The Death of Mungo Blackwell

by Lauren H Brandenburg

  “Good morning, ma’am. If I could simply acquire your signature, I will be on –”

  “You can leave it in the office to the left.” She wasn’t expecting a package. But how lovely for her acquaintances to see a mysterious parcel arriving at the door. She would tip him, laugh at his surprise, softly shut the door, re-enter the gathering, and dive into the surprise package after the ladies had gone. Maybe Charlie had sent it. Maybe it was his way of telling her by some miracle, life was to resume as normal.

  But instead of a lovely parcel, he handed her a manila envelope. Her heart lurched in her chest. Charlie had warned her it could happen. He had put off making their house payment so they would have money for utilities and food. Even if Charlie found work, they were too far behind to catch up.

  “Are you from the bank?” Her voice quivered.

  “Ma’am if you will simply sign – ”

  “Are. You. From. The. Bank?” Her face flushed, her heart sank, and her mind spun as she read the name of the bank holding their mortgage. She handed the large orange envelope back to him. “No thank you. Not today.”

  But he persisted, looking over her shoulder. She stood up on her tiptoes in an attempt to block his view from the eager, inquisitive faces of the book club. Her guests were not his business.

  “You don’t have a choice, Mrs Price. If you don’t sign, I will be forced to take harsher actions. I don’t think you…” He paused, glanced at the ladies once again, and then turned back to Velveteen’s burning face. “I don’t think you want that, do you Mrs Price?”

  She stared at him for a few minutes, stunned and disorientated.

  That’s when she asked him. That’s where it all began – with the question.

  “Sir, would you like a treat?” It was all she could think of to curb the curiosity of the ladies behind her – to treat this rogue as if she were thankful for his visit – to cover the fact she was being thrown out into the street by this khaki-wearing Count Horace.

  “Um, yes. Yes, please.”

  She sauntered back to the ornate round cocktail table she and Charlie had purchased in Spain and lifted the sterling silver tray from its home without even a glance to the ladies. She fully intended to serve him the treat, but in those few steps back, the once wiry young woman her mother had strived to suppress behind Mrs Vanderschmidt’s cotillions and coming out parties hatched another plan. The first one was a brilliant aqua. She picked it up and chucked it at his forehead. The man was so stunned he did not realize a green one nailed him on the shoulder. The next one she threw harder and faster, one after another, a rainbow of flying pastries gracing her professionally decorated entry hall.

  The man tried to run, as if suddenly forgetting from which direction he came. She tossed another, hitting him on the back of the neck.

  He turned and faced her. “Crazy woman! I’ll take your house and your stupid macaroons!”

  Heat spread through her, flaring into an internal sea of smouldering rage. Stupid maca-roons? She gritted her teeth, arm poised to drive the treat directly into the man’s heart. “They’re macarons, not macaroons, you imbecile! One ‘o’, not two.” She let go of the macaron and watched it fly directly at the man’s chest.

  When it was done, the agent had gone, and the envelope lay on the floor. Velveteen dropped the tray with a resounding clang. With the aplomb of a stage actress, she straightened her dress, stood tall and addressed the ladies. “Imagine the gall! We already have home security.”

  She exhaled, feeling a freedom from a heaviness her heart had carried for months. But the gravity of her confession soon took hold. There was an uncomfortable silence – confirmation enough that she had said too much. Would Charlie be upset that she had told them everything? They had never discussed keeping their past a secret, but there was an unspoken understanding between them that, in order to reach the simplicity they both desired, they would have to put their former lives behind them and never look back.

  The women sat stunned around her kitchen table. Clover placed her hand on Velveteen’s. Granny, however, leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “The Rooning, huh?”

  “Yes, that’s what we call it.” Velveteen smiled at the memory.

  “And you tossed macarons at the half-wit?”

  “Yes.” Did they think she was crazy? Did she care?

  “Tell me about the macarons.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The macarons. I want to know about the macarons.”

  Velveteen looked to Clover for an answer, but she simply shrugged.

