She said, “I see some ducks out there.”
“Black ducks. They live here all year long,” he said as he sipped his coffee. He continued to go through the work she had brought, marking changes.
“I’m holding off sending anything to Spotswood on the Walker John story, especially about the discovery of the hut,” he said.
“Why?” she asked.
“I want to know more before I let my information go. I want to make sure the story is right.”
“It’s pretty much dead anyway. The Baltimore press hasn’t written any more and I’ve seen nothing on the television news,” she said.
“I’m going out to see Peggy Tolchester,” he said. “Lulu said that her sister knew Walker pretty well. She also said that Walker had a lot of friends in the old days. He fixed engines for most of the people in town, including the whites.”
Annie nodded, drinking her coffee.
Harry continued, “She said he was popular among the teenagers, like her older sister Peggy. Peggy owned a small runabout like many of the boys and hung around Walker’s boat shop, helping him with his race boat.”
“I’d ask what the kids like her thought about Catch’s father and his shop in those days,” she said. “His father, Homer, was the famous race boat driver. I mean, was Walker the only guy who could work with kids and their boats?”
Harry said, “It’s a good question. I don’t know. I suspect kids like people who take time for them. I understand Walker was like that, patient.”
“Go interview her,” said Annie, picking up the dishes.
When he called, Peggy was initially angry at Lulu for suggesting an interview about her childhood, about the little runabout boat she had when she was a teenager, and most especially, that he wanted to ask what she knew about Walker. Harry persisted and she finally said “All right, I’ll talk to you.”
As he drove to Peggy’s, the sun was broiling the roads again. A quickly moving shower had wet down the roads but most of the puddles were shrinking, leaving behind shadows of moisture. Harry couldn’t drive very fast; he knew he was pushing the limits of the old van’s suspension even at a slow speed on these winding roads. He prayed at each curve that the truck would recover its balance and manage to stay on the road.
Peggy lived on a farm called Mattapoint, where a manor house and a few soybean fields were all that was left of her family’s ancestral plantation. Lulu had told him that the Tolchester family had ten thousand acres of tobacco and more than a thousand slaves before emancipation. Peggy’s own father, Everett, the last wealthy Tolchester, had not been much of a businessman and sold off most of the remaining holdings, to pay for his elaborate hunting trips around the world. Harry had seen copies of his Tolchester series of hunting books, still available at the River Sunday library. They were resident on a special shelf, dusty and unused in their expensive leather covers, detailing an older generation’s love of the precise methods of chasing and killing the great animals of the world.
Out in front, was the driveway, a circular affair with edging of heavy boxwood and little trails between the overgrown bushes which led off to the swimming pool or the barns to the back of the main house. The house, like many on the Eastern Shore, was plantation style, designed to let cool air through in the summer and unfortunately cold winter air through too, so much so that, in the days before central heating, the denizens would either live in the kitchen room or move into warmer town quarters in the winter.
The paneled doorway was ajar. A little girl in a green and yellow bathing suit padded up to the screen door and stared up at Harry, her hands pressing out the tiny mesh. Harry looked behind her and saw the Nanticoke River through the rear doorway at the other end of the hall. Beside a boathouse was an older model Bertram cruiser.
The little girl, who was about five years old, put her thumb in her mouth as she mumbled, “Mommie says for you to come out back.”
“Sure, honey. What’s your name?” Harry said as he opened the screen door.
“Melissa,” she said.
“You can call me Harry,” he replied with his best smile.
The child looked over her shoulder as she moved along through the hall and said, “I think you’re going to get a drink.”
Harry asked, “How about you?”
“Mommy says I can’t have any more sugar,” she replied.
“Can you have Kool-Aid?” Harry asked.
“Maybe,” she said and ran ahead and out the screen door at the end of the hall.
