by Harper Lin
After the token trading was over, Martin opened his other presents. He got a new soccer ball, a couple of jerseys he had asked for, some new parts for his skateboard (why the metal bits that hold the wheels are called “trucks” remains a mystery to me), and the hottest new video game. It was called Jungle Combat (“The Most Realistic Fighting Game Ever!”). Gary and I suppressed a snicker.
Once the feeding frenzy was over and Martin was sitting content in a heap of destroyed wrapping paper, he held up his FriendZip Bracelet and rattled it.
“Thanks, Grandma. This is the best.”
Gary stepped forward. “Well, young man. While I don’t know you, I don’t think it would be fair for me to eat some of your cake without giving you something. You might have noticed that I limp. I used to be in the… army. When I was younger, I fought the Taliban. That was right at the beginning of the war, before you were even born.” His face got a faraway look for a moment. “Yes, it’s been going on a long time. I got wounded in the leg there. An RPG hit the Hummer I was in and ripped open the side. Ripped open my leg too.”
The kids had gone completely silent. Everyone was giving him their rapt attention. Gary went on.
“That was the end of the war for me. Now I work a desk job for the government. To remember those times, I wear this.” He pulled a leather thong that was hidden beneath his shirt and brought out a jagged bit of metal encased in clear plastic resin. “This is part of the shrapnel they took out of me. I wear it for luck. Now I’m not going to give you this, it’s a bit too personal. I’m sure you understand. But I do want to give you this.”
He reached into his pocket and brought out a spent cartridge.
“This is a spent bullet cartridge from a Taliban AK-47. I gathered this after one of the firefights I was in.”
Martin gaped. He gingerly reached out and took it.
“Whoa. Thanks, mister.”
His friends gathered around.
“Awesome!”
“Incredible!”
“That’s totally epic!”
Martin smiled at Gary. “Thanks, man. This is the best present I ever got. I’ll keep this forever.”
I put my hands on my hips. I go through gunfights and murders to get him the coolest teen collectible on the market and get upstaged by an old friend who has never even met my grandson before?
Humph!
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About the Author
Harper Lin is a USA TODAY bestselling cozy mystery author. When she's not reading or writing mysteries, she loves going to yoga classes, hiking, and hanging out with her family and friends.
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Excerpt from “Love and Murder in Savannah”
Savannah, Georgia, 1922
While her mother’s only wish is to see her married, Becky Mackenzie just wants to sketch in the cemetery and talk to ghosts. Becky will admit she is attracted to the handsome Adam White, but he’s a northerner shunned by Savannah society—plus Becky’s man-eating cousin Fanny is sinking her claws in him just to spite her.
But Becky’s got bigger fish to fry when a man gets stabbed to death at her best friend Martha’s birthday party. Was this just a case of poker gone wrong, or were more sinister forces at play? Becky must use her gift of communicating with the spirits to find the killer before any of her friends get hurt.
* * *
Chapter 3
True to her word and not wanting any more fuss with her mother, Becky retreated to her room to pen a note to the Heathcliff boy. As she leaned against the door and heard the comforting click of the latch sliding into place, she let out a deep breath.
For as long as Becky could remember, her room had been not just the place she kept all her special things but also her sanctuary. Her mother had allowed her to pick out the wallpaper when she turned sixteen, four years ago. Much to Kitty’s dismay, Becky picked a robust maroon-colored paper that seemed more appropriate for a Gypsy fortune-teller’s lair than a girl’s bedroom. But since Kitty promised, it was what now covered the walls of her room. Pearl-colored lace curtains waved lazily as a warm breeze blew.
Having almost forgotten about the treasure in her pocket, Becky quickly went to her desk, sat down, and opened the thin side drawer. Inside was a stack of paper, bound together with a circular clip. Becky loved the crinkling sound the papers made when she shuffled through them. Carefully, she unfolded the paper from her pocket and spread it on the desk, trying to push some of the creases out with her hand.
“Napoleon Picard Bulloch 1732 – 1799. May you rest in peace, Napoleon,” she said as she admired the tombstone etching before adding it to the stack of others.
The Old Brick Cemetery was just across the southern field, a mere thirty-minute walk from the Mackenzies’ back porch. The cemetery had mesmerized Becky since she learned it was there. She was sure she’d covered every inch of the acres and acres of beautiful land dotted by hundreds of grave markers dating back to the War of Northern Aggression. As she grew older and developed a talent for drawing, she’d often take her sketchbook with her to the boneyard, where she’d study the mighty oaks draped with Spanish moss and the mornin
g glories that grew wild among the headstones.
