by Mary Bowers
He chuckled and resettled the strap of his messenger bag on his shoulder. It seemed heavy today, but no heavier than usual. Nothing clanked inside as he moved it.
He didn’t point out that Arielle was also younger, so I figured I’d better drop it. Instead, I asked, “How did this Oswald Grist know that you and your traveling show were coming to Key West? He called you, right? Not the other way around.”
“Yes, he called me. Actually, he found out we were coming through Arielle. She’s his niece.”
“His niece?”
“You’ll find that all the native conchs seem to be related, somehow, or they at least know one another.”
“Native conks?”
“C-o-n-c-h, pronounced conk. You know, the aquatic animals with the large shells that can be blown like horns. The native Key Westers call themselves conchs.”
“Oh, yeah, I think I heard that once, back around the time Key West declared war on the United States of America.”
He turned to me, diverted temporarily. “They did what?”
“They declared themselves the Conch Republic and attacked the United States Navy.”
“Good grief! They must have been massacred.”
“Nah. All they did was hit people with stale bread and shoot water cannons from the fireboats. The U.S. Navy laughed. At least I think they did. They may not have even noticed. Look, Ed, it was a joke. The government had done something Key West didn’t like, I forget what, and they handled the situation like true Key Westers. The official plan was to secede from the U.S. and then immediately petition for foreign aid.”
Ed was open-mouthed. He has no sense of humor. Being in Key West with him was going to be like hauling a bag of rocks around.
We rounded the corner onto Duval Street, and the energy rose around us. Coming off quiet side streets where we weren’t seeing another soul, we were suddenly stepping into a stream of people – not mobs of them, like there would be later on, but enough to be trouble if you were wearing ear buds and staring at a cellphone. Or drunk, which makes you navigate pretty much the same way.
I began to look into the shop windows, seeing tee shirts and jewelry and artwork, all in happy colors. The art galleries weren’t like the ones in big cities, where they tended to display well-bred portraits and forcibly modern abstracts, and everything in the window looked so uppity you didn’t want to go in. Here in Key West the artwork popped out at you joyfully, full of surprises, fizzing with cats, roosters, bare-breasted mermaids, yellow and purple palm trees and electric sunsets worked in drizzles of paint. I agreed with the concept – art should be fun. Life is short; why put things on your walls just to impress other people? Put up a pop-eyed iguana; at least it’ll give you a laugh.
I paused as we passed a shop with a sign reading “Psychic Advisor,” with a tasteful array of phrenology and chiromancy props in the window, along with a precise fan of tarot cards and a discreet sign saying, “Walk-ins welcome.”
I turned to Ed with a brilliant smile and said, “You’re home! Even psychics are mainstream here. Look – a fortuneteller on main street.”
He gave the window a quick glance. “Oh, that’s Camille’s shop. She’s closed for the day.”
I swallowed an even brighter smile. He was already on a first-name basis with her. “Isn’t that a business best done at night?” I asked, trying to be serious.
“Really, Taylor,” he said absently as he went to the door of the next business and rapped on the window. I looked up and saw “Key Estate Treasures” on the sign and realized that this was the place. “You can be surprisingly naïve about the paranormal, considering your natural abilities. Besides, Camille is usually setting up in Mallory Square by this time of day, getting ready for the sunset crowds. Oh! Not tonight. She takes Sundays off. Ah. Here’s Oswald.”
A funny little man was on the other side of the door, fumbling with the lock. When he finally got it open, he stepped aside and invited us in, looking at me closely as I passed him. Who knows what Ed had been telling him about me.
“Thank you for coming, Taylor,” Oswald began after Ed had presented us to one another. “I appreciate any help you can give us. And this is my dear friend, Maryellen, or as you may know her, the author, Mimi Fontaine.”
A lady who looked nothing like a Mimi and completely like a Maryellen came forward to shake my hand, saying, “A pleasure to meet you, dear. Ed speaks very highly of you.”
