by Sandra Balzo
'And called... 1984?'
'Correct.'
'Huh. Hardly a coincidence, I would suspect.'
'No, actually Orwell's widow—'
'Will you two stop it!' Bobby exploded. 'Big Brother isn't watching and so what if he is? We put everything online anyway — what we do, where we go, what we think. Apparently we don't value our privacy all that much if we're the ones who give it away.'
Mrs. B looked hurt. 'Now Bobby, there is no need to raise your—'
Bobby kept going. 'I, for one, think the ancestry projects are a great idea. In fact, I sent in my own DNA swipe about a week ago.'
'Bobby, you had no right to do that without consulting me!' Mrs. B roared. 'Our family is no one else's business.'
If AnnaLise had any further doubt that Mama was right and Bobby was Dickens Hart's son, it evaporated.
'Jesus, Ma, do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? It's like you're wearing blinders. Self-imposed blinders.'
'That is quite enough, young man.' Mrs. B gave him a little shove so she could get up off the chaise. 'Your friend's dying is no reason to be rude. AnnaLise, if you will excuse me?'
AnnaLise nodded and Mrs. B took her leave, tip-tapping her kitten-heeled sandals over the bridge and toward the house.
Bobby shook his head. 'Aw, geez. I'm going to pay for that.'
AnnaLise decided it wasn't the best time to point out that if Bobby didn't still live with his mother, he wouldn't have to worry so much about what she thought. Though, arguably, the miles of separation didn't stop Daisy and Mama from attempting to kibitz in AnnaLise's city life. AnnaLise's solution was to tell them the parts she believed would make them happy, and keep the rest to herself. Which didn't always make her happy.
'I wish I knew what Ichiro had planned last night,' Bobby was saying. 'Then maybe we'd know if he got to do it or something happened to him on the way.'
'Did Ichiro drink?' As Dr. Stanton had said, it was the obvious question to ask in a Sutherton drowning.
'Very little. And he was coming to Sal's, so I doubt he'd get half-stoked in preparation.'
The former reporter was fighting the urge to ask questions. And losing. 'Could Ichiro swim?'
'Honestly, Annie? I'm not sure. We never talked about it. Or, for that matter, the cause of his limp. Ichiro is — was — one of those rare people more interested in other people than himself.' Bobby's tone implied: unlike my mother.
'Which is why you can't be expected to know where his family is. He never told you.'
Hanging his head. 'The man could be married with five kids, for all I know.'
'I doubt it, or he wouldn't have suddenly decided to stay here and open a restaurant.'
Which, when AnnaLise thought about it, was still more than a little odd in and of itself. How many Japanese tourists entering the United States go directly to the mountains of North Carolina on vacation and decide to open a sushi restaurant?
Only one, to her knowledge.
And he was dead.
Mama's, when AnnaLise finally got there, was abuzz with the news. Even in Sutherton, drownings on consecutive days got people's attention. Especially when the second body was discovered by vacationers who were more than eager to share their experience.
'Stuck right there on the mailboat, not three feet from where I was sitting,' a plump bottle-blonde woman in white capris was saying to Daisy at the cash register. 'Imagine. If I'd glanced down, I would have seen...' A shiver with a little too much delight in it, despite the following, 'Eeww.'
'You have to wonder how long he was there,' a gray-haired version of the woman said. 'When you think about it, we could have latched onto him anywhere along the route.' A matching shiver from her.
'Hitch-hiker,' Daisy said as the women left the counter.
'Hitch-hiker' was what Daisy and Mama had dubbed ants who crawled onto a car's windshield before you pulled out, then rode with you 'a-ways'.
AnnaLise didn't like to think of the nice man she'd met as a doomed bug. 'You do know who it was, right?'
'That EeCHEER-oh — Bobby's friend — is what they're saying.' Mama had come up behind her with a stack of dirty dishes.
'EE-chir-oh,' AnnaLise corrected automatically, though she wasn't sure why she bothered any more. 'And yes. I was at the post office when they docked.'
'With him still attached?' Mama asked. 'Must have been a mess.' As she spoke she was scraping the remains of a waffle special off the top plate and into a garbage bin.
'Was the chief there?' Daisy asked.