As the seed of rebellion that had been in Becky since she learned the word “no” really began to blossom in her teenage years, she’d often retreat to the cemetery to draw, write poems, or etch the oldest tombstones she could find.
Etching was something she’d read about in one of the many books her mother didn’t know she studied. By placing a sheet of paper over the grave marker and rubbing her charcoal stub across it, the image of the engraving would pop right out. Even if the stone was worn down by the elements, the charcoal would pull it to the surface and allow it to be read as clearly as the broadsheets sold in town.
Napoleon Picard Bulloch was certainly one of the oldest Becky had come across, though Eugenia Ellen Evershade beat Mr. Bulloch by two years. She was laid to rest in 1730 after only living for two years.
Becky stared at the rubbings, admiring how each of the carvings was obviously done by a different hand. Some had short prayers of eternal rest included. Others had lists of family members. Some were simply the name of the dead and the years they lived. Becky wished to have a simple tombstone—no long list of relatives or sad words of death. Her headstone would be her full Christian name and her dates of birth and death. End of story. No fuss. Besides, who would ever come to visit her grave site besides maybe Martha? And she’d probably be too tipsy on mint juleps to know whether she was conversing with Becky’s remains or Napoleon Picard Bulloch’s.
The thought made her chuckle, and she made a note to relay the image to Martha when they next saw each other.
“No use putting it off, Beck,” she said as she looked outside her window. “Get that letter to the Heathcliff boy done before Mama comes asking after it.”
With a sigh, she pulled out a piece of beige stationery with the initials R. M. M. embossed in red at the bottom. She never liked the name Rebecca and insisted on being called Becky even as she was introduced at formal parties. It was just another quirk that drove her mother batty.
“Fine, here we go. Now, what is that Heathcliff boy’s first name?”
She was stumped for a few minutes, trying to recall. While waiting for the name to pop in her head, she sorted a dish of pearl buttons, rearranged a handful of beautiful pebbles she’d collected near the creek, peeked through a glass kaleidoscope she’d received one birthday, and slipped out of her dirty yellow dress and into her green velvet evening dress with the dropped waist and plunging back, even though she had no idea whether her parents were expecting visitors or not.
“Oh, I give up. Dear Mr. Heathcliff.” She decided the extra formality might make her sound all the more remorseful in her apology and prompt another visit.
“I am deeply sorry for missing you today. When you had indicated you were going to pay the Mackenzie Plantation a visit soon, I had no idea you meant today soon. I’d be so very pleased if you would come calling again tomorrow. In anticipation of your visit I am baking a cream cheese pound cake and making a fresh batch of sweet tea. I do hope you will accept my apology and join me on the front porch swing.” She mushed her lips together because sitting with the Heathcliff boy on the swing was not anything she had any desire to do. But it would make her mama happy.
“Blah-blah-blah. Yours truly, Becky Mackenzie.” Her face scrunched up as if she’d just sucked a raw lemon. Without giving the note another thought, she stuffed it in an envelope, rose from her desk, and went downstairs and into the kitchen.
“Lucretia, dear, can you bake me a cream cheese pound cake for a guest tomorrow?” Becky batted her eyes at the woman sitting across from Moxley at the small kitchen table. They were just finishing their dinner.
“I think I might be able to do that. Who’s it for?” she whispered.
“The Heathcliff boy.” Becky shrugged. Also at the table was a boy around seven years old. He wore his tight, curly hair close to his head, like his daddy, Moxley, did. His feet were almost always bare. Now was no exception.
“The Heathcliff boy?” Lucretia made the feeblest attempt at hiding her smile. “Didn’t know you was sparkin’ him.”
“Oh, I’m not.” Becky harrumphed. “I’m doing it for Mama. Teeter, I got a job for you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The little boy turned to look at Becky, his eyes wide with excitement.
“When you are done with your dinner, will you deliver this note to the Heathcliffs’ home? I’ll have a brand-new shiny nickel for you when you get back.”
“Yes, ma’am!” He squirmed in his seat and eagerly gulped down his food, wiping his hands on his napkin.
“For heaven’s sake, boy. Don’t choke it down.” Moxley chuckled as he rubbed Teeter’s head. “I’ll send him to you once he gets back, Miss Becky.”
“Thanks, Moxley. You’re top drawer. And thank you, Lucretia. I’ll also be needing some sweet tea, but I think I can handle that,” Becky said proudly.
