Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “Any questions?” Odie asked. When no one raised their hand, he smiled. “Then let the First Annual MIB Hunters Convention begin.”

  Little groups formed, filling the room with the rise and fall of conversations. No one seemed to notice the lumpy furniture or faded curtains. Odie leaned against the brick fireplace and surveyed the scene with satisfaction and a generous helping of pride, until he saw Digger Tubbs striding toward him, scowling. Long gray sideburns bracketed Digger’s pudgy face, matching the gray tufts of hair poking out of his ears. Odie had a moment to wonder what Granny Lou saw in the man before the tirade began.

  “See here, Dinkle. You promised me my own accommodations. Bad enough the room is so small but to have to share with . . . with . . .”

  “Me.”

  “You? Yes, well. I need my own room. If you can’t provide that then I’m going to have to leave.”

  “Leave?” Granny Lou appeared, brandishing a rubber spatula, as though she’d been summoned by Blackbeard himself. “Why, of course, you should have your own room, Mr. Tubbs. It would mean disaster for our little convention if a man of your esteemed knowledge were to leave.”

  Digger’s chest puffed so big, Odie braced himself to catch the man’s buttons as they popped. Really, what did Granny Lou see in him?

  “Odie?” Granny Lou and Digger stared at him.

  “Huh?”

  Granny Lou nudged him in the ribs. “I said that Mr. Tubbs—”

  “Digger, please.” Digger winked at Granny Lou.

  “Then you should call me Louise.” Granny Lou winked back.

  Odie’s stomach churned. He’d never heard anyone call Granny Lou, Louise. Not even Grandpa Moonie. Although, come to think of it, he did overhear Great-Uncle Lemon call her that once when they thought no one was listening.

  Odie zoned back into the conversation in time to hear Granny Lou say, “Odie will make other sleeping arrangements. The room will be yours and yours alone, Mr.—Digger.”

  Odie sniffed. “Uh, Granny Lou, is something burning?”

  “Horseflies on butter! My sandwiches.”

  * * * *

  Odie got the worst of the burnt sandwiches, though he noticed a few others surreptitiously scraping the crusts. Most, however, were too busy plying the handwriting expert with samples of their penmanship to be analyzed. The expert took it in good stride, adding their analysis to her talk after lunch.

  Next up, show and tell. Four attendees brought their collections, the most notable of which was a postcard, in a corked, brown beer bottle, dated in the mid-1900s. The message was illegible, but everyone was suitably awed by the bottle itself.

  Digger Tubbs brought four MIBs. He’d discussed them all before on the online forum, but everyone seemed to appreciate seeing them and hearing their stories in person. His first-ever find was a green bottle with a message from a man named Tom who thought highly of someone named Fanny. The second, his most recent find, was a whiskey bottle containing a slip of paper with a barely legible three-digit number. Next, he showed them a blue bottle with a swing-top cork. Inside was a letter from a boy on a trip to Norway asking for the finder to please write back.

  “I wrote to the address given,” Digger said, “and discovered the boy had died on the trip. The surviving family members claimed it was like their son was reaching out from the grave to them.”

  “Why didn’t you return it?” an attendee asked.

  “Finders keepers.” Digger laughed. “I did, however, e-mail them a copy of the note, for which they were grateful. And last but not least”—he held aloft a champagne bottle—“I found this on the shores of Savannah, Georgia, last summer. Dropped into the ocean by a couple on their honeymoon. The year”—he paused for effect—“1913. The note says: John Beechum loves Harriet Beechum for all eternity.”

  A murmur rose. Everyone wanted to hold the bottle or at the very least touch it. Digger fended them off, placing the champagne bottle, along with the other three bottles, inside a special foam-filled suitcase. He carried the case to his room, returning in time to take one of the maps of Hook Island that were being passed around.

  “Okay, everyone,” Odie announced, “time for the scavenger hunt. There are ten bottles hidden on the eastern side of the island. The first one to return will win a MIB Hunter T-shirt.” He held up the extra-large shirt he’d had made at a local store.