  “They were from Francine’s… on 5th.”

  “Can you make them?”

  “Well… no.”

  “We’ll fix that too. Go on.”

  Fix that… too? “The ladies in my book club – they adored them.”

  “What did they cost you?”

  “I don’t exactly recall.”

  “You do.”

  Velveteen choked down the lump in her throat. “You’re right, I do. Sixty-six for two dozen.”

  “Are you joking?” Greer shouted, spraying coffee across the table.

  Velveteen shook her head.

  “What did they say? About the macarons?” Granny leaned back in her chair again and crossed her arms.

  “What did who say?”

  “The ladies of course!”

  “They didn’t say anything. I sat back down and returned to the discussion.”

  The oven beeped, but Granny did not move; she just stared at her. The oven beeped again. Gavina scooted away from the table.

  “Stop,” Granny instructed. “She’ll get them.” She held her gaze on Velveteen, who was presently struck with fear by the old woman. Granny nodded. “Go on.”

  How unkind! No one had ever spoken to her like this. Velveteen stood up awkwardly, releasing the gaze of her fascinated visitors, and slowly stepped toward the stove. She could feel their eyes, questioning her abilities as a homemaker. Of course she could take a pan out of the oven… couldn’t she? The oven beeped again. Velveteen jumped. She searched the cabinet drawers trying to remember where she had placed her linen dishtowels. They were hand embroidered and would have to do, because she had always found potholders too bulky and unattractive.

  She located the towels, folded them in half, pulled open the stove door, and removed her ceramic muffin pan. She turned off the stove, ended the timer, and returned the towels to the precise location where she had found them. The sugary scent of sweetened blueberries filled her with an odd sense of accomplishment. She turned to the ladies and smiled as if she had made them herself.

  Granny frowned. “With butter.”

  “Shouldn’t they cool?” Velveteen asked.

  “I’m the guest.”

  Velveteen shuffled to find a saucer. During The Rooning she asked Charlie to sell her fine china and chose to save the simple white place settings they had received as a wedding present. Her hands shook. Before The Rooning, she enthusiastically entertained socialites and politicians. Why was this so difficult? It wasn’t that she didn’t know how to entertain guests; there was something about the Blackwells that made her uneasy, even uncomfortable – like she couldn’t hold to the domestic standards of fermenting boiled eggs and lacing everything in bourbon.

  She opened the fridge – no butter. “I’m sorry, but at the moment –”

  “Just serve them. The others first.”

  Without question, she did as the matriarch demanded. Clover smiled as she sat the plated muffin in front of her.

  Velveteen exhaled and served Granny last as instructed. But as she leaned over to set the plate in front of her, Granny pretended to duck out of the way, holding her hands up in defense.

  Again, there was silence.

  Then, Granny burst out in laughter. “Just in case…” she gasped, “you throw it at me.” A wave of giggling surged from the other three. Releasing her long-held breath, Velveteen realized she could not keep her face straight and joined in the folly. Then she
cried for the second time that day. Large, public tears fell from her eyes. Granny stood up and wrapped a purple scarf around her neck, a gesture of unexpected acceptance. Velveteen tried to say thanks, but could only nod. It smelled like fish and grease and kind of made her feel like she might vomit, but it was one of the most selfless gifts she had ever received.

  “The Rooning!” Granny shouted with a raised fist. “You need some work all right, but I’ll get you straightened out in no time. We’ll be over for book club next week. I’ll pick something good, nothing sappy and dismal. I don’t like the naked books neither, so don’t be getting your hopes up.” With that, the old woman stood up and hobbled toward the door. The nieces followed after her like obedient puppies.

  Clover hung toward the back, fanning her nose. She waited for the others to leave. “Oh, good Lord that thing smells! You don’t have to keep it. There’s no telling where she got it. If Granny sees something lying around, she takes it, whether it belongs to her or not. And if she thinks you need it, you’ll own it. She once gave a set of false teeth to a six-year-old at the market. I tried to remind her that when children lose their teeth they grow back, but she wouldn’t hear of it. It’s some sort of twisted form of kleptomania. Suits her, don’t you think?” Clover’s laugh was forced.

