Slocum wandered off to his workstation of tuners, strings, amps and tools. Kayleigh walked out onstage and the rehearsal resumed.
Her band was made up of artists whose whole professional lives had been devoted to music. There are a lot of talented people out there, of course, but Kayleigh had worked hard to assemble folks who understood her and her songs and the tone she strived for. Folks who could work silkenly together; oh, that was important, vital. There are few professions as intimate as making ensemble music, and without complete synchronicity among the performers the best songs in the world and the most talented front person will be wasted.
Kevin Peebles was the lead guitarist, a lean, laid-back man in his thirties whose mahogany scalp glistened with sweat under the lights. He’d been a rocker for a few years before turning to his real love—country, a genre in which his race had not been traditionally well represented.
Bass player and backup singer Emma Sue Granger was one of the most beautiful women Kayleigh’d ever seen. With shoulder-length raven-black hair, decked out with occasional microbraids and a flower or two, Granger wore tight sweaters she knitted herself and leather pants. Kayleigh’s audience was 60 percent female, but for the sake of the other forty, Emma Sue got a lot of front-stage time.
In a battered straw cowboy hat, brims rolled into a near tube, plaid shirt and ancient blue jeans, Buddy Delmore manned the band’s pedal steel guitar, the smooth, seductive instrument that Kayleigh, for all her talent, had never been able to play. She thought anybody who could master one well was a genius. He also would play the distinctive-sounding Dobro and National steel guitars, with their pie-plate resonators. The sixty-five-year-old was from West Virginia and played music to support his true love: chicken farming. He had eight children, the youngest of whom was two.
The drummer was new to the group. Alonzo Santiago had come out of the barrio in Bakersfield and could make rhythm with anything he could pick up or touch. This too was magical to Kayleigh, who could perfectly follow a beat but relied on others to create and sustain it. Santiago was one of those crazy parents who’d actually given his young children drum sets, only to be disappointed to learn his daughter dreamed of being a NASCAR driver and his son a comic book artist.
The other band member, a sturdy, round-faced redhead in her forties, was the “orchestra.” Sharon Bascowitz was one of those people who could pick up an instrument, even one she’d never seen, and play it like a virtuoso. Sousaphone, cello, harpsichord, marimba, Native American flute … anything. Sharon could get it to sing. Always decked out in three or four colorful layers of tie-dye and lace, and dangling with glittering fake jewels, the woman was as brash as Emma Sue was shy.
The rehearsal was informal; they’d performed most of the material so often, it probably wasn’t even necessary, but there was a new song order and Kayleigh had added Patsy Cline and Alison Krauss/Robert Plant covers and had written two new songs, which she’d faxed to the band last night. One was dedicated to Bobby; Alicia would not be mentioned, Kayleigh had decided.
They finished the raucous and fun “I’m in the Mood (for Rock ’n’ Roll)” and she looked toward Barry at the mixing board. He gave her a thumbs-up. He was satisfied. She was satisfied. Kayleigh announced to the band and crew, “Okay, I think that’s it for now; reconvene at six for the final sound check.”
According to the God of Performances, Bishop Towne, you could never rehearse too frequently but you could rehearse too much. They needed a break now, to let the new ideas bake.
She handed off her Martin to Tye Slocum to fit with the new saddle, slugged down another iced tea and picked up her phone. Debating a moment, then a moment longer. Finally she did something she couldn’t have imagined until today.
Kayleigh Towne called Edwin Sharp.
“Hello?” He still sounded a bit groggy.
“Hey, it’s Kayleigh.”
“Well, hi.”
“Are you in the hospital still?”
He laughed. “Didn’t think I’d really hear from you. No. I got sprung.”
“How you feeling?”
“Sore, sore, sore.”
“Well, I hope you’re well enough to come to the show,” she said firmly. “I got you a ticket.”
There was silence and she wondered if he was going to refuse. But he said, “Okay. Thanks.”
“I’ve got it now. Meet you for lunch?”
She could have left it at the will-call window but that seemed petty, considering what he’d done for her. She’d reconciled with Sheri; she could do the same with Edwin.
He said, “I’m supposed to go see Deputy Madigan to give them a statement, but that’s not till two. I guess. Sure.”
He suggested a diner he’d been to. She agreed and they disconnected. Kayleigh headed for the stage door, glancing at Tye Slocum, who had already destrung her Martin and was filing away on the new bone saddle, as lost in his task as a sculptor completing his masterwork.
Her eyes then rose and looked into the murky heaven of the convention center. Kayleigh had wakened that morning at her father’s house, thinking that the concert was the last thing she wanted. She’d even considered using the smoke from the fire at her house as an excuse to cancel, reporting that her throat still stung, even though it was fine. But once she’d arrived here, greeted the band members, tuned up and walked out onstage, her attitude changed completely.
Now she couldn’t wait for the concert. Nothing was going to stop her from giving the audience the best show they’d ever seen.
Chapter 68
THE CASE WAS over.
But one consequence of that resolution for Kathryn Dance was that a greater problem loomed.