I wished that Ed had spoken highly of Mimi to me, ahead of time. I would have liked to reel off the titles of a few of her books, just to be nice, but I didn’t know any off the top of my head. I’d heard of her, of course, in the way you become vaguely familiar with the names of mid-list authors, and I was pretty sure I’d seen copies of her books (used) in my animal shelter’s resale shop. I would have brought them along for her to autograph, if I’d known. We could have gotten an extra dollar or two for them, not that I’m completely mercenary. I would have also read one so I could tell her how much I liked it, but as it was, I was stuck there smiling like an idiot and saying of course I had heard of her, hoping like hell she wouldn’t ask which of her books I liked the best.
She was a pleasantly plump woman of about Oswald’s age, with a mop of shining white curls. Her brown eyes were alternately penetrating and vague, and I wondered if she was prone to going off into storylines that were more engaging than reality. That, and the fact that the curls weren’t entirely symmetrical, (there was one sticking up at the crown of her head like a question mark), gave her an absent-minded look that was appealing. She looked like she was doing just fine right there inside her own head. She just observed what was around her (including you) to pick up a few artistic details.
She drew me aside. “You know, Oswald is most disturbed – frightened – but I told him, ‘Ozzie, don’t you see? It’s a gift. A gift from something all around us, close to us but unreachable, proof that there is more waiting for us . . . beyond.’ Don’t you agree?”
The men had threaded their way through the masses of furniture, vases, lamps and downright threatening classical sculpture. There was a larger-than-life assault in progress just behind me to my right, solidly executed in white marble and shocking to look at. Nice work, though, technically.
“Oh, yes, I agree,” I said to Maryellen. “How wise of you.”
The large brown eyes sharpened onto me for a second, and I realized that this woman was no elderly nitwit. She’d been testing me. She wasn’t buying my act, and she wasn’t going to press me until I came up with something more convincing, either. She’d wanted to see if I was a nitwit, since I was reputed to be a psychic medium. I was disconcerted when she made a definite little grunt, withdrew the sharp brown eyes and said, “Shall we join the men? You haven’t seen the possessed object yet, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s this way.”
“What’s going on over there?” I asked, looking up as we passed the disturbing sculpture.
“The Rape of the Sabine Women,” she said without a qualm. “A copy of the masterwork in Florence, Italy. I’ve always loved it. The naked bodies writhing upward like a pillar of flame, the savage breakdown of the social norms, wild fear and desire, the rhythm and violence of it. If I could afford to, I’d buy it from Ozzie and put it in my office to inspire me as I write. It captures the epitome of every human passion except for the only one that’s tender: the maternal one. I suppose, considering what’s going on there, that one would be coming along next.” She actually chuckled, and I stared at her. I suppose I mumbled something, but I was too shocked to really say anything.
She suddenly lowered her voice and added, “Don’t tell Ozzie how much I love it. He’d give it to me, and I can’t accept such a fabulous gift, even from a dear old friend.”
“Okay.” I was still disconcerted that this fluffy little grandma was inspired by rape scenes. The covers of her books didn’t suggest any such thing. She read my face once again with her lightning instinct and gave a th
roaty chuckle.
“Over here,” I heard Ed say. “Against the wall.”
We walked across the shop, around armoires and through furniture groupings, and I saw a beautiful cream-painted display case with its doors wide open. Inside were shelves of dainty antique china on display.
“On the eye-level shelf,” Ed told me as I came up. “The lavender cup and saucer in the middle.”
“Uh huh,” I said, reaching straight into the cabinet and picking up the cup by the handle.
Oswald reeled. Maryellen Grundy shouted with laughter.
I looked around in surprise and saw Ed gawking at me and Oswald supporting himself against a mahogany table, muttering, “They have to touch things – they simply have to touch things.” While he muttered, he took a red rag out of a back pocket and wiped his face like a dying cowboy.
I looked into Maryellen’s amused face and she told me, “He doesn’t like people to handle that cup. He thinks it’s . . . unlucky.”
“I think it’s fatal!” Oswald declared. “I thought you understood that. Edson, didn’t you tell her?”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” Ed said, shaking his head at me.