The hall was filled with the smell of freshly cut magnolia blossoms floating in a blue china bowl on an antique side table. The dark wall beside him presented an ancient oil painting that he suspected was by the colonial Maryland painter, Hesselius, who had lived near River Sunday. The painting showed a middle-aged man with short hair sitting on a carved wooden chair in this same central hallway. He was smiling, a silver cup in his right hand, and was dressed in a blue draped robe that came over his left shoulder and was held at his waist by a red sash. Two black women in full gowns, their hair in multicolor bandanas attended him. Harry grinned as he realized this fellow was probably the Tolchester who, Lulu had told him, had commanded local militia in burning a British frigate attacking the harbor during the Revolution.
Outside, Peggy sat in a wicker chair surrounded by her three brown Chesapeake Bay retrievers. She looked nothing like her younger sister Lulu. Where Lulu was short this woman was tall, where tanned Lulu had a face that smiled all the time, this woman looked very pale and haggard even in the expensive blouse and pants she wore. On her lap was a copy of the Nanticoke Times. She had a half finished iced drink in her left hand and held her right up to greet Harry.
The lawn looked out over a small garden around a swimming pool and then through great trees to the waterfront and the boathouse. Harry could see more clearly the cruiser tied up to tall tarred pilings, and that its paint and hardware were dull with lack of attention and care. Under the trees a baseball game between a dozen or more white children of different ages was in progress.
“So this is Harry Jacobsen, the editor of the Nanticoke Times, my ex-husband’s favorite newspaper,” she said.
Harry shook her hand in greeting and then sat beside her in one of the several white painted iron lawn chairs.
“He liked the paper because Lloyd wrote stories about duck hunting,” she said, and smiled at him, in control, her nose high. Her eyes ran over him and she said, “Lulu thinks highly of you.”
“She’s a great lady,” Harry said
“Successful, yes. Lady, no,” she replied.
Harry looked around the lawn and then back at her, with a grin. “This is a beautiful place, Missus Tolchester.”
“Call me Peggy. About the house, I’m sure my ancestors who built it would thank you,” she said. Her voice was stiff as if she were talking with difficulty. Harry smiled at her. He had heard the same affected tone in every wealthy New York suburb.
“The slaves, too,” added Harry.
“Oh, you are a real Yankee, aren’t you?” she said, losing some of the regal tones in her voice. “So, are you here to dig up my family’s dirt or are we going to have a nice talk?”
“Nice talk,” said Harry.
“Although,” she said, sipping her drink,” I can’t see what is pleasant about discussing Walker John Douglas.” She held up the newspaper.
A boy about ten years old ran up to Harry, his freckles just as Harry imagined Peggy’s face must have looked when she was that same age.
“Want to play?” the boy asked Harry.
“Not right now, but thank you for asking,” said Harry.
Peggy watched him run off.
“He’s a good looking boy,” said Harry. “You must be proud of him.”
She nodded and said, “He needs a father.”
“They say he’s a natural ball player, maybe another Double X.” The voice came from behind Harry. He recognized the nickname “Double X,” which referred to Jimmy Foxx, the redo
ubtable Boston Red Sox hitter who had grown up near River Sunday during the Twenties.
Harry turned and saw Lulu.
“Hi,” said Lulu, wearing short cutoff jeans and a loose blouse, her eyes covered with large sunglasses, her tanned legs and feet bare.
Peggy laughed, “Hi, sister.”
“Just for that, I’ll fix you two a drink,” Harry said. He winked at Lulu, stood up and moved into the shade where a glass topped table held ice and liquor. He mixed gin and tonics, heavy on the gin in what he had learned was the River Sunday style, and handed them around.
Lulu sipped her drink. “Catch Kirby and his mother offered to buy my bar again.”
“I don’t know why you don’t just take her money. I think you’re jealous of her success,” said Peggy.
Lulu answered. “She made all her money by cheating people. You should have seen the lousy offer she made for my place.”
A young blonde haired woman in a bikini appeared from behind the boxwood hedge and waved at Lulu. Harry recognized the table dancer from the other night. He stroked his jaw where it still hurt from the fight.
