Music City Mayhem Read online

  Contents

  MUSIC CITY MAYHEM (Title Page)

  Publishing Info

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Author's Page

  Excerpt

  Pat Ruger:

  Music City Mayhem

  Pat Ruger Mystery Series #7

  By Jack Huber

  Books by Jack Huber:

  Poetry:

  Trappings of the Years

  A Troupe In Masquerade

  An Eerie Calm Before the Night

  A Splendid Alternative

  Aspects Long Forgotten

  The Dilettante’s Garden

  A Poet’s Primer- A Guide to Poetic Forms

  Pat Ruger Mystery Series:

  Pat Ruger: For Hire

  Pat Ruger: Caribbean Shuffle

  Pat Ruger: Native Species

  Pat Ruger: Children’s Reprise

  Pat Ruger: Seattle Reign

  Pat Ruger: Oblivion Highway

  Pat Ruger: Music City Mayhem

  Available at Amazon.com (see end of book for more information)

  E-Motion Publishing

  First Printing, April 2019

  Copyright © 2019 by Jack Huber, all rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote short passages in a review or recommendation. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or blogs, or their content.

  Acknowledgments

  I want to thank my team of family, friend and fans who have taken time for proofreading and editing chores. I’ve always said I could never proof my own work, so it’s imperative that I get analytical readers to help with this. I couldn’t be happier with the team that worked on this book with me.

  My wife, reader of over a thousand books, most of which have been mystery and spy novels, has been instrumental in keeping me on track and the book coherent. This book was unusual in that instead of reading it in bits and chunks like she normally does, she was able to read this manuscript in just three sections.

  Friends and family that helped me with this novel are my sister Rita Schrepel, travel buddy Andrea Ashley, and several volunteers from the RVillage.com online community, including John Frame, Robbie Simons, Patty Maddox, Phyllis Avella, Lynn Monks and Susie Harvey. Many of these folks offered more than proofreading and spelling corrections — they also performed plot analysis and editing recommendations.

  Thanks to you all! I hope you’ll be available for my next venture …

  Chapter 1

  I knocked on the tavern’s front door and waited. It was happy hour and there were plenty of cars in the parking lot, so I knew they were open. A couple joined me and waited while I knocked again. A buzzer sounded and I could hear the door unlock. I glanced up at what looked like a camera lens and briefly posed with a goofy smile.

  The woman smiled at me and said, “Their tequila better be awesome.”

  I held the door open while they walked past me. “After you.”

  Her date was right out of a skateboard video and he nodded and smirked in a dopey way.

  When I followed them into the bar, she asked, “You wanna join us? We got a table.”

  “Nice of you, but I’m waiting for someone.”

  “C’mon over if you change your mind.” She smiled, then they followed the server toward the empty stage. They sat at a table near the steps on the right side, smiling and laughing as they traversed the tavern’s floor filled with peanut shells and cigarette butts. I noticed then the stench of cigarette smoke and remembered that smoking was allowed in bars here in Tennessee, surprisingly.

  Mike’s Tavern and Grille was large inside, with room for 150 or so, though there were as few as 20 patrons sitting at tables. The lounge was decked out in a Studio 54 motif with lavenders, blues and pinks adorning the walls, black and gray steel industrial accoutrements on the ceiling and lighting set up everywhere, but not yet switched on. The bar itself was along the left side and spanned the entire depth of the room. Like the room’s ceiling, it was faced with sheet metal and colored glass, topped with a shiny red steel counter. There weren’t many people sitting on barstools yet, I assumed because it was still early evening. I sat on one in front of a big TV monitor with ESPN running.

  “What’ll you have, boss?” The bartender was a stout African-American kid in his thirties. He was about my height, 5’8”, but he outweighed me by at least 50 pounds. He had a thin black stubbly beard and a pencil mustache that looked like it could have literally been drawn on with a pencil. It appeared that the strings of his stained white apron had trouble meeting in the back to be tied.

  “Pat. Not a boss any more.”

  He chuckled. “I get that. What’ll you have, Pat? Bud Lights are half price right now.”

  “Sounds good. Draft?”

  “You bet; 22 ounces of sunshine comin’ right up.” He seemed genuinely pleasant, a great attribute for a bartender. He left for the beer taps and returned with my beverage. “Here ya go.” He set a cardboard coaster in front of me, followed it with the thick glass mug and reached out to shake my hand. “I’m Xavier.” He pronounced it as if the X was a separate word — Ex-zavier. “You new around here?”

  I returned the shake and answered, “You might say that. Just passing through, but I’ll be around for at least a couple of weeks, maybe more.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy Music City. We have karaoke tonight, if you can stick around.”

  “Thanks, Xavier, but I’m not into that. I will enjoy a beer or two, though.”

  “You bet. Let me know if I can get you anything.”