“You do?” Lucretia asked, looking up at Becky from beneath long black lashes. “Miss Becky, I don’t think you ever done so much as cut a tomato in my kitchen.”
Becky pouted, put her hands on her lips, and looked up at the ceiling. “Fine. I’ll leave you to make the sweet tea as well. But don’t say I didn’t offer.”
“No, ma’am. I won’t.” Lucretia and Moxley both chuckled as they went back to their meal and watched Becky strut out of the kitchen.
With Teeter going to deliver the letter, Becky decided she needed to plan how to receive the Heathcliff boy as politely as possible and get him to leave as quickly as possible. It was going to be a rather daring episode.
Why can’t it be Adam White paying a visit?
The thought had just popped into Becky’s head unsolicited, forcing her cheeks to turn bright red and her mouth to dry up like a spring shower on the hood of her Daddy’s Model T.
Adam White. Mama would never approve of him stopping by. Although his family was not poor in the traditional sense, they didn’t meet the standards of the society folk in town. The Mackenzies had occupied this plantation for a hundred years. The Bourdeauxs of Pooler brought their wealth from Europe with them several decades ago. The Heathcliffs were in the railroad business. But the Whites were in newspapers.
Mr. White was a photoengraver on the printing presses in downtown Savannah. Adam worked alongside his father as an apprentice. The work wasn’t glamorous. Every time she’d seen Adam, she couldn’t help but notice the ink imbedded underneath his fingernails. But she never once thought less of him. In fact, it made her all the more interested in him.
“How marvelous it must be for you to see the news in print before the rest of us. You know all the happenings in the world before we’re even out of bed,” Becky stuttered one awkward evening when they ran into each other at a speakeasy she and Martha had snuck into.
Adam White towered at least a foot over Becky. When he looked at her she was sure he knew every thought that went through her head, which made her blush all the more. She hated blushing.
“To me it’s work. I don’t really get a chance to read the stories. Once the papers come flying off those rollers, we’ve got to get them bundled and out the door. But that’s all rather boring.” He smiled and watched her cheeks turn red like she had some kind of fever.
As if his humble upbringing wasn’t bad enough, Adam was a Yankee. His family had come to Savannah, Georgia, only a decade earlier. To the fine families around town, the Whites had no roots. Their lineage couldn’t be traced, and even if it could, many old Southerners were convinced it probably went back to Abe Lincoln himself, and that was the same as having direct blood relations with Lucifer.
Still, Becky couldn’t help where her heart wanted to lead her. As she went back to her room to finish getting ready for the evening, she took out her pocket sketchbook, the one she carried with her when she and Martha went to town. Becky flipped to a page marked with a pressed daisy.
On the page was a handsome young man with a square jaw. His hair was curly in the front and shaved fine and neat around the sides and
back. His eyes were set wide beneath thick, pensive brows, and his lips parted only slightly when he smiled. She’d drawn this picture of Adam when he was across the room at the speakeasy. After she’d finished the sketch, he’d waved her over. She squeezed in next to him after he’d ordered his buddies to make room. He told her jokes and did funny impressions to make her laugh before getting serious. When she looked at him, she saw more than just a handsome young man. She saw someone who was waiting for adventure, for the unexpected to happen. Then he placed his hand over hers and squeezed it tight before letting go.
“It’s Prohibition. We’re breaking the law here,” he said to Becky that night when they were sharing a drink.
“In more ways than one,” she replied.
That memory sent tingles down her spine. She looked at the drawing of Adam. It was a fine rendition if she did say so herself. But as she looked at it again, the drawing seemed to shift. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes.
When she looked down at the sketch, it was no longer Adam but a strange-looking man, the type who would ride empty train cars and sleep in the open for years on end. Becky’s heart pounded. She didn’t draw this picture. She didn’t know who this man was.
She rubbed her eyes again and the strange hobo was gone, once again replaced by the handsome face of Adam White.
Becky swallowed hard. She put her hand to her forehead. A fever might be a welcomed ailment since the Heathcliff boy couldn’t arrive when she was feeling under the weather. But unfortunately, she didn’t feel warm. Was it a trick of the light? Maybe her eyesight was going? Did she get enough sleep last night? Of course she didn’t. She’d been out dancing as usual. That explained it. Becky was sure she was suffering from fatigue. It was nothing a good night’s rest wouldn’t cure. She would be sure to tell her entourage that staying out any later than one in the morning was out of the question.
