She eyed me, then the kid, then me again. “Hey, Taylor.”
The kid looked down. “Hey, Ms. June.”
She looked at me. “What can I do for you, Mr. Tucker?”
“You could lay off telling my fortune, quit recommending places for dinner, and give me what’s left of my Château Simard.”
She looked down. “I did it for Lydia, you know.”
I softened. “I know. My wine.”
She nodded. “Got about a bottle and a half left here. Twins give you what was left from last night over at The Hut?”
“Yeah. And I’d like not to cart around an open bottle of spirits. It’s against the law, they tell me, and Taylor here is an officer in law enforcement. So maybe you could pop the cork on the half bottle and help me finish it up. Kind of a farewell-no-hard-feelings sorta thing.”
She liked that. “Dally was right. You’re a character.”
I heaved myself onto the closest barstool. “That’s me. In fact I’m a character in the play in God’s mind. Did you know that, June? Just like you. Just like all of us. We can’t help it.”
She bent over to get the bottles, paying me absolutely no mind.
I looked at Taylor. “So, can you join us, officer?”
He looked around. “I better not.”
I turned back to June. “It’s not really drinking with this stuff, Taylor. It’s more like a conversation.”
He didn’t understand. I didn’t feel like explaining anything to either one of them. I was still a little preoccupied by what I’d seen in my little waking dream. It was rare to get a dream like that. Usually it was just a wadded jumble of images. This was like some dream sequence from a Hitchcock film.
June plopped down a full glass in front of me, slid the other unopened bottle toward me, and hoisted her own half-filled glass in the direction of the framed newspaper story on the bar wall behind her.
“Here’s to your little adventure on the coast, Flap.”
I looked at the frame behind her too. “And to Lydia. ‘Who is Lydia, what is she, that all our swains commend her?’ You know that?”
June eyed me. “You think I don’t know, but I do. It’s ‘Sylvia.’ It’s Shakespeare. It’s a song.”
Taylor nodded, almost to himself, embarrassed to know. “Schubert set it to music.”
I set down my glass to eye them both.
Taylor spoke right up. “We got us a great little school system down this way, Mr. Tucker. We’re not so stupid as a lotsa people think.”
June winked at him. “Taylor here plays the viola, don’t you, hon?”
He looked at his feet, like the answer to her question might be written there. “Yes, ma’am.”
I got it. “So you played the Schubert in school band or some such.”
“Community orchestra, yes, sir. Uh-huh. It was our Songs of Shakespeare show.”
June nodded. “Well attended.”
He still didn’t look up. “For a winter show, yes, ma’am.”
I looked at him. “Taylor? You know the churchyards over in Savannah? You know one that would have a stone angel and a lot of magnolia trees?”
He finally looked at me. “Don’t know one that wouldn’t be like that.”
“Oh.”
June sipped. “Prettiest one to me is the one close over there at River Street.” She looked to Taylor for guidance. “That’s the Old Baptist?”
He nodded. “It’s always been kep’ up right nice, all those inpatients in the summer and pansies ever’where in the fall.”
There it was, the Old Baptist with the pansies out front. There’s no such thing as coincidence.
I knocked back a healthy taste of the Simard. “I’ll have to catch it sometime.”
June set down her glass. “Look, Flap ... I’m sorry we had to treat you so bad what with sluggin’ you out with my own daughter’s food and all. I hope you understand. It’s Lydia. I care for her more than you can possibly imagine.”
I finished off my wine, swiped up the unopened bottle. “I don’t know — I’ve got a pretty good imagination.”
Taylor shifted his weight. “Ready to go, Mr. Tucker?”
“Yup.”
We started out, but I couldn’t resist the exit music. I popped a quarter in, and mashed good old R2: “Stardust” — for my money, the music of the spheres. It shuffled us out of the lounge with a good bit of class.
