Nobody Can Say It's You

4

"What are we gonna do?" Elwin Dollie asked. "We got more people in this one little area than Mother Hubbard had kids."

"Rope off the area and shut down the festival," said Bill.

"We're gonna have a bunch of unhappy hillbillies on our hands," said Wayman.

"Just do it," said Bill.

The deputies started cordoning off the area. After the scene was processed, the body would be taken to Bowey Hill for the autopsy. 

The crowds in the street dispersed as Bill shielded the body lying there from curious eyes. The coroner arrived and stepped under the crime scene tape the deputies had used to cordon off the area for their investigation. He declared the person dead.

It wasn't every day somebody ran down Main Street with a bloody butcher knife whooping like a madman and dropped dead in their tracks. A small knot of onlookers hung around, waiting and watching, trying to process what they had witnessed.

Hope Rock was a small community. It had been named the county seat, partly because it was located in the center of Hope Rock County and partly because it had named itself after the county. Most locals referred to both the county and the community as Hope Rock County, using the names to mean either their community or the actual county. The courthouse was located there, as well.

Not much happened in Hope Rock County. Bill Whittaker was the sheriff. He had two deputies to help him maintain law and order. The occasional drunken brawl or dispute between disgruntled neighbors were the usual things that the sheriff's department dealt with.

The small knot of folks that lingered and mulled about was unusually quiet and somber. How odd to see adults and children dressed as ghouls and spooky creatures silently walking about, saying little. It was probably the most well-behaved group of costumed zombies, mummies, witches, ghosts, and banshees on record.

"Nothing like a corpse to dampen the spirit of a Halloween festival," said Hadley.

"Looks really pitiful, don't it," said Hobie Stricker.

"I can honestly say I've never seen anything like this," Hadley said.

Hadley Pell was looking out over Main Street. Even the banners hung across the thoroughfare were sagging. Somberness was contagious.

The festival had been organized to bring in tourists and locals and to get the word out about The Band-Aid. The Band-Aid was a shop where craftsmen and artisans could display their wares and sell them. 

A small portion of their sales went toward Ruth Elliott's Wildlife Rescue Center. The center, located in an abandoned amusement park Ruth had inherited, took in sick, injured, or orphaned wildlife and rehabilitated the animals for release back into their natural habitat.

The headliner on the festival's center stage was none other than Hobie Stricker. Hobie was a local legend. His band, The Speckled Pups, were some of the best bluegrass musicians to come out of that area in a long time. 

Hobie had a small shop at Windy Creek where he fashioned handmade guitars and other stringed instruments. He'd sold his instruments to musicians all over the world.

His instruments and his band made sweet mountain music that touched fans of all ages. Hobie was an all-around good guy, generous with his time and talent. He knew that the mountains he loved would be a lonely, uninviting place without the wildlife. 

He supported Ruth in her efforts to treat and rehabilitate sick and injured animals. He had often given his time and talent to further the rehab center's efforts to help the animals.

"You think we could try to have this thing again next week?" Hadley asked.

"We could try," said Hobie. "I know Ruth was counting on the money raised here to help the shelter get through the winter. I could talk to some of the folks. See what they think. Maybe Dickie Earl down at the radio station would give us some free publicity. He's been wanting a mandolin for a couple of years, but my backlog list is so long. I been putting him off. I could tell him I'd move him to the top of the list and see what he says."

Hadley looked up at the sky.

"If we do it, I just hope the weather holds," she said.

"Yeah," said Hobie, "it was perfect today. You couldn't ask for a prettier day if you put in an order. But it is getting late in the season."

"Well," Hadley said, "if it turns nasty, we could call our little shindig the 'late Halloween and Early Winter Wing-Ding.'"

"We might have to," said Hobie. "This time of year is so unpredictable. It can be sunny and nice one day and snowing and a three-pig night the next, but I'll see what I can do. Maybe I can talk the pups into playing all afternoon. That should be worth something."

"If you could do that, Hobie, we could pack the gym with people if the weather's rotten. Charge a small fee, and let Ruth have it."

"That's a good idea," said Hobie. "I'll call ya tonight."

Hadley was glad that as talented as he was, Hobie's feet were still planted firmly on the ground. This idea would surely help Ruth.

"Maybe," Hobie said, "we could raffle off one of my old guitars."

"Hobie, you gotta heart of gold."

"I'll call ya and let you know how the idea goes over."

Hadley smiled.

"I'll be there," she said.

Generous, talented, and handsome. He was the kind of man a girl could get used to hanging around the house, she thought.

"I wonder if he likes cats?" she muttered softly to herself.