  Odie shooed the last attendee out the door and turned to find Granny Lou puffing away on a cigarette. “Odie,” she said. “We have a problem. Freezer’s out. That’ll be four gallons of ice cream down the drain. I told you not to spend money on ice cream.”

  “We have to give them something besides hot dogs and cheese sandwiches. What do we do now?” Odie slumped against the door. He’d spent his last dime on that ice cream.

  Granny Lou puffed while she thought. “In the attic, get those buckets we use to catch the rain water. I’ll pop down to the gas station and get a few bags of ice. That should keep things cold long enough.”

  * * * *

  Odie never liked the attic. It gave him the creeps with its spider-filled corners and broken remnants of years past. If Blackbeard really did haunt this place, this is where he’d be. Odie pulled the chain on the single bare bulb and shuddered as the room sprang to life in all its dusty glory. He found the first bucket under a poorly patched hole in the roof. The other was in the back corner on top of a cloth-draped box. The cloth slipped some when he grabbed the bucket. Fetid rain water splashed over the rim.

  “Gross.” Odie set the bucket on the floor to fix the cloth and realized it wasn’t a box underneath. It was Grandpa Moonie’s old safe.

  Memories washed over Odie of himself and Grandpa Moonie walking the beach, searching for bottles. That was after Great-Uncle Lemon had disappeared, of course. Grandpa Moonie wasn’t much for stories by then, except for one. “Odie,” he’d say, “there’s a bottle out there that holds the key to our future.” He’d take a swig from his whiskey and Odie’d ask him what he meant. “A treasure chest, boy. All we need is the right numbers.” The liquor would slur his words. “Damn bottle is a long shot from hell.” Then he’d say something even stranger. “You’re lucky you got no brothers, Odie. Don’t you trust no one but yourself.”

  “Odie.”

  Odie nearly fell into the bucket, catching himself in the nick of time. “Granny Lou, what’re you doing scaring me like that?”

  Granny Lou stood beneath the naked bulb, the light haloing her silver hair. “I thought maybe the bogeyman got you, you was taking so long. Never mind about those buckets. The freezer’s back to working.”

  “Look.” Odie pulled the sheet away. “Grandpa Moonie’s old safe.”

  “That’s what it is all right,” Granny Lou said. “Now let’s get back downstairs.”

  Odie dropped the sheet on the bucket and followed her out of the attic. “Granny Lou?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What’s inside the safe?”

  “Darned if I know.” She kept walking. “That thing ain’t been opened since the day it was drug here.”

  “You think maybe Grandpa Moonie hid the money from the bank robbery in it?”

  Granny Lou stopped and pulled the cigarette from her mouth. “What are you on about? How many times I gotta tell you Grandpa Moonie’s stories were just that—stories.”

  “I thought you said some of them was true?”

  “Well, I suppose some are. But not that one. Now come help me get supper ready.”

  * * * *

  Everyone was famished from the afternoon spent searching the beaches. It seemed all of Odie’s planted bottles had been found, plus a surprise find from a newbie hunter. Everyone exclaimed over the new discovery—a beer bottle, sent four months ago, from a man in Atlantic City wishing for money.

  The hot dogs, beans, and especially the ice cream were a hit, making ev
eryone lazy enough so that the pompous start to Digger’s keynote address didn’t ruffle any feathers. Odie couldn’t sit through it. His mind was too full of other thoughts. He carried dirty dishes back to the kitchen, expecting to find Granny Lou washing up, but she wasn’t there. He couldn’t blame her; it had been an exhausting day.

  Digger’s voice rambled on from the other room as he shared yet another story about himself. But Odie wasn’t thinking about Digger. He was remembering Grandpa Moonie’s stories, especially the one about the Hook Bank & Trust heist. How Grandpa Moonie and Great-Uncle Lemon were going to live the good life. They just had to wait awhile before they spent the money so the cops couldn’t track it. That was the morning they sent Odie on his wild-goose chase.

  Granny Lou’s remark about the safe never being opened in all these years played on Odie’s mind. Is that why she wouldn’t sell the house? Because the bank money was locked in the safe in the attic?

