bring him in. I don’t care where he is or what he’s doing. I need to talk to him. Now.”
“Arrest him?”
“No. Make it seem like it’d be good for him to come in. In his interest, you know.”
Dance heard a harsh exhalation as Madigan regarded her expression. “What? You don’t think that’s a good idea?”
She said, “No, I don’t. I’d vote for surveillance.”
Madigan squinted toward Harutyun. “Do it.”