'Yup,' AnnaLise said, before adding wearily, 'and yes, I know he's gay. He told me last night.'
Daisy was breaking open a roll of quarters to put in the change drawer. 'You didn't know? I was just going to tell you he called this morning, early, to ask if you'd be at the parade tomorrow.'
'Wouldn't miss it,' AnnaLise said. 'I'll call him later.'
'Thought you said you saw him at the launch,' Mama said, stacking the dirty plate. 'You should've told him then.'
'Chuck was there, but we didn't talk. He was a little busy.'
'I suppose.' Daisy slid the cash drawer closed. 'Oh, and Dickens Hart called, too.'
'What's that pervert want?' Mama demanded. 'You stay away from him, you hear, AnnieLeeze?'
'Yes, Mama.' Amazing how elastic apron strings can be. From Sutherton to Wisconsin and back. Boing, boing, boing.
'AnnaLise is working for "the pervert".' Daisy said. 'And don't you utter a word, Phyllis. I've already said it all.'
Enough. 'Hart's hired me to write his memoirs.'
Now Mama looked really disgusted. 'It'll be all lies, you know. And you watch that man. He'll—'
'He'll give me his notes,' AnnaLise said. 'And journals, whatever. When I'm safely back in Wisconsin, I'll read them and put them into narrative form. At worst, he'll pay me scads of money upfront even if the book's never published.'
'And at best,' Daisy said, giving Mama the evil eye for some reason, 'he'll lie his way to a best-seller and Oprah will out him.'
'Oprah?' asked AnnaLise, now puzzled.
'Like that James Frey and his supposed memoir, A Million Little Pieces.' Daisy said. 'Once she found out he'd made up a lot of it, Oprah had Frey on the show and told him just what she thought.'
'She sure did,' Mama agreed, coming around the counter to sit on the stool where Daisy had been when AnnaLise arrived. 'That Oprah is one amazing woman. She don't take crap from nobody.'
'Nobody,' Daisy echoed. 'Now there's someone I'd vote...'
And off they went on another adventure through Mama-in-Daisyland.
Relieved their collective attention had been deflected from her, AnnaLise pulled out the cellphone she'd picked up after stopping home to shower.
Dickens Hart answered on the third ring, as AnnaLise could have predicted. Men like Hart didn't answer on the first ring. Doing so wouldn't send the right message — which was, in their minds: I'm busier and more important than whoever you are.
'Hart.'
'Dickens,' AnnaLise said crisply. 'This is AnnaLise Griggs returning your call.'
'Ms. Griggs.' Putting the employee in her place for using his first name. 'If you're available, I thought this afternoon would be a good time for you to pick up the papers I mentioned. And we can talk about my book.'
'Certainly. I can be there in fifteen minutes.'
'An hour would be more convenient.'
AnnaLise bet it would. She checked her watch. 'Three o'clock — ' she waited for him to make 'agreeable' noises on the other end and then added — 'but I'm afraid I have an appointment at four.'
'Well, that'll hardly give me time to outline what I expect—'
'We'll be in contact throughout the process, I'm sure' — a little white lie, along with the phantom 'apointment' — 'but I've found that it's preferable for me to look through the material first and then tell you how I plan to proceed.'
'Well, I—'
'The publishing industry is different than
your world, Dickens. It's best to let someone knowledgeable guide you through the minefield.'
A cough. 'Of course. Today at three will be fine.' He clicked off.
'And next time,' AnnaLise said to her phone, 'answer my call on the first ring.'
'Well, here we are,' Dickens Hart said, ushering AnnaLise into the room he'd just referred to as his 'archives'.
AnnaLise had arrived at one minute to three. From the outside, the place had the feel of a Low Country mansion transplanted from manicured, undulating lawns to the High Country. Beautiful, but out of place.
Hart — the perfect country squire in a camel's hair blazer over a vermilion dress shirt and cavalry twill slacks — swung open the door to the archive/office and stepped aside.
AnnaLise thought, I'm not charging enough.
Piled in neat stacks on guest chairs and the floor in front of his desk were thirty or forty bound journals. 'Diligent. One a year?'
'At first. Then I got a computer.' He handed her a brown accordion file.