  He remembered how Great-Uncle Lemon disappeared right after the fight with Grandpa Moonie. What if Great-Uncle Lemon had tossed the combination to the safe into the ocean just to spite Grandpa Moonie? Was that why Grandpa Moonie started obsessively searching the beach? And what were the odds that that very same bottle, a whiskey bottle, had ended up in the hands of Digger Tubbs, who was right now pontificating in this very house?

  Odie’s legs had been moving as his mind made the connections. He was at the top of the winding staircase headed toward his bedroom, temporarily Digger’s room. All he had to do was slip inside, find the bottle, and read the numbers on the note.

  A round of applause sounded from below. For once, Digger hadn’t been long-winded enough. Odie would have to hurry. He reached for the bedroom knob the same instant the door swung open, and nearly lost his supper.

  “Granny Lou,” he stammered out.

  “Odie, why aren’t you downstairs with the guests?” Granny Lou’s lips looked naked without a cigarette.

  “I . . . I needed something from my room. What are you doing here?”

  “Making sure our guest of honor has fresh towels for the morning.”

  “Granny Lou? You and Digger, you’re not . . .” He couldn’t finish the sentence, could barely finish the thought in his head.

  “I know you think I’m old, Odie, but I still got a right to my privacy. Now I need a cigarette.” She swept past him. “And change your shirt. You stink. Nerves or not, you got a talk to give, so quit dawdling.”

  He entered his room or rather Digger’s room. A pile of fresh towels sat on the corner of the dresser. Granny Lou hated doing laundry. She must have it bad for Digger. The thought made him gag. He found a clean shirt and quickly changed. Digger’s suitcase sat on the end of the bed. He unzipped it and lifted the lid. Four bottles lay nestled inside. He lifted out the whiskey bottle. Sure enough it was Grandpa Moonie’s favorite brand. But when Odie peered inside, it was empty. No slip of paper. He searched around the foam in case it had fallen out. Nothing.

  “Odie.” Granny Lou’s voice called to him up the stairs like he was a little kid late for school.

  He put the whiskey bottle back and zipped the case. He’d have to continue his search later. Maybe Digger forgot to put the note back and had it with him.

  * * * *

  Everyone was waiting for Odie in the front room. Granny Lou sat with Digger in the back. A few people stifled yawns, but most looked eager to hear his talk.

  Using the back of a chair for a podium, he told his heart to quit racing and began. “You’ve all heard of the legendary pirate Blackbeard—the fiercest pirate of them all?”

  Everyone nodded.

  “Did you know Blackbeard stayed here, in this very house, back when it was an inn? He and his crew had ambushed a ship in the dim light of dusk the previous night. Pirate ships are hardest to see in dawn and dusk.”

  There were murmurs of agreement.

  Satisfied that he had their attention, Odie continued. “Legend has it that Blackbeard removed the gold from his ship while it was being repaired and brought it here with him, along with his wife. He drank hard, favoring whiskey, of course. Could be that whiskey bottle Digger found was from Blackbeard himself.” All eyes turned to Digger who smiled and nodded.

  That’s when Odie noticed Granny Lou was gone.

  “When Blackbeard was getting ready to leave, seems he had a falling out with his wife. Their fight could be heard clear across the ocean. Blackbeard got so angry, he up and hung her from an oak tree in the backyard. Sometimes, if you listen carefully, you can hear her screams in the night.”

  Odie paused for effect and everyone started talking at once. Some claimed they were going to stay awake all night to listen, others said they were going to search for the gold. Pleased by the reaction, he told a few more stories. When he finished, there was a general swapping of ghost tales.

  Digger headed for the stairs. Odie escaped from the others to intercept him. He asked if he might have another look at Digger’s collection. “Not tonight. Early bird catches the worm. Meaning I retire early so I can get up with the sun. That’s why I’m so successful at finding bottles. Didn’t you listen to my speech?” Digger brushed Odie aside, then paused and asked, “You haven’t seen your Granny Lou, have you?”

  Odie shrugged. “She’s probably in bed so she can get up with the sun.”

  Digger, oblivious to the dig, nodded his approval. “See you in the morning,” he said and climbed the stairs.