“Hi, Francine,” Lulu waved back and got up to meet her. “I’ll be right back.”
“One of my sister’s strippers,” explained Peggy, her faced stiffening.
“I know her,” said Harry.
“Some business,” she said, immediately staring at Harry as if reconsidering whether she should talk to him.
Francine went on to the pool. Lulu came back and said, “Francine wants to thank you again, Harry.”
“I see,” said Peggy, looking at Harry again.
“Don’t start with your Victorian ideas, sister. Kirby started another fight. Harry and some of the boat drivers threw him out of the Motorboat, that’s all,” said Lulu. She grinned at Harry. “I’m going to change.”
As she walked away, Peggy looked out at the children, then said, “I’ll have to admit Lulu’s been a good sister. She contributes the money to keep up this old place.” She turned to him suddenly, her face showing some pink color and asked, “Did I read that you’re a bachelor?”
He smiled, looking into her eyes. “Never married.”
Lulu, having changed into a two piece swim suit, was coming back toward them.
“Francine lives with us sometimes,” said Peggy, without enthusiasm.
Lulu sat down next to Harry and sipped her gin.
“Keeping things the way they used to be when my father was alive is hard. We’re just trying to survive,” said Peggy.
“I guess we all feel that way sometimes,” said Harry. Lulu had told him that Peggy’s husband had divorced her and left for a job in Baltimore and a life with his young secretary.
“Francine’s a good girl,” Lulu said. You should come by the Motorboat for a drink sometime, Peggy. You might just have a good time.”
“You make it sound like it’s all peaches, Lulu,” said Peggy.
“My women and men’re as Christian as that loudmouth Reverend Blue,” Lulu replied with a grin “I always figured that Jesus thought fucking was all right anyway.”
“Spare us your religion,” said Peggy, finishing her drink.
“Did you ask her, Harry, about Walker John?” said Lulu, adjusting her top.
Peggy held her empty glass out to Harry. “Why bring all that up again?”
“You’re just afraid what your country club friends might say if you admit you used to think he was a super guy,” Lulu said, standing up. She went over to the game yelling out to the children, “Hey, guys, let me catch one before I go to the pool.”
“She’s something,” said Harry, coming back with a new drink for Peggy.
“She’s always been pushy,” her sister said.
“I don’t mind that,” said Harry. “In Lulu’s case I think it’s called excitement.”
“You want to investigate something, figure out why her husband died,” said Peggy.
“Lulu told me he was killed in an automobile accident,” said Harry, staring at her. Lulu had said very little to him about her former husband.
“He wanted to be involved in the town politics so he started to attend meetings, and talked about running for office. He was a very financial type guy, liked to look at budgets, that kind of thing,” she said. “One night he was killed on a back road by a hit and run car. The other driver was never found.”
“Sheriff Good checked it out?” asked Harry.
“Cheeks, he did the investigation, yes,” she said.
“You think something was wrong about the accident?” asked Harry.
“Lulu’s husband knew the roads around here. He didn’t drink even though he ran a bar. I always thought a few more questions should have been asked. He was an outsider like you. That’s just my opinion. I just feel sorry for my sister otherwise I wouldn’t even say anything. Please don’t mention you heard it from me. I have to live here.”
“Did Lulu have someone investigate?”
“She told me to stay out of it. That’s what I would have done. Lulu was pretty down about it for a while. Then she got involved in running the bar and made friends with all the town officials. She tried to get along with Sheriff Good and old lady Kirby. You know, like they really run this town. So, she has the town’s support for her bar. She’s a survivor. She never talked about him again.”
“So, Peggy, what do you think about Walker being called a victim?” asked Harry, nodding at the newspaper.
She looked up at him. “Hey, those are your words, not mine. All I know is Walker was the mechanic for us kids back then. He fixed our boats,” she said. “So how much are you going to print, I mean, what are you going to write after you talk to me?”
“I’ll print only what you like,” Harry said, looking at her.