25 - Carpenters and Masons
Out in the parking lot, I tossed my stuff in the backseat of my heap, on the rider’s side, and waved at Taylor where he was standing by his cop car. He did not wave back. He was a musician, not a policeman, and the disparity between what he loved and what he did for a living made him impolite. It’s a common malady. Most men lead lives of quiet impoliteness.
He shot me a look. “I’m following you to the highway. I’m watching you get on. You’re going to Atlanta tonight. You’ll be home by midnight. I’ll call to make sure.”
“That’s very thoughtful. I am prone to car trouble.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Tucker.” I could tell he was trying to sound like Tommy Acree.
The magic of Ronnie Tibadeau was in evidence still. I got cranked the first turn, and my car was rolling. True to his promise, Taylor followed close behind. He was with me up the ramp to the interstate. He followed past the first exit, the second exit. Just when I thought he might tail me halfway to Atlanta, he flashed his lights and roared past me, slipped into a police turnaround in the median, and zoomed away back toward Savannah.
I rolled on to the next stop, got off, pulled into a station; slipped under the car. There it was, plain as day: some cheap, homemade gizmo. I didn’t know whether it was still working or not, but I popped it off anyway. Just for laughs, I slipped it under the bumper of a station wagon with Michigan plates while the owner was paying for his gas.
Then I got in my car and headed back into Savannah to look for an Old Baptist graveyard. June had said the church in question was near River Street. At least I knew where that was; that’s where I headed. Found a parking place up on the street that overlooked the docks. Just for old times’ sake I wandered down onto River Street itself, looking for the ghosts of days gone by.
Sure enough, there was the place where the Night Flight used to be. And inside, there was activity, lights, something happening. I peered in the window. True to her wacky note, there was Dally, ordering some schmo around.
I tapped on the glass, they both looked. Dally came to the door a little quicker than she usually moves, and popped it open.
“Took you long enough to get here.”
“I got run outta town by Johnny Law.”
“But it didn’t take, did it?”
I smiled. “Here I am.”
“Well, I guess you better come in and survey the landscape of your past.”
“It has been a while. We had a great gig here once upon a time.”
She introduced me to the schmo. “This is Homer. He’s a cabinetmaker. He apprenticed for twelve years. He’s good.”
He nodded.
I let him get back to his wandering, and motioned Dally over to a spot where the bar used to be. “Nice note you left me.”
She grinned. “Yeah. I thought you’d find it amusing.”
“What’s the deal?”
She took a deep breath. “Know how you’re always mouthin’ off about life bein’ like a game?”
“Thanks for paying attention. Like a play.”
“Whatever. I kind of got a dose of it at the moment.”
“Sorry. I didn’t figure it to be contagious.”
“Yeah, well — I’m giddy.”
I had no idea what she was getting at. “Okay.”
“It all seems a little like a game to me.”
“And by all you mean ... ?”
She wouldn’t answer me. “You do your thing yet?”
“Yeah. But I didn’t finish. I got interrupted before anything made any sense.”
“What was it?”
“Family reunion.”
She was cagey. “Really.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?”
“You bet.”
“Such as?”
She looked around the room. “You guys played here, huh?”
I nodded. “Yeah. It was a dream gig. A week at the beach, seafood every day, fishing for blue crabs off the peer. And I had a little thing for the assistant manager.”
“Is that right?”
“I don’t know whether it was right or not, but it was swell. She was engaged to the manager, I think, but he was outta town. She was sowing her wild oats. Or would it be sea oats out here?”
“She took advantage of you.”
“Oh, yeah.”
She smiled. “And it lasted ... ?”
I nodded. “An entire week. Right after we left town, there was a kind of bad hurricane. Did a lot of damage out on Tybee.”
“You never know what kinda damage you leave behind you when you’re young, do you?”
I looked at her. She was somewhere else, staring off into space. I hated to bother her — wherever she was — but it was uncharacteristic. “You reminisce.”
She came back. “Yeah. I do.”
I reached out and got ahold of her elbow. “Well, knock it off. The past, as they say, is only prologue ... you know.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“So.”