  Odie waited until he heard the bedroom door shut, then made his way up. He knew dang well Granny Lou wasn’t in bed yet. In fact, he was starting to have a darn good inkling of why she was so agreeable to this convention and where she was right now. He left the second floor behind and climbed the stairs to the attic.

  He could hear her cursing even before he reached the top step. Dust motes danced in the light of the bare bulb. Granny Lou perched on a box in front of the safe, the slip of paper from Digger’s bottle in her hand. She stared at him, her face streaked with dirt and frustration.

  “I don’t know what you think you figured out, Odie, but it doesn’t matter. These aren’t the numbers. The safe won’t open. As your Grandpa Moonie would say, it was a long shot from hell.”

  “So I was right? The money from the bank is in there? That’s why you never wanted to sell the house? Because you couldn’t get the safe out and you didn’t want to risk anyone discovering the money?”

  Granny Lou stood, her shoulders hunched like she’d been beaten. “It doesn’t matter.” She walked past him, the slip of paper falling at his feet.

  Odie picked it up and studied the numbers. Two were clearly legible in his Great-Uncle Lemon’s peculiar slant. The ink had faded on the third number. Odie held it closer to the light. He could just make out the indentation in the paper. Could it be? Granny Lou’s eyesight wasn’t as good as his.

  He went to the safe and spun the dial four times to the left, then stopped on the first number, three times to the right, then the second number, two times left, stopping on the third number, then he turned the dial to the right, until he heard a click.

  He yanked the door open, but instead of the piles of cash he’d expected to see, there lay a single sheet of folded paper.

  He picked it up, unfolded it, and read aloud, “I killed Lemon Dinkle.”

  The confession was dated August 13, 2003. Odie squinted at the signature, then looked at Granny Lou, who had come back to watch him work the safe.

  “I don’t understand,” Odie said.

  Granny Lou shook a cigarette from the pack in her sweater and lit it with trembling fingers. “Guess there’s no sense keeping it from you now. Your Grandpa Moonie was a gambler, Odie. We never had money because as soon as he hit it big, he’d lose it all. It was a hard life, but he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t help himself. Lemon, he was a . . . a comfort.” She exhaled sharply and blew the smoke toward the ceiling.
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  “When Moonie found out, he and Lemon went at it. I didn’t realize, until I saw them struggling, how much I still loved Moonie. But your Great-Uncle Lemon, he was killing Moonie. I had to do something. So I shot him.” She puffed hard, no doubt waiting for some kind of reaction.

  Just to be sure he understood, Odie asked, “You killed Great-Uncle Lemon?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I never seen Moonie so angry, even though I chose him. He had me write that confession and locked it in the safe. Then he took the paper Lemon wrote the combination on, stuffed it in a bottle, and tossed it out to sea so I could never open it. He said if I ever tried to leave him again, he’d have the cops come in and bust open the safe.”

  Odie shook his head trying to make sense of it all. “So why did Grandpa Moonie spend all his time searching the beach after that?”

  “He done what he did in the heat of the moment. We could never be a true married couple again with that damn confession hanging over our heads.”

  Odie thought about it. “So Grandpa Moonie never was a modern-day pirate.”

  Granny Lou gave him a sad smile. “Some stories, Odie dear, are just stories after all.”

  He handed Granny Lou the paper with her confession on it and watched her walk away. At least now they could sell the house. When he turned back to close the safe door, he noticed something else—a white sheet of paper laying so flat on the bottom he almost missed it.

  He picked it up and turned it over to reveal a photocopied, hand-drawn map. The type someone might have made while sitting in a bar, downing a beer. Odie could see the ring stains from a long-ago drink in the right-hand corner. The handwriting was unfamiliar, almost elegant. Dotted lines and measurements crisscrossed the paper. And in the bottom left corner sat a dark X.

  It took Odie a minute to understand what he was seeing. In his hands was a photocopy of Blackbeard’s map to the hidden gold. Who had put it there? Great-Uncle Lemon? Grandpa Moonie? He blinked, then quickly folded the paper, shoved it into his back pocket, and closed the safe. Maybe they’d hold on to the old house just a little while longer after all.