She nodded.
“You’re really scared of what people here think?” asked Harry.
“Aren’t you?” she asked, looking into his eyes.
“No,” said Harry.
“I think Walker let us down,” she said quickly.
“What do you mean?”
She said, “He deserves to be forgotten.”
“Some people say he wasn’t that bad,” Harry suggested.
“Who have you talked to?” she asked, her eyes intent.
“Pastor Allingham among others,” Harry said.
She laughed. “That Pastor just wants to get even with all us whites for the slavery years. I guess you’ve heard from Reverend Blue. He’s just as bad thinking that all the blacks are consummate evil. Add our fat sheriff as a choirmaster, and you’ve got some pretty sick music.” She hid a burp with her hand.
“I didn’t think that Good took much of a position.”
“You dig deep enough you might find some hatred by him too, although I don’t know who he hate most. He’s a kind of mystery.”
“You don’t think much of River Sunday,” said Harry.
“We got nice people in River Sunday and then others who aren’t so nice. You have to suit yourself.” She stood up and began to walk to the pool.
Lulu and the children had stopped the baseball game and had joined Francine in the pool. Halfway across the lawn and near a large oak with exposed roots, Peggy stumbled. She sat down hard against the tree, smoothing her dress around her.
Her voice lost its sophisticated tone and was more slurred. “I don’t know why I don’t admit it,” said Peggy. “I do like to remember those days sometimes, Walker and the rest of the kids, hanging around his shop. We were just like these children here in the pool, children with no cares. Walker was easy going. His place wasn’t as businesslike as the other repair shops.” Then she said, “I say he let us down. Maybe we let him down. Maybe I let him down.”
“What do you mean?” asked Harry.
As she described her childhood, Harry could visualize Peggy, as she was a long time ago, a teenager waving from her runabout as she raced across River Sunday harbor.
“I’ve always wondered if something I did caused hi
m to set that fire. I guess that’s the ultimate white man ego, isn’t it?” She took another sip of her drink.
Without waiting for his answer, she said, “You want to know what Walker was like? Did my sister tell you about ‘Walker’s Patrol?’”
Harry shook his head.
“That’s what the four of us, and I guess some people in town too, called ourselves,“ she said. “Me and the others. ‘Walker’s Patrol.’ Four runabouts, each twelve feet in length, with outboards. I had the flowers painted along the sides of my runabout. Catch was the mechanic among us. Senator was our boat builder who talked with such a high voice, before it changed. Billy Elliott was the son of the banker.”
“Any black kids?” asked Harry, who had turned on his recorder and placed it on the grass near them.
She glanced at the recorder then shrugged and said, “None of them our age could afford boats. The only black person who might have been considered part of our gang was Walker and he was more an advisor, something like a big brother.”
“Why did you guys call yourselves ‘Walker’s Patrol?’” Harry asked.
“It started because one day we saved some people’s lives,” she said.
“That’s a story in itself,” Harry observed.
She nodded and said, “That day had been blustery on the harbor. Whitecaps were at the mouth of the harbor where it met with the Bay. The four of us were riding our boats near the slave monument, bouncing only a few feet from the treacherous rocks.
“Senator was the first of us to notice that a tanker coming in from the Bay was off course, far out of the main channel and heading toward the monument. It was a gasoline tanker, about fifty feet, with the name of the oil company on the side.
“‘She’s lost her engine,’ he said.
“‘If she hits the rocks she’ll mess up pretty bad,’ I said.
“‘She might blow up, all that gas on her,’ said Catch.
“‘What can we do?’ said Senator.
“‘Maybe we can get help,’ said Catch, revving up his engine.
“‘No, we’ll have to help her ourselves,’ Billy said. He was right. The harbor was deserted. By the time someone launched a boat to tow the tanker, much less ran the mile to where the tanker was located, the big craft would hit the rocks of the monument and maybe explode.
Powerboat Racer (River Sunday Romance Mysteries Book 3) Page 13