'What's this?' AnnaLise slipped the anchored band from around the file and opened the flap.
'Floppy disks. I started with five-and-a-quarter-inchers, then went to three-and-a-half. You'll probably have to get them converted. Oh, and CDs and a couple of DVDs. They store more, you know.'
Unfortunately, she did.
'And, most recently...' Hart moved to his desk and scrabbled through the drawer, coming up with a handful of USB flash drives. He dropped them into the open accordion folder as AnnaLise watched, speechless. 'Each one is labeled by month and year.'
Holy mother of God.
'I...' It came out as a squeak so she took a breath. 'I've been journaling for years, Dickens, but you clearly have me beat. I'm impressed.'
Nauseated, certainly, but grudgingly impressed as well.
'Thank you.' Hart had opened another drawer of his desk and pulled out a checkbook. Not the kind that fits into a purse. No, this one was big like an old-fashioned ledger. He swung open the front cover and looked up. 'I think half at signing and half at delivery of the manuscript is customary?'
Damned if AnnaLise knew, but it sounded good. 'That would be fine, but we haven't actually signed anything. Don't you want to have a contract drawn up?'
'Certainly.' Hart was scrawling on the second perforated check from the top, the first having presumably been written and torn out to be given to some lucky tradesman. Or indentured servant.
He finished with a flourish and held out the check. 'But, in the meantime...'
She took it, waiting for the thunderclap that would signal the irrevocable transfer of her soul. Holy shit. Fifty-thousand dollars. Could you even cash a personal check that big?
A child of technology and plastic, AnnaLise's paychecks were direct-deposited to her account and she paid bills electronically. The journalist's only exposure to paper checks was when the box from the bank arrived in the mail, and she stuck it in the top drawer of her desk.
'Would you prefer certified?'
At Hart's words, AnnaLise looked up from the check, startled. 'No, no, this will be fine.' A weak grin. 'I know where to find you, after all.'
She folded the check in half and, after just a moment's hesitation, slipped it into the zippered side pocket of her purse instead of her jeans' pocket. Bad form to have to ask Hart for another because AnnaLise's mother had washed her pants.
As she set the bag aside, AnnaLise searched for an intelligent question to ask Hart, who was waiting expectantly.
'You've obviously been keeping diaries and journals for years. What made you decide to write your memoirs — or have them written — now?'
It was a good reporter-type question, and AnnaLise was rewarded with an approving nod.
'My parents died in an automobile accident when I was in my twenties.' Hart settled into his desk chair and signaled her to take one of the guest seats.
AnnaLise moved a stack of journals and complied.
'Back then, I was preoccupied with my own life and getting White Tail started' — not to mention getting significant 'tail', himself, from all accounts — 'and it wasn't until Mother and Father were gone that I realized I knew nothing about my family. Where we came from, even how my parents met. Nor do I know of any living relatives.'
The man projected genuine regret. He looked up, meeting AnnaLise's eyes. 'I swore that I would put all this into a readable form, so I wouldn't do that to my own children.'
Since Hart didn't have any kids he owned up to, it seemed a pretty moot point. But, ask and ye shall find out. Sometimes.
'Which... children are those, Dickens?'
'My,' Hart said, leaning back in his chair, 'you are a straight-shooter, aren't you?'
'It helps in my profession.'
'Then I think I've chosen the right person to write my memoirs.' He rocked forward in his chair and stood. 'Let me get my man to help you with these.'
His 'man' was about sixty-five, with a grizzled mustache and a military bearing, introduced as Boozer Bacchus. After AnnaLise packed the journals into boxes, Bacchus hefted each box onto his shoulder, wrapped a tattooed bicep around it and carried it down to the Mitsubishi where AnnaLise arranged them. Tight, but she managed to fit all the journals in the trunk and back seat of the little convertible.
Thank God for the information age, she thought. It could have been much worse. Dropping the envelope with the external storage disks and drives onto the passenger seat, she turned to say goodbye to Hart, who had followed Bacchus and her down on their last trip.
Hart had removed his camel's hair jacket, apparently in a show of solidarity with the people actually doing the work. 'Best you put the top up,' he suggested. 'Otherwise you could lose half of these resources to the wind.'
