Land Sakes

by Margaret A. Graham

  “Yes, madam.”

  On the way, Mrs. Winchester surprised me by talking—telling me all about Jack Daniel. “His real name was Jasper Newton Daniel,” she told me, “but everyone called him Jack. When he was only seven years old he went to work for a Lutheran minister who had a still.”

  “A Lutheran minister had a still?”

  “Yes, that was back in the 1800s. After a few years his congregation objected, and he sold the still to Jack. Jack was only thirteen years old when he took over.”

  She went on for a long time, telling me Jack Daniel’s history and how he made whiskey by seeping it through charcoal, aging it in barrels and so forth. “That’s what makes it Tennessee whiskey and not bourbon,” she said.

  I didn’t have the foggiest notion what the difference was and was not the least bit interested in finding out. To me, all booze is rotgut, but Mrs. Winchester was enjoying talking about booze almost as much as she liked drinking it.

  “Jack Daniel’s whiskey became world famous. In competition with whiskeys from all over the world, his whiskey won the gold medal at the 1904 World’s Fair.”

  Finally, I had to say something. “Well, I’ll tell you, Mrs. Winchester, the Lord don’t look with favor on bootleggers.”

  “Oh, Jack Daniel was no bootlegger. He was the first in the country to register his distillery. First to put whiskey in square bottles too.”

  Unlike her, I was not the least bit excited about Jack Daniel’s contribution to the liquor industry. I had seen too much heartache come out of a liquor bottle, round or square. But I had to be polite and keep up my end of the conversation. “Since Jack Daniel is dead, do you know how he died?”

  “Oh, that’s a funny story.” She giggled. “Early one morning he came to work and wanted to get something out of his safe, but he couldn’t remember the combination. He lost his temper, kicked the safe, and broke his toe. An infection set in he could not get rid of, and six years later he died from blood poisoning.”

  Serves him right, I thought but didn’t say so. “How do you find out so much about dead people?”

  “It’s very easy. My secretary goes on the Internet for information, and when she can’t find enough there, she makes phone calls, goes to the library, or orders books for me.”

  Percival was slowing down to pull off the interstate onto a county road, and Mrs. Winchester told me we would be going to the gravesite before we went to the museum.

  We turned again, this time on Elm Street. Driving slowly straight into the cemetery, Percival came to an intersection and stopped the car.

  There it was, a big, square-looking tombstone resting on two stone blocks. On the top block, Daniel was spelled out in raised letters.

  Percival opened our door, and we both got out. The Daniel tombstone was different than the others. Along one side of the tombstone face and along the top, the rock was unfinished except for oak leaves. Maybe that rough part was supposed to be a oak tree; I couldn’t make it out. The rest of it was finished stone with Jack Daniel’s name and dates on a plaque.

  “I see he was only sixty-one years old when he died,” I said. And, seeing there was no room on the stone for the name of his wife, I asked, “Wasn’t he married?”

  “No. Never was. Left his business to a nephew.”

  After she got done with the gravesite, we got back in the car to drive to the museum. Mrs. Winchester pulled out a little black book and was jotting down notes. Well, I guess if you’re a poet, you get excited about stuff nobody else cares a hoot about.

  At the museum, Percival let us out and started putting on the harnesses to take Lucy and Desi for a walk. Soon as me and Mrs. Winchester got out, tourists started gathering around the car, asking questions. Them Afghans and the Rolls attracted so much attention that we had the museum to ourselves.

  There were all kinds of exhibits in there and a tour guide telling about the history of the still and how they made whiskey. There was this one picture of Jack Daniel, and, land sakes, he looked funny. He appeared to be about five feet tall and was dressed in a swallowtail coat that was too big for him—the sleeves hung down over his hands. He didn’t look like he grew much after he was thirteen and took over the still. I reckon not. With all whiskey can do to a body, it’s likely it stunted his growth.

  Once the tourists started piling in the door, we left and went back to the car. We saw Percival and the dogs on the road coming back from their walk.

  Mrs. Winchester had that little book open and was going over her notes. I admired the little black book with its smooth cover and elastic band. “It’s moleskin,” she told me. “All great writers carry one like this with them everywhere they go. We never know when we will be inspired and need to write something down before the muse leaves us.”

  I had never known a real writer before. I’d ask her for her autograph when I knew her better.

  While she was writing, Percival put the dogs in the car and got back under the wheel. Soon we were on our way again.

  When Mrs. Winchester finished writing, she handed the little book to me. I read the poem to myself.

  When Jack Daniel was born, t’was said he knew,

  That when he grew up he would learn to brew

  Whiskey that he gave his name

  And brought to him both wealth and fame.