  I nodded. “What’s with getting buzzed in? It doesn’t look like you’re in a bad neighborhood.”

  “I know, it’s odd. We started having more and more private parties and began using the buzzer for those who were invited. Then it sort of just stuck. It does give us a little control of who is in here.”

  I shook my head. “Thanks, just wondering.”

  He stepped away and started serving another customer, a pretty blond woman wearing a long black and white sweater over a black skirt and blouse. She didn’t look old enough to be in a bar but that was just what all the kids looked like to me nowadays. She had a cute laugh though.

  I took a sip through the foam of my beer and looked at the TV, which was showing golf. That wasn’t my sport but it was good bubble-gum viewing. Before I could find out what tournament was playing, a special report cut in, saying that a plane crash in a Nashville suburb had taken the life of Travis Petrie, a local country singer who had been an
up-and-coming star.

  Xavier rushed over to see the news, as did a few of the customers. “Oh, man,” Xavier uttered. “Travis … I can’t believe it.”

  “Did you know him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, we went to school together. He was just about to make it big.”

  “That’s terrible.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  The news report began to speculate on the cause of the crash and said that Travis had recently earned his pilot’s license and may have been piloting the plane. Investigators were going to take the black box in for examination.

  An older gentleman took a seat a couple of chairs to my left and he seemed transfixed by the news report. He nodded at Xavier, who brought him a large mug of dark beer. He saw me looking over and said, “How ya doin’?” It was in a New York/New Jersey accent, I couldn’t tell which. The man was small in stature and was closing in on 70, I guessed. He looked like a farmer or rancher who had just come in from the range, with dusty blue jean coveralls and a white cotton shirt, though his hat was more Australian cowboy than American. His face had stubble for a beard and mustache but he didn’t look like a derelict.

  “Not bad,” I replied. “You know this guy?” I nodded toward the TV.

  “No, but I seen this happen before. These star-dudes shouldn’t fly their own airplanes. Y’know how many famous people were the pilots in plane crashes? A lot.”

  “I was saying the same thing the other day,” I said. “I thought John Travolta would be next.”

  He stood up and reached over to shake hands. “I’m Alan, Alan Drohan. I own a campground and a farm not too far from here.”

  I shook and replied, “Nice to meet you, Alan. I’m Pat Ruger.”

  “Never heard of ya,” he said abruptly and laughed as he sat back in his stool.

  I laughed too. “Good, let’s keep it that way.”

  “Ha! Too late.” He took a big drink of his lager and set the glass down firmly, looking back at the news report. “That’s really tough.”

  We didn’t say anything for quite a while, instead listening to the report about Travis. Four more guys came over and said hello to Alan; they seemed to know him. He was the center of attention for a bit and I enjoyed eavesdropping, glad that it wasn’t me people were clinging to.

  About a half dozen stories in, Alan launched into one that was over the top. “This guy was in trouble and the tower was tryin’ to keep him awake enough to land, but he passed out. I was there talkin’ to a friend and immediately ran downstairs and grabbed the Air National Guard. They knew me quite well and I talked them into taking me up in their chopper.”

  I was rather interested in Alan’s story. He knew how to tell one, that was for sure. I stood up and joined the group, as did a few other patrons.

  Perfectly comfortable talking to a crowded room, Alan continued with some excitement in his voice. “The tower told us the guy’s plane was on autopilot and gave us his coordinates, and the Guard flew a path to cut ’im off. We flew just above his plane, a Cessna 152, I think it was. I suited up with a cable harness and they lowered me down to the plane. It took about 10 minutes with both aircraft bumping and moving in the air at about 90 miles per hour, but I was able to get the passenger door open and slipped in.”

  There were gasps from his audience and he seemed to enjoy that. He used the time to take a drink of beer before continuing.

  “Then I unbuckled the cable and made sure it was clear before closing the door. The pilot was unconscious but he was still breathin’. I leaned ’im over on his window and took the controls, flipped off the auto-pilot and landed the plane. I got a state commendation for that from Michigan, where this all happened. I told ’em I wasn’t a hero, but they said I was.”

  “I call B.S.” It was the skater dude that entered the bar with me. “No way that happened.”

  The group went silent, not exactly sure of what to do. It was certainly a tall tale and probably not true, or if it was, it probably wasn’t Alan who did it. The embellishment was part of his persona, I figured.

  He seemed agitated by the suggestion. “Look it up on one of those phone doo-hickies, the inter-web. Look up, ‘Alan Drohan’ — A-L-A-N Drohan, D-R-O-H-A-N — ‘Michigan resident saves unconscious pilot’ and see what comes up.”