  Velveteen nodded sweetly. The wretched smell of the scarf mingled with the events of the past few hours, leaving her in a conflicted mess somewhere between feeling better and mortified. That woman was clinically insane. Who was she to say Velveteen needed work? More than anything, at this moment Velveteen wanted a bath – a long, hot, bubbly, lavender-scented soak to remove the stench of Granny – but that would have to wait until they had water again.

  “She means well. She really does.”

  “I know.” Velveteen didn’t know. She had never known her father’s mother – or her father for that matter. He was gone before she could walk. And mother’s mom had passed during childbirth with her aunt. Mrs Vanderschmidt was the closest thing she had to a granny. She couldn’t imagine the financially endowed widow talking about the runnin’ offs.

  “Well, I’m looking forward to your book club. Don’t be a stranger. You are welcome at our place anytime. Just walk right in. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The door shut behind the clan, leaving Velveteen speechless. Hosting a book club in Coraloo had not even crossed her mind – the book club was a part of her life she preferred to leave behind along with the macarons.

  CHAPTER 8

  Work. Charlie tried to forget Velveteen had mentioned it. Picking is work, he reminded himself – again. Just a different type of work. Even though they could really use the money, today he didn’t feel like “working”. If Gideon hadn’t been so excited to hang out with Danger, Charlie would have stayed home as Velveteen had requested.

  Maybe we should move back to the city? Maybe there’s an opening… somewhere. He didn’t want to go back, not to the city at least – maybe some other town where the residents weren’t privy to his error. He had been successful once; he could do it again. But there had to be another way – a way to support his family but stay clear of the suit and office – free of the chains of expectation, bondage, and failure life in the city had brought them.

  Charlie checked the online auction site from his phone for the third time that morning. Nothing new had sold within the last twenty-four hours. He needed to be at the market today.

  “Can I go ahead, Dad?”

  “Is Captain Turnlip a third-generation space pirate, son of the infamous piratess Madam Celestia?”

  “Yes! Thanks, Dad!” Gideon took off with a grin.

  Charlie stood in the doorway as anxious tourists brushed past him. He breathed in the scents of Granny’s treats and listened to the metallic click, click of unlocking shop doors, ready to welcome travelers into their coves. The vendors straightened up their tables, and mild chatter filled the air. The Coraloo Flea Market was awake once more.

  “First time?”

  Charlie turned around and faced a gentleman staring down at his phone. “Excuse me, are you talking to me?”

  “Place is supposed to be a gold mine.” The man’s gaze held firmly to his handheld device. “‘Largest market this side of the city,’ it said. My wife thinks she made me come with her for some fancy ribbon. What’s so special about ribbon? She ties up the packages and then the person throws it away! Me, I came for that.” He pointed to the vast sea of vendors. “You?”

  “We live here.” Competition soared through Charlie, a burst of energy to find a better deal than the man with the phone. He was tempted to direct the man toward Shug’s shop – a lecture on the protocol of the Blackwells would keep the newbie away for a while.

  “A local!”

  “No, far from it. We moved from…” He didn’t want to say it. “We moved here about a month ago.”

  “Is it true what the paper said, that the Blackwells are a strange bunch?”

  “The paper said that?” Charlie had read their description as “eclectic and eccentric” – those words fit them to a tee – but he thought “strange” was unfair.

  “I like to read between the lines. Said there was a show of some sort.”

  Charlie shoved his hands in his pockets and straightened his shoulders. “On the weekends the Blackwell children put on skits for the tourists. Get your coins ready. They’ll have the boot out for you.” He gazed confidently out into the market – his market, an expert. “It’s all in fun. Have you been to see Granny? Her sweets are the best around. When they’re gone, they’re gone. She closes up shop and heads home.” Maybe a local.

