Don't Fall For That Trick: A Booke Cases Mystery

Part 1 of 4

First of all, for the record: There is a lot more to Nashville, Tennessee, than country music. This city has a variety of arts and culture—world-class restaurants; state-of-the-art concert venues; trophy-winning sports teams; a world-renowned symphony. We also have a commitment to education—Nashville is not just "Music City," it's also the "Athens of the South." Nashville is not just about country music.

I feel the need to mention this here because I'm about to tell you a story that involves a country singer. In Nashville. So think what you want.

I'll start at our store, BOOKE CASES USED AND RARE BOOKS, Tom and Darla Booke, Proprietors. That's the small business owned by my lovely wife, Darla, and me. We were setting up for a book signing; a rarity for our store, but this was a special circumstance. Becky Henderson, a local author, wanted to have the event with us.

Now, Ms. Henderson is the sister of Theodore "Trick" Henderson, the famous—you guessed it—country singer. He's had a number of honky-tonk hits over the years, if you listen to that sort of thing. "Feel the Luck." "Wives and Other Mistakes." "King of the Trailer." He hasn't had any new songs on the charts for some time, but his oldies still turn up on those country music collections you see advertised on television.

Trick is also famous for his practical jokes. In fact, that's how he got the nickname: Pranks that got him thrown in jail, pranks that got his tour bus lost, pranks that shut down the concert hall ... all sorts of hijinks.

In fact, back in St. Louis, I once interviewed Henderson for the local paper. He was in town for a big charity event—or so we'd been led to believe. I won't go into details here, but let's just say I had to burn my clothes after the interview, and the paper had to print a retraction. (It took me forever to win back my editor's trust.)

All of which is to say, Becky Henderson had published a memoir, Don't Fall For That Trick: Life With My Famous Brother Trick Henderson. We were holding a book signing at our homey little store in a Nashville neighborhood. The event was set for a Saturday afternoon. We didn't expect a huge turnout, but thought it reasonable to be prepared.

To create some space in the front, I moved the entire "Theatre & Drama" section. I had an armful of S's—William Shakespeare, Neil Simon, Sophocles—when a customer interrupted me. The old man asked, "Where do you keep Ernest Hemingway?"

I couldn't resist. "Last I heard, he's still buried in Ketchum, Idaho. But you can find his books over there." I nodded to the literature section then moved along, smiling at the harrumph! I heard behind me.

Depositing the books in their new home, I headed to the front of the store. The card table had been set up, copies of Ms. Henderson's book stacked just so. Another table offered punch and pie. A dozen folding chairs sat in front of a podium.

Darla, in her Sunday best—including high heels, which she otherwise hates to wear—fiddled with the curtains.

I squinted at direct sunlight. "Perfect. Let me get my sunglasses." I glanced in the direction of the refreshment table. "What kind of pie is this?"

"Pear-Bleu Cheese."

"I … see."

"It's a recipe I saw in the paper."

"And you're testing it out on these poor people."

"'Poor people'? You should talk." She offered a mildly disapproving smirk. "You know, dear, you shouldn't give our paying customers a hard time."

"Who, me? A hard time?" I flashed my best smile. Anyone else would be charmed, but Darla is immune. I shrugged. "Then people should say what they mean."