She rallied. “So.”
“I gotta find a church graveyard.”
She blinked. “Because?”
“Because I have the intuition I’ll find the mysterious Lydia there.”
“Well, that’s a kind of far-fetched notion, don’t you think?”
I agreed. “But my notions can fetch pretty far, don’t you think?”
She thought for a second. “Okay. Where is it?”
“Around here somewhere. It’s tied in with the Turners’ Aunt Ida. It’s where she lost her voice.”
I told her the story. She enjoyed it. I’ve mentioned how she’ll always go for a story.
Homer overheard. “Y’all are talkin’ about the Old Old Baptist.”
I turned to him. “As opposed to ...”
He smiled. “Just the plain Old Baptist, which, see, it just got built after the Civil War. The Old Old Baptist was built before the Revolution.”
I looked at Dally. “They got buildings around here that old?”
He was certain. “Yes, sir. That ain’t nothin’. See, in America, you get to be old after a hundred years or so. But over there in Europe? Shoot. You gotta be five hundred ’fore they even take you serious. They got a lotsa old over there.”
I was impressed. “Nice work, Homer. I heard they had a great school system around here.”
He was proud. “Ah, most of what I know is from the guy I’s apprenticed to. He’s from England? He learned it from his great uncle, who learned it from somebody else in the family, and on and on back to Noah.”
“Noah?”
He explained it to me. “Yes, sir. Noah? He was a carpenter back in the Bible.”
“Yeah, I know who Noah is.”
Homer tried to take it all in. “I didn’t ever think he was from England, though.”
I looked at Dally. “Me either.”
Dally encouraged Homer to more talk. “Tell him why you got to apprentice with him, Homer.”
“Oh. Well, he ain’t got no kids, and no kin that’s interested in the work. He’s a Mason?”
I didn’t get it. “Like a Shriner?”
“Naw. That’s his name. He’s related to the actor James Mason.”
Dally was the only vocal skeptic. “So he tells Homer, anyway.”
Homer was undaunted by Dally’s cynicism. “Don’t matter if it’s true. It makes a good story. And he’s a great carpenter. Best I ever saw. He knows stuff about buildin’ that a lots of people’s forgot.” Homer squinted. “An’ now he’s got nobody to pass it on to but me. Ain’t none of the rest of his family the least little bit interested in all that know-how.” He looked at me. “Don’t people over there in England care about the family?”
Like I’d know.
Dally was more practical. “So, which way to the cemetery?”
He motioned us over. “Look.” He started drawing us a little map on a yellow pad. “It’s just right up there.”
He pointed in the direction of the sea.
26 - Poets and Thieves
It was plenty dark by the time Dally had finished describing the perfect nightclub to Homer. They discussed it, then he left; we locked up and headed toward the graveyard, walking.
The streetlights kept the moon from seeming too bright. It was nearly full. Full moon on the way to the boneyard. You had to admit that the author of the play had a sense of humor.
We arrived. It was well kept and lousy with historical markers in front. Nobody was home. We ambled on around the back. It was darker outside the range of the streetlights and underneath the old live oaks and Spanish moss. Magnolias were nearly solid all around the older part of the digs. The smell of the blossoms was everywhere.
It got to me. “Man. Is magnolia the greatest smell or what?”
She was quiet. “Shhh. How in the world are you gonna find this Lydia if you clump around smellin’ the flowers and yakkin’?”
“A lot of people would say that’s the best way to find a woman.”
“Hush.”
We walked around for a good while; found some Revolutionary War heroes, according to the markers. Even after dark the place was steamy hot. After a while we sat down on one of the benches for a breather.
I felt like musing. The full moon and the environs made it seem appropriate. “I ever tell you what happened at Verlaine’s funeral?”
She shook her head.
I settled in. “There was a tug-of-war between his publisher and his mistress over who was going to get his winding-sheet. During the ruckus a man named Louis Ai stole fourteen umbrellas. That’s what the French newspapers said when they were writing Verlaine’s obituary.”