And still have more than AnnaLise would ever be able — or motivated — to read. 'Should I start with any particular year? Perhaps the one you opened White Tail?'
'No, no. You'd miss my travels and my early formative period. And those, in their own way, are the most fascinating parts of a fascinating life.'
Gag me with a silver spoon. 'It's an awful lot of material for one book,' AnnaLise said as she swung open her car door.
'Then maybe we'll make it into a trilogy,' Hart said, closing her door. 'Like The Lord of the Rings.'
More like The Lord of the Bed Springs, AnnaLise thought as she backed up in order to head nose-first down the driveway, under Hart's watchful eye.
Or maybe... Star Bores?
AnnaLise giggled. Better yet, The Silence of the Glands.
AnnaLise kept giggling and, seemingly pleased by her cheerfulness in beginning his project, Dickens Hart waved and turned back toward the house. Putting her car into gear, AnnaLise stepped on the gas.
Just as, behind her, two shots rang out.
Chapter Eleven
'What the hell is going on around here?' AnnaLise demanded. 'First Rance Smoaks, then Ichiro Katou, and now Dickens Hart? Did somebody put out a contract on people with unusual names?'
Boozer Bacchus scratched his head. 'Sure hope not.'
The two were standing side-by-side, arms crossed, watching as Hart was treated by EMTs. Two patrol cars were also on the scene, dome lights rotating, but so far the chief himself hadn't arrived.
'Sorry, Boozer,' AnnaLise said. 'I didn't...'
'No need to be sorry,' he said without looking at her. 'My mama knew right enough what I was in for when she named me.'
AnnaLise glanced uncertainly toward him. 'Your real name is... Boozer?'
'Family tradition.'
'Oh.' Eyes front.
'I'm Boozer Bacchus the Third.'
She cleared her throat. 'Has a nice ring to it.'
'Thanks.' Still watching the EMTs. 'You know what I can't figure out?'
'What?'
'There's been a mess of people threatened to kill 'ol Dickens over the years, but this is the first time somebody's actually gone and tried it.'
Now Bacchus turned an unblinking stare at he
r. 'Why would that be, do you think?'
'Luck?' AnnaLise wasn't sure whose luck or whether it was good or bad, but it was pretty much all she could think to say.
Bacchus just shrugged and went back to watching.
A third patrol car arrived.
'You're Lorraine's girl, aren't you?'
AnnaLise was startled by not only the out-of-the-blue question, but at Bacchus' use of Daisy's given name. 'You know my mother?'
'Sure do. Her — and most of the folks around — worked at the White Tail one time or the other, though there's them that like to forget Dickens Hart was the reason they got a decent start in life.'
It was a new way of looking at the place. And the man. 'I guess that's true,' AnnaLise said. 'My mother and Mama — I mean, Phyllis Balisteri. Even Mrs. Bradenham—'
'Ema Sikes Bradenham,' Bacchus snorted. 'What an uppity piece of work that woman is. She's one of them who don't give the boss his due.'
What Mrs. B did or didn't give 'the boss', wasn't something AnnaLise felt she should weigh in on.
No matter, Bacchus didn't give her the chance: 'Now your ma, on the other hand, was always just plain nice to everybody.' Bacchus looked AnnaLise up and down. 'You don't take after her much, excepting you're short, too. Both pretty, though.'
Bacchus chin-gestured toward the EMTs. 'I better go make sure those medics don't fuck something up.'
Hart, upper arm heavily bandaged, was now being lifted onto a gurney. Enroute to the ambulance, Bacchus passed Chief Greystone. The two men stopped and spoke briefly, then each continued on his way — employee to employer, Chuck to AnnaLise.
'In a novel, I'd ask why you keep showing up at the scene of shootings. And drownings.'
'I did miss Mrs. Bradenham's bloodletting earlier this week,' AnnaLise pointed out.
'Nobody can be everywhere.' Chuck seemed out of sorts.
'Are you OK?' AnnaLise asked. 'You seem a little... touchy.'
'Touchy? Let's see: first, my predecessor-in-office-cum-town-drunk is found dead drunk — as in, dead and drunk — in the lake with a bullet wound. Then a Japanese visitor drowns, but with a contusion to his temple. Now... this.'
