Katherine Burnette, author of “My Heart Is Painted Black” is a state district court judge serving a five county district in North Carolina. Her 2021 debut mystery/legal suspense novel, Judge’s Waltz, earned a Pinnacle and a Feathered Quill award.
Her work has appeared in Flying South, Sky Island Journal and Red Fez. She received a B.A. in English and Politics and J.D. degree from Wake Forest University. She received her MFA from Queens University of Charlotte.
*****
“Jumping Jack Flash” blared into a totally dark and packed auditorium as the Stones ran onto the stage. Seated beside older men with crossed arms, who could have worked at Smith Barney and put a zero in the personality column, I jumped up with my husband and started clapping. I didn’t stop all night. Electrifying as Mick Jagger was, Keith Richards was the diamond in the crown of rock and roll legends. Every guitar chord, every verse he played or belted out—he belted out to me.
We went to several more concerts before I became truly obsessed. Keith’s bad boy smile glittered seductively and the gold coins tied in his hair pulsed along with every guitar riff he played—for me. Keith’s raspy vocals made me happy.
My husband blithely played only their music in the car while I secretly daydreamed of Keith. Only one thing stood between me and nirvana. Having hit menopause, I couldn’t meet my number one goal—having Keith’s baby.
So, I did the next best thing. I signed up for a bunch of dating websites and searched for Keith look-a-likes. While my teddy bear of a husband was out at night supervising his patrolmen, I was working on my ersatz Keith project.
Only one thing stood between me and nirvana…
Outwardly, I was no rocker chick. My middle-aged self would never be featured in a rock video in my underwear. Inwardly, I pined after Keith and his alluring smile. My body throbbed in want whenever he sang solo.
Finding someone with the same “seasoning” as Keith was more difficult than I imagined. I combed through sites that were full of Keith-wannabes with air-brushed photos. After hours hunched over my laptop, I found some contenders and sent out feelers.
I felt a twinge of guilt for my planned illicit foray. My husband worked a lot and when he wasn’t working he played sports, talked sports and watched sports. Nonstop. I wanted to feel the way I did when I saw Keith —luminous. Now I was off on a dirty adventure while my husband patrolled the mean streets—for people like me.
The first candidate I met didn’t look anything like his picture. His skinny-ass-in-jeans-with-a-guitar picture was total camouflage for the 250-pound man that showed up for coffee at our local Starbucks. To make it worse, he was more of a Beatles fan. No dice.
I was more careful the second time around when I found a picture that, with one eye squinted, could totally pass for Keith. Not the Jack-Sparrow-is-my-son Keith but a more somber and scragglier Keith. I researched him on Google before setting up a date at the coffee shop right off the highway. He strolled in looking fit with coins tied into his curls just like the real deal. Then he opened his mouth. He sounded like he’d just finished plowing the back forty. His southern twang ruined it for me. Unfortunately, he was persistent and demanded my number, my email, my Twitter, etc., etc. I tried to be nice and keep it friendly but he started whining on about his corns and lumbago. As if Keith, my Keith, would have a plebian physical ailment or talk about it if he did have one.
I smiled my good-bye and got into my car to head to work. Halfway there, I noticed the guy was following me in his too practical Impala. I pulled my Lexus into a Hardee’s and waited for him. He wasn’t at all embarrassed about being busted. He stuttered that he just wanted to verify where I worked and if I really was going to work like I’d said—a real pain.
To get him to stop following me, I set up a date for later that night at the Boom Boom Room in Oxford, North Carolina. I figured I’d meet him for one drink and firmly tell him to fuck off.
Nothing ever works out like I plan. I showed up in low heels and a conservative high neck dress for one drink. He was over in a dark corner of the dingy bar nursing a Michelob Light. The place smelled of stale beer and piss. Good Lord, I thought, what a wuss. I smiled at him and slid into the booth. I calmly let him down, put my cash on the table for my drink, and walked out.
He grabbed my arm and spun me to face him as I tried to unlock my car door. “What the hell,” I sputtered. He launched into a pathetic speech of love and respect and “really wanting to get to know me.” It ended with tears sliding down his pockmarked face.
“For God’s sake, get in the car,” I snarled. There was little light at the edge of the lot. The security cameras had been shot out months ago. I sighed.
“Let me drop you back at your place,” I volunteered. In the bar he’d gone from Michelob to Mojitos in a hurry and I didn’t want some cop stopping him and getting an earful of who he’d been with. My Angie Dickinson wig only hid so much of my features.
Still sniffling, he got into the car. A few minutes out of town, he told me I’d overshot his apartment’s parking lot. I pulled into the gravel patch beside the deserted two-lane highway and gave him something he’d never had before.
The next day’s local news station’s headline story featured the guy laying in the gravel with his throat cut. The newspapers carried the same photo. Bunches of dead flowers surrounded him and partly obscured his chest and legs. While I was watching the news, my husband came into the room and stood for a minute.
