“We should keep this stuff around indefinitely,” I said. “No one would ever guess the tunnel was there. You can probably keep the trapdoor open if you like.”
Just then the band reached the frenzied crescendo of a song. The cacophony made us both wince and clutch our ears.
Then the sound ended. A few seconds of stunned silence followed, and then the patter of applause so faint that I suspected everyone not related to the band had fled during the last number.
“Keep the trapdoor open? And listen to that?” Randall asked. “No thanks.”
He reached up for the trapdoor, but the band spoiled his snappy exit line by waiting until the last feeble claps died away before starting their new number. When the first chords of the second song rang out, Randall winced and slammed the trapdoor shut.
This time it was the guitarist’s turn in the spotlight. He launched into a solo riff that seemed to have no redeeming characteristics, apart from the virtuoso speed with which he executed it. And “executed” was definitely the right word. Like the emperor in Amadeus, I found myself muttering, “Too many notes.”
About a century later, the guitar solo ended and the vocalist leaped back into the fray. I braced myself against the noise and stepped outside again. And remembering Rose Noire’s tirade about death, violence, and primitive emotions, I tried to focus on the words, to see if they were as bad as she claimed.
The guitar player’s frenzy prevented me from even hearing the vocalist during the second number. But the third song started out with a much slower tempo. More of a rock ballad. Now that was more like it. And instead of leaping about like a frog on a hotplate, the vocalist had draped himself over the microphone like a weary praying mantis. I could not only see him, I could see his mouth move. Surely I could decipher the words of this song.
The singer rather mumbled the verses, as if he’d half-forgotten them, and I caught only a few phrases—“nasal chains,” and “a drywall knight.” But he belted out the chorus.
In a cowbell
Honesty has arrived
Oh bwana
Dental align!
“I give up,” I said aloud—not that anyone could possibly have heard me. “It could be death and violence and primitive emotions. Or his mother’s to-do list. The kid needs a speech therapist.”
I brooded through the rest of the song. Was I turning into my parents? Completely unable to understand the music of the new generation? Actually, I reminded myself more of my childhood friend Eileen’s father, who during our teen years regularly outraged us with what I now realize were probably rather amusing parodies of our favorite rock songs.
“Psst! Meg!”
I wouldn’t have heard the whisper if it hadn’t come in the several seconds between the end of “In a cowbell” and the moment when the stunned audience began dutifully applauding. I turned around to see who was calling me.
Stanley Denton was peering out from behind a large trash can.
Chapter 33
“Meg?” Denton called. “Is the coast clear?”
I strolled over toward the trash can and pretended to deposit something in it.
“I don’t think there’s anyone in the tent, if that’s what you mean,” I said, as I smiled and clapped along with the rest of the audience. “But let me go inside first and check.”
I strolled casually back inside the tent. No one there. No one visible in the crawl space, either. I pulled out my cell phone and sent a text message to Mr. Throckmorton: “Tell Randall to keep his crew in the tunnel. Possible hostile in the tent.”
I tapped the send button, then walked back to the tent flap and gave a thumbs-up sign to the waiting night. I stepped back inside, and a few seconds later, Denton burst into the tent. He pulled the flap closed, looked around, and then sat down behind one of the big wooden instrument cases that hadn’t gone into the crawl space.
“No one here,” I said. “What in the world is going on?”
“Don’t let anyone know I’m here.”
“I won’t,” I said. “But tell me why not? And where have you been all day, anyway?”
“Long story,” he said. “You don’t happen to have anything to eat, do you? I’ve been hiding out all day. Haven’t eaten since lunch yesterday.”
“Lots of leftovers in the mini-fridge,” I said. “And a microwave to heat them up with. Help yourself.”
I was a little nervous at letting Denton into the crawl space again, but he barely glanced at the huge speakers and other clutter. He ransacked the mini-fridge and inhaled several slices of country ham and about a pint of cole slaw while I microwaved a plate of leftover pulled pork and mashed potatoes and found some bread to transform the pork into a sandwich. And then I led him out of the crawl space again by putting the sandwich on a plate and taking it with me. He sprawled on my folding recliner and dug in.