“Well, as long as the cat’s out of the bag, so to speak, I may as well take it now,” Maryellen said, lifting the cup from my hand. She reached into the cabinet and took the saucer, too. “Don’t worry, Ozzie, I know where you keep the packing materials. I’ll wrap it up all safe before I walk away with it, and I promise I’ll get it back to you as soon as I’ve finished my painting of it.”
Oswald was reeling again, and Maryellen seemed even more amused, despite the fact that he was her dear old friend.
She walked forthrightly away, heading for the front counter, where presumably his packing materials were.
Ed was regarding Oswald sympathetically and quietly said, “I told you Ms. Verone was impulsive. Still, I would have stopped her if I’d had the chance. I apologize most sincerely. But it’s done, and nobody seems the worse for it.”
“They don’t drop dead immediately!” Oswald cried shrilly. “But it doesn’t take long. Oh, Maryellen,” he moaned, gazing tragically toward the front counter as if the worst had already happened.
“Well, if anybody’s interested,” I said, irritated by all the drama, “I touched it too, and I didn’t feel a thing. As Ed has no doubt told you, Oswald, I have colossal and uncontrollable psychic powers, and I didn’t feel any vibrations or heat or have any visions or . . . well, I guess that about covers it.”
Oswald glared at me and said, “This is all your fault. You had to touch it! If anything happens to Maryellen, I’ll hold you responsible.”
“Now wait just a darn second,” I said.
“You’ll do no such thing, Oswald Grist,” Maryellen said, returning to us with a box wrapped in brown paper and tied with plain jute cord. “You’ve known me all my life, and you know that nobody tells me what I can or cannot do. I was just about to pick it up myself anyway. Goodbye, Ms. Verone,” she said, turning to me. “I believe I’m going to like you after all. Come for tea tomorrow. I usually take a break from writing at nine-thirty or ten o’clock, since I always get started early in the day. I wake up in the morning with the stories reeling out of me like a filmstrip and I have to race to my office and make notes, sometimes as early as four am. By ten o’clock, I’m ready for a break. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll have my tea in this,” she added, lifting the package. She told me her address and walked away, leaving Oswald all but prostrate on the floor.
I thought about lightening things up with a little irony, (“That went well, didn’t it guys?”), but one look at Oswald told me he was truly disturbed, no matter how silly it all was. Unfortunately, I suddenly had a vision of 80-year old Maryellen Grundy racing to her office at four am, possibly using her walker, and I smiled. Oswald, offended, straightened up and walked away.
“Really, Taylor,” Ed said. He said that a lot, but this time he put more wind into it. “I can only sum that up by saying you were unprofessional.”
“I keep telling you, I’m not . . . look, Ed, I’ve been in a car since before dawn this morning and you’ve barely given me a minute to breathe since I got here. You should have warned me not to touch the damn thing. I thought that was what I was here for. And while we’re on the subject of what you should have warned me about, why didn’t you tell me I’d be meeting Mimi Fontaine, a/k/a Maryellen whatever-she-is. I would have read one of her books.”
“I don’t recommend it,” Ed said. “I tried. Her books are surprisingly . . . off-color.”
“You mean there’s a romance?”
“With much unnecessary detail in greatly prolonged, er, action scenes.”
I shrugged. “Sex sells. Look, I’ll talk to Maryellen when I see her in the morning, and we’ll try to think of a way to settle Oswald down. I hate to see somebody his age genuinely upset when it’s all a bunch of nonsense. He seems like a nice man. Sincere. He really believes this cup is bad news. We’ll think of a way to talk him down.”
“That’s not what concerns me. As usual, Taylor, you refuse to take these things seriously, just because you aren’t picking them up through your usual five senses. And you continue to disregard your sixth sense. Make an effort this time, can’t you? Just this once?”
He turned and walked ahead of me, making for the shop door. Wanting to make peace, I caught up and tried to change the atmosphere by pointing at the big sculpture as we passed it.
“What do you think that’s all about?” I asked.
He gave it a lightning glance, then rigidly looked away again. “I don’t want to know.”