  “You don’t say. I am hungry. What do you recommend?”

  What would a local recommend? “The sticky bun, but take an hour or so before you drive home. It’s got a kick. And be sure to grab a jar of her apple butter. She grows the apples right out back.”

  “Is that so? All right. I’ll do that then. But don’t buy all the good stuff! Save some for the rest of us.”

  The rest of us.

  Until now, Charlie had only seen two other pickers – “antiquers” – and they were from out of state. He didn’t class himself as an “antiquer”; if he could turn a profit, he didn’t care if his picks were manufactured yesterday. The market was busier than usual. In the distance, one of the Blackwell children yelled, “I have no reason to lie to you, pirate!” Then there was a round of applause.

  First show of the day. Gideon’s getting his fill of pirates. In the city, he would never have let his son run off alone, but Coraloo was small, safe – welcoming.

  In their first week, neighbors on both sides of their little cottage had dropped off an assortment of breads, sweets, and words of wisdom. Father Milligan stopped by and offered to pull the weeds; Velveteen happily accepted and then immediately regretted doing so when the priest showed up the next morning with the church choir. As was the case with the realtor/doctor, it seemed the priest was also the choral director and they had a scheduled practice that day, which they decided to hold in the Prices’ garden. Velveteen said it very well could have been a lovely experience had the soprano not been unabashedly tone deaf and fallen victim to an alto’s ire. Out of the corner of her eye Velveteen had seen the sly smile on the alto’s face as her foot accidentally crossed the soprano’s path, sending her tumbling into the hydrangeas. It was proposed that Velveteen referee the dispute. Three days later a woman with pale pink hair by the name of Sylvia Toft showed up at the house offering Velveteen a perm in exchange for an honest review. Velveteen gracefully declined the offer.

  Charlie grinned at the memory of Velveteen’s re-enactment of what she fondly referred to as “the soprano sabotage”.

  In a matter of minutes, the market was packed with shoppers. Ladies weaved in and out of the crowd with hand-stamped bags from the Blackwell shops. A few men sat, waiting outside the boutiques, talking about their drive into Coraloo, the weather, or how the market would be better suited if it had a bigger parking lo
t so patrons weren’t forced to abandon their vehicles on the streets below and hike up the hill. A chandelier in desperate need of a paint job hurried past Charlie on the right – he doubted the owner would restore it. On his left, a giddy girl, most likely a university student, was paying the vendor’s asking price for a typewriter.

  She could get it for less.

  Then, among the sea of commerce, the silver French horn he had spotted on his second exploratory trip to Coraloo floated by. He watched as the new owner, a gentleman in a slimming pantsuit and brow-line vintage-style glasses, held the horn by its bell. Charlie had learned to study people in his months of picking, especially his type. He definitely was not a musician, nor was he a picker – he wouldn’t have bought it from Shug Blackwell. This man had clients; most likely high-end clients who wanted to use the horn as a focal piece in a trendy speakeasy-style nightclub or reservation-only restaurant that served entrées the size of a thimble.

  This was Charlie’s chance. He wanted that horn and he knew exactly how to get it.

  “Sir!” Charlie shouted after the man. “Sir!”

  The man whipped around and faced Charlie.

  “Excuse me: how much did you pay for the horn?”

  The man took a second to study Charlie’s shoes and haircut before looking him in the eyes. “Four-hundred fifty.”

  Charlie coughed. “Four-fifty!” He had paid half the price in the past for similar instruments, but this horn was different. It was Shug’s horn. “Wow, steep. You must play.”

  He doesn’t.

  “No. I have a client – a collector of sorts.”

  Of course you do. “Your client is a musician?” The horn would be his before the day was over.

  “No. She’s a visual artist. Instruments are her muse.”

  “Sounds interesting.” Charlie pretended to examine it. He tilted his head to the right and nodded. “It’s a great horn. Thanks.” He walked away. The seed had been planted. Charlie walked over to a woman selling used tablecloths – he had no use for table coverings.