  But an infection when he kicked his safe, poor Jack,

  Neither wealth nor fame could bring him back.

  I was so impressed I couldn’t say a word.

  “You like it?” she asked.

  “Like it? I think it’s great!” I handed the book back to her. “Would you make me a copy?”

  “Of course,” she said, closing the book and securing it with the elastic band. She looked very pleased and leaned back with a smile on her face. “You are one of the few people I know who appreciates good poetry.”

  When we arrived back at the hotel, we had time to freshen up before we headed for the saloon. Once in the suite, the first thing I did was check out the valuables to see if they were still there. Of course, I didn’t know everything she had, but it looked like the jewels were all there just as the maid had left them.

  In the elevator going down, Mrs. Winchester told me, “My secretary has made reservations for us at the Cascades for dinner.”

  “The Cascades?”

  “Yes. They serve seafood cuisine and there’s a lovely view of the waterfall.”

  That sounded good, but if she got drunk we’d never make it to the Cascades. The minute we stepped off the elevator she struck out for Jack Daniel’s barrelhouse. The same waiter we had the night before led us to our corner table. Once seated, Mrs. Winchester ordered a martini for herself and iced tea for me.

  When the waiter served our drinks, hers looked the same as the night before, but the waiter gave me something in a tall glass that looked too good to be good. “What’s this?”

  “Madam, that is a Singapore Sling, compliments of the house.”

  I laughed. “Well, take it back to Singapore with my compliments! By the way, young man, your iced tea tastes like ditch water, so bring me a ginger ale.”

  Mrs. Winchester smiled. “So that Singapore Sling was no temptation to you?”

  “None whatsoever.”

  “I wish I could say the same,” she said in that soft little voice she has got. “Tell you what, as soon as I finish this one drink, we’ll go to the Cascades.”

  8

  Dinner at the Cascades had me really living high on the hog, but I wasn’t eating pork! For a souvenir I took one of the menus, so I could tell Beatrice what I ate. I had something called “Chilean Sea Bass with Sake.” Whatever that sake was, it made the fish taste real good. Then they had something they called “Braised Shiitakes,” which to me did not sound like anything a body should put in their mouth. I reckon that’s what they called them big mushrooms. The “Fresh White Asparagus, Fried Ginger, and Chile Oil” was out of this world, and the dessert was just the thing to top it off, lemon pie, which was just
as fancy as the names they gave it: “Lemon Lime Meringue Tart with Mango, Raspberry, and Cassis Coulis.”

  Mrs. Winchester ate a pretty good meal, and maybe that kept her from drinking too much and talking half the night. Anyway, she went to bed when we got back to the hotel, and as soon as I could, I hit the hay.

  But I kept waking up thinking about this and that—especially worrying about those jewels stuck in that drawer. I’m not one for taking much medicine, but I did get up and took two Tidynol. Still, I didn’t fall asleep. When daylight came I got up and dressed.

  Mrs. Winchester was still sleeping. Mary, one of the other maids, had come in and was putting fresh towels in the bathroom, so I asked her if she would be there a while.

  “Oh yes. All morning.”

  “Then I think I’ll go down and have breakfast.”

  The coffee shop in the hotel was on the first floor. It was crowded, but I found a table and was studying the menu when who should come in but Nozzle Nose himself. He walked around with a newspaper under his arm, looking for a table. Finally, he spotted me and came over.

  “May I join you?”

  “Sure.”

  He motioned for the waitress to bring coffee and then sat down. Folding his paper to a certain section, he commenced reading. Talk about bad manners!

  “Good morning,” I said. “What’s good for breakfast?”

  That jerked a knot in him; he put the paper to one side. “Good morning,” he said without the “madam” before or after. That’s good, I thought. Maybe this morning he’ll act like a normal human being.

  “What’s good?” I repeated.

  “I’m having eggs benedict and prune juice.”

  Prune juice—must be he’s not regular. That could account for a lot of things, namely his disposition.

  The waitress came with the coffee and was ready to take our orders. She made me think of home. Around her waist she was wearing one of those short little aprons with pockets like the girls wear at the all-you-can-eat restaurant in Live Oaks. What was missing was a great big pretty handkerchief in her blouse pocket. That would have been cute.

  I ordered eggs benedict too, although, except for the eggs, I didn’t have any idea what I was ordering. I didn’t need prune juice; I’m as regular as clockwork. I ordered orange juice and debated about getting toast, but since Nozzle Nose didn’t order toast, I figured maybe it came with the eggs benedict.

  While we were waiting to be served, Percival drank coffee and went back to reading his newspaper. Rude, that’s what he was, just plain rude.

  When he finished reading, he looked up. “You will be interested in this,” he said and handed