So that didn’t work. I was too tired to fight with him, and what he’d just said about me not making an effort had really bothered me, so I finally backed down. “Okay, Ed, just for you, we’ll replay this tomorrow and I’ll make an effort. But for now, can we go down the street and have a drink? Michael and the gang are probably already there.”
After studying me for a moment, he said, “Of course. We’ll join Michael and the gang. As for the replay, Taylor, I’m afraid it’s too late.”
Chapter 5
The gang was already at the bar, all right. The live entertainment was banging off the walls and the crowd was loosening up by the time Ed and I squeezed in at Michael’s table beside Lily. Teddy, Elliott and Wyatt were squashed up against us at the next table, and they’d brought Arielle along. I smiled as I pictured Porter running amok in The Sailor’s Rest with no one there to restrain him. What the heck, she was redecorating; she probably didn’t care if he smashed a few of those Early American lamps. Most likely they had shut the dog up in a safe room, but I still enjoyed thinking about it.
The tables were all about the size of a large pizza, and some of the people at the table next to you were closer than the ones at your own table. Many backsides were touching, and nobody seemed to care.
A very cute young man materialized to take my order, and I was kind of flattered when he carded me. Surprised into a big smile, I said, “What was it that fooled you, the wrinkles or the gray streaks in the hair?”
“Sorry, ma’am,” he said, “but I have to ask everybody for their I.D. Policy of the house.”
“Also a law,” Michael said. “Go ahead, Taylor, don’t embarrass Sean, here.”
“Sean is it?” I asked amiably as I began to dig in my purse for my wallet. But before I even opened it, I knew. My face fell. Sean watched me warily. Finally, Michael said, “What?”
“I left my driver’s license in my other purse.” I said it with conviction, even though I hadn’t thoroughly rifled through my wallet yet. “The other one has RFID slots for the credit cards and a nice, clear-plastic slot for the driver’s license built in, and I forgot to put them back in my wallet when I changed purses. I don’t have it. I don’t have any credit cards, either.” Just to be sure, I looked, and I was right – I was vacationing in Key West with no valid I.D.
“Oh, come on, Sean,” I pleaded, “your gran
dmother is younger than me.”
Michael saved the nice young man by murmuring, “You can’t put him on the spot like this, Taylor. He could lose his job.” To Sean, he said, “She’ll have a Virgin Mary.”
“I will not,” I said. “I don’t want tomato juice at this time of night. Just give me something big and fruity, with cherries and an umbrella. Something that looks like a grown-up drink, even if it isn’t. Do you have food in this joint? I’m starving.”
“They do,” Michael said before Sean could answer. He quickly ordered three vegetarian appetizers and gave Sean a reassuring nod.
Relieved but wary, Sean looked to Ed.
“No I.D. is necessary for me, young man,” Ed told him. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
Sean turned and wove his way through the tables to the bar, no doubt worrying about his tip. He needn’t have worried, though. I wouldn’t have stiffed him no matter what, and since Michael would have to pay, Sean would be getting at least twenty percent.
* * * * *
We can be party animals when we want to, but not after getting up at 3:30 in the morning and driving for nine hours (we’d decided to get up at 4, but at 3:30 we were both wide awake already, so we just got up). I speak for Michael and myself, of course. Even Ed himself will admit that he’s not a party animal, but only after you explain the term to him.
I figured being denied any alcohol would help me stay awake longer, but I was wrong. Around 9:30 I started yawning my head off, and the next group up at the mike was much louder than the one before, and I started getting a headache. I guess it showed, because Michael asked if I was ready to go, and I said yes. Lily smiled and told us good night while Teddy’s group squashed themselves together to make room for her.
“Why don’t you join Teddy’s group too, Ed?” Michael said.
They made encouraging noises at him, but Ed said, “No, I think I’d like to go back to my room and bring my notes up to date. Since nobody else will.” So he was tired and cranky too.
“Suit yourself,” Teddy said, and he turned back to Arielle as if we’d never been there. He became more animated, now that Lily was a captive audience, and he was suddenly so riveted on Arielle that he seemed about to cuddle up and tickle her chin. Lily and I shared a long-suffering look and I shook my head.