“Hey, that guy kinda looks like Keith Richards,” he said.
“Um, not really,” I replied.
Disheartened by my experience I slowly began trolling through the dating websites. Finally I found a good likeness of Keith—he had the same smile—but he was ten years my junior. I was going to have to ditch the wig and cut and paste a presentable photo and revise my fake web page. When I got the photo as alluring as I could get it, I contacted him and we started an internet friendship. This time I played it coy. I waited a few weeks before setting up our date to meet. We picked a place in Raleigh about an hour out of town. I told my husband that I needed to go out of town for work. My indulgent husband handed me a wad of cash without taking his eyes off of the basketball game and shrugged into his police captain’s uniform for his next to last night on the job.
I packed all of the form-altering Spanx I could find in my suitcase and a low cut top. Fortunately “Keith” and I planned to meet late that night in a dim bar off of Glenwood Avenue. I click clacked in my high heels to my car and rushed off to meet my man.
Except he wasn’t my man. Even in the fuzzy yellow light of the bar, I could see that the guy was maybe half of my height—definitely not Keith material. What the hell, I thought, and walked over. He looked me up and down and his smile lit up his cute face. I ordered a drink and we talked for a while. Reluctantly, around one a.m. I reached for my purse.
“Don’t go,” he said.
“Have to, sorry. I gotta get to work early tomorrow,” I said dragging out that old chestnut. He stood and put his hand on the small of my back.
“Let me walk you out,” he said. I sighed, thinking quickly of how to get away once we hit the door. I didn’t have a good cover story for why I didn’t have a car.
Near the parking garage he drew me into the shadows and leaned in for a chaste kiss. He stood on tiptoe. Things quickly got interesting so we walked over to the Hampton Inn and he booked a room while I shyly stood by. In the room we started moving fast—clothes strewn on the desk, floor and lamp. It was not bad until he turned on the light to take out his contacts. He recoiled when he saw my Spanx-less body sprawled on the bed. The look of horror on his face nearly undid me.
His low cut blouse and stilettos caught the interest of the local news the next morning. The garish red lipstick painted on his lips mimicked the gaping slit in his throat below. On his flesh just above the deep V of his blouse was painted the words “Honky Tonk.” Cheap perfume nearly asphyxiated the detectives investigating the murder, my husband said. He’d been listening to the scanner before meeting me for lunch and relished telling me every detail.
After this meeting did not produce my Keith, I sulked at home for a bit. My husband tried to cheer me up by booking us into a nice resort hotel in Myrtle Beach. I perked up because I had something to look forward to and I loved the beach. Bored one evening before we went, I paged through some websites featuring South Carolina men.
After an hour I found one that looked a little like Keith, played the guitar and was a Stones fan. Bingo. I set up a time and place to meet him near my hotel but not next door. My husband and I made it to our resort hotel in good time, enjoyed a nice dinner and then drinks out by the pool. About midnight we turned in for the night. His brandy with half of an Ambien worked its magic and I was outside ten minutes later.
I walked up to the quirky meeting spot. A small carnival was set up in the back of the Aloha Motel and was still going with colored lights and tinkling piano player music. Hot buttery popcorn and funnel cakes cooking permeated the air. Underlying this delicious scent was something earthier, something darker. I walked by a caravan trying to slip in without paying.
The big hairy beast nearly took off my foot. Horses were hobbled in a circle near the furthest end of the caravan snuffling and whinnying. I petted the one nearest to me hoping he was gentle and wouldn’t set up an alarm. He nuzzled my shoulder and blew into my hair.
A few minutes later I found “Keith” next to the merry-go-round. He was about Keith’s height and had the same coloring and great smile. I relaxed for the first time in days. This was going to work out, I thought. He was charming but enough of a rogue to appeal to me. After a while we started walking back toward where the horses were quietly chomping their hay. A few stacked up bales made a convenient, if not soft, bed.
When “Keith” started talking about his wife and kids, my good mood vanished. What a dumbass, I thought. I turned away from him and put my clothes back on in silent frustration. Fortunately, there was a large wooden handled shovel nearby.
The local paper’s website featured “Keith” the next day riding high—on old Blossom or Peaches or whatever—slightly bent over but held up enough by a rope near the horse’s head. Because he was now a retired police captain, local law enforcement emailed the gory crime scene photos to him on the off chance he’d seen anyone suspicious in the area. In those photos, “Keith,” looked distinctly out of place with his throat gaping open in the circle of wild horses. His head was caved in on one side as if he’d fallen off his reluctant mount at least once.
As I hugged him from behind, my husband pointed out parts of the gruesome photos to me and said the local police had no leads, that they’d have the devil of a time to solve it because the guy didn’t appear to be local and had no ID. He said that they can’t always get fingerprints or DNA from a crime scene, but sometimes there’s just enough to get what they need.
I kissed the top of his head, picked up my laptop and headed outside. Maybe a day by the pool would inspire me. After all there really is only one Keith. The rest have to go.
*****
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