“Well, then what do you play?” I asked.
“Like we started out playing some heavy metal,” Orvis said. “But we pretty much moved into retro thrash metal right away, and then into sort of a combination of metalcore and melodic death. Now we’re kind of working our way into dark medieval ambient. And some other stuff that really hasn’t got a name yet. You’ll all probably hate it.”
He strolled off, head high, looking remarkably triumphant at the prospect of our collective hatred.
“You were expecting maybe easy listening?” Michael asked.
“I think I’ll plan on an early night,” Caroline said.
Rob snickered. Apparently he’d awakened and removed his earplugs in time for Orvis’s tirade.
“Eric would like to see Rancid Dread,” Michael said. “And Rob’s going to keep an eye on him and bring him home after the concert. So once Josh and Jamie start to fade, I’ll take them home. Come on, boys. Let’s watch the drummers.”
He and Eric grabbed the boys and took them outside. I picked up the clipboard and returned to wrangling the talent.
Caroline and Grandfather were a hit with their wild animal presentation. So was the old-fashioned barbershop quartet that followed, although they were a little too quiet to be of much use if we’d had to open the trapdoor. Shortly after the Irish step dancers took the stage, producing an impressive amount of staccato noise, assorted Shiffleys began showing up making deliveries of musical instruments and enormous wooden crates with RANCID DREAD stenciled on them. Some of the Shiffleys disappeared into the crawl space, with or without crates, so I assumed they were taking advantage of the Irish decibels.
“What are all these crates?” I asked the Shiffley who delivered the eleventh and twelfth ones.
“Sound equipment,” he said.
I looked around to see if Caroline was still there, so I could ask her where she’d found the cotton earplugs.
The afternoon wore on. Irish step dancing gave way to yodeling. Then the polka band from Goochland County went onstage for an encore performance. They’d been rather miffed at the small number of listeners the day before, but now, without competition from a real live murder investigation, they had a much larger audience and received a warm welcome.
While they were performing, the members of Rancid Dread began slithering into the tent, and now all five were hanging about backstage, sweating heavily in their black leather and black denim stage garb. Since Orvis was not only the oldest, at sixteen, but also the tallest, at five foot six, their collective presence was not quite as menacing as they probably intended. In fact, they looked rather like a party of kids going for one last trick-or-treat before they became too old, and more than a little sheepish about the whole thing. I hoped, for their sake, that they got through the evening without hearing those words, so dreaded by tiny Darth Vaders and miniature Freddie Krugers: “Aren’t they cute?”
It didn’t help that they were all eating Popsicles that stained their mouths bright blue and added another layer of sticky grime to outfits that had already been worn too often without cleaning.
“A penny for them,” Michael said, seeing me frowning at the band members.
“Is it too late to take away those toy drums and ukuleles we gave the boys?” I asked.
“I’ll whisk the boys away before the polka players finish,” he said. “And tomorrow we can look into some toy accordions.”
I said good night to Michael and the boys.
“Your parents are coming over to see the boys, and bringing dinner,” Michael said.
“They must have a surplus of something in the Episcopal tent,” I said. “Don’t let Dad talk about the autopsy with the boys around.”
“Why don’t you try to get off and join us?” he suggested.
I tried, but the only trustworthy substitute I could find was Rose Noire, and my attempts to enlist her to fill in for me fell flat.
“Oh, no,” she said. “I don’t think I could possibly stay here for a heavy metal concert.”
“Dark medieval ambient,” I corrected her.
“It’s the same thing,” she said. “So much raw, dark, hostile energy! It’s all about death and violence and primitive emotions. I’m going to go home and beam some positive vibes to dispel some of the toxic energy they generate.”
“It’s only Orvis Shiffley and some of his friends going through an adolescent phase,” I said. “I don’t think it’s about death and violence as much as hormones and trying to be cool. But do what you need to do.”
“I think I’ll do a cleansing on the bandstand tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll gather the herbs tonight, and do it at dawn.”