“Umbrellas?”
“The mourners at the funeral had left a bunch of them leaning against a tree.”
She nodded. “Know what umbrella means? It’s from the Latin umbra, meaning ‘shadow’; the diminutive is umbelia, meaning ‘the little shadow.’ So I guess you’re not the only font of knowledge in this couple.”
I smiled. “I guess not.”
Then, quietly: “Why bring up Verlaine?”
I shrugged. “A — a great French poet. B — pals with Rimbaud — ”
She interrupted “... until Verlaine gets him in some fight and Verlaine goes to jail over it.”
I ignored. “C — converted to Catholicism in jail, so you know he’s serious. D — ideal Symbolist poet.”
“So you bring him up because ...”
I nodded. “... he’s a major figure in nineteenth-century literature.”
She took it all in. “I see. Know what happened at my grandmother’s funeral?”
“Okay, what?”
“They had a drawing and gave away a door prize.”
“Really.”
“Trip to Bermuda.”
“I hear it’s a paradise on earth.”
She eyed me. “It is. That was the symbolism. We’re lousy with symbolists in our family, too, so shove the fancy talk. Honestly. You got way too much free time.”
“Okay.”
We sat in silence for a minute or two. The fireflies were like sparklers. Finally she shifted in her seat. “How do you spell his name?”
“V-e-r —”
“No, not the poet, the umbrella thief.”
“A-i.”
“That’s it? A-i?”
“Yup.”
“The way you pronounced it, I thought it was ... what’s the French word for ‘garlic’?”
“A-i-l.”
“Yeah. I thought the guy’s last name was ‘garlic.’ A name like that could turn anybody to a life of crime. Lo
uey Garlic.”
I was willing to play. “Yeah, what you name a kid is liable to cause trouble, but you’d think it’d be some kind of culinary crime.”
She nodded. “Never can tell what makes a man steal fourteen umbrellas.”
I was settling in. “Funny, you know? Some guys are remembered because they wrote great, beautiful words that’ll mean something to somebody for a long time — and some are remembered because they stood next to some poet’s funeral and stole umbrellas.”
And without any kind of warning, there was a voice right behind us.
“Hey, Mr. Tucker.”
I was around so fast it knocked the bench over, and Dally went grass surfing.
With his hand out, he tried to calm me. “Whoa back there, hoss.”
In the dim light from the nearby streetlamps I could barely make out Maytag Turner. Out of the shadows there was another shape. I could only guess it was Peachy.
I straightened up. “Hey, boys.”
Dally sat up. “You all must be the Turner twins.”
Maytag was over helping her up with a speed and agility I would not have expected.
I looked at Peachy. “He moves fast for a big boy.”
Peachy was proud. “Football.”
Maytag was modest. “Peachy’s the hero. He was always in the end zone for me.”
Peachy wouldn’t hear of it. “Maytag come bustin’ through any line, stand around long as he wanted. Nobody could bring ’im down. Then when he felt like it, he’d toss me the ball.”
Maytag nodded. “We were a fine team.”
Peachy straightened out the bench. “Sorry to sneak up on you all. Didn’t mean to scare nobody. We didn’t know for sure it’d be y’all.”
Maytag explained. “Coulda been somebody on a date.”
Peachy was embarrassed. “We didn’t wanna disturb nobody.”
Maytag had Dally up. “So we had to sneak. Sorry.”
I looked at Dally. “This is Ms. Oglethorpe.”
Peachy swatted at my arm. “We know.”
Maytag made it clear how dumb I was. “Who else would you be out here with?”
Peachy wanted to clear the air. “Y’all missin’ some umbrellas?”
I shook my head. “It was a story.”
Maytag nodded. “Oh, yeah. Ms. Oglethorpe likes her a story.”
Peachy was ready to move on. “Okee-doke. We can go now.”
Too Easy (A Flap Tucker Mystery Book 2) Page 12