  After a moment, one of the original entourage said, “Here it is! ‘Michigan Man Helps Air National Guard Save Pilot. A dramatic end to what could have been a tragic story occurred on Tuesday afternoon in the skies over southern Michigan. Paul Simpleton was flying his Cessna when he became ill. He contacted the Kalamazoo/Battle Creek International Airport control tower but passed out before he could get to the airport to land. Fortunately he had placed the airplane on auto-pilot, which contributed to saving his life. The Air National Guard, with the help of local farmer and pilot Alan Drohan, reached the Cessna and a daring in-air transfer of Drohan to the plane was successful. Drohan was able to land the small aircraft safely. Simpleton was immediately rushed to Bronson Methodist Hospital, where he is recovering from the incident.’”

  Alan beamed as he heard the oohs and aahs.

  “How do we know it was this guy?” the skeptical skater asked. “It’s probably not him.”

  “He IS the guy,” the man with the phone said, holding up the photo from the Internet article. He expanded the photo with his finger and thumb, again holding it up for everyone to see, and it clearly showed a younger version of Alan at the hospital, posing with Simpleton at his bedside.

  “Okay, okay, I get it. I’m wrong.” He stuck out his hand. “Sorry, dude.”

  Alan eagerly shook the skater’s hand and said, “F’get about it!”

  A few people stuck around to hear more stories. I got back to sitting with my Bud Light until Bonnie showed up and I joined her at a table.

  Doctor Bonnie Mann was my employer, of sorts. She was an elderly, semi-retired psychologist and was performing sex therapy from her vintage Airstream motorhome. I provided her with security services while we traveled. I had been on my own RV adventure but had agreed to be her part-time protector and investigator for a small salary, along with some side benefits. Bonnie was in her early 70’s, or thereabouts, but her good health and younger looks made her more like 50-something when in bed.

  She gathered her long gray hair and placed a band on it, making a pony tail. “What’s up, Patty? Why are we here?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “I’m having second thoughts about our arrangement.”

  “So you thought meeting here would avoid any complications? I get it. What’s wrong with our arrangement?”

  “Nothing, exactly. It’s been great — you’ve been great — but I retired for a reason. I need more time for myself.” I took a drink.

  Bonnie didn’t respond right away, seemingly taking it in. After a minute she replied, “I was hoping your help would fit into your travel plans. You sure it’s not something I did or said?”

  “No, definitely not. I want to go to Maine, up into Canada, other places you aren’t going to, at least not for a long time.”

  “Okay, honey, you got your freedom.” She chuckled and took a drink from my beer. “Don’t they serve alcohol in this place?”

  I waved to Xavier and he stepped away from Alan’s storytelling to come to our table. Bonnie ordered a rum shot and a beer chaser and he left to fill the order.

  “Will you be leaving right away?”

  “No,” I quickly replied. “I wouldn’t just leave like that. I’ll stay with you here in Nashville for two more weeks and then I’ll head north.”

  “Can you still provide security for me then, while you’re here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Now let’s get drinking. I want to sing Madonna when karaoke starts.”

  “That won’t be for a couple of hours.”

  She laughed and asked, “And your point is?”

  Chapter 2

  I was awakened by Guy, my 80-pound black Labrador Retriever, jumping on my bed. I r
efer to him as “my Labrador” but in reality, he adopted me in the middle of nowhere in Missouri. He didn’t usually jump on the bed unless something was going on outside, so I sat up quickly. I hurriedly got out of bed, grabbing my robe and slippers, then looked out my bedroom window.

  The bedroom was in the back of my motorhome and the only window with a view out the back side of the rig. I didn’t see anything unusual and walked up the hallway to the living room, stopping just behind the driver’s captain chair. I peeked through the curtains at my campsite in front of the motorhome and saw a gray squirrel sitting on my pile of firewood next to the stone fire ring. Guy was jumping up and down with excitement and I decided to let him out.

  Holding him back, I opened the door and yelled at the forest critter, hoping to give him a bit of a head start, then let go of Guy, who dashed toward the squirrel at full speed. It became a blur before Guy even got close and it circled a tree trunk twice before jumping up about three feet and scurrying up the pine to the top limbs. Guy never had a chance.

  He didn’t give up easily, barking at the squirrel while standing on his hind legs, front paws scratching the thick bark of the pine tree.

  “Okay, he’s gone,” I yelled to him. “C’mon back home!”

  He didn’t want to, but did back off the tree trunk, looking up at the vermin, which was chattering angrily back down at the dog.

  “C’mon,” I repeated and Guy jogged back to the RV door and climbed in.

  “I’ll bet you want breakfast,” I said, knowing how that gets his attention. He barked his approval a couple times as I pulled his bag of dry food out of a cupboard. I nudged his snout away from his bowl to make room to pour, and filled it most of the way to the brim. Guy pushed me away with his impatient lunge to his food.

  I laughed as I steadied myself, trying not to be knocked to the ground. “Okay, I guess you’re hungry, alright.” I put the bag away and Guy was just about finished by the time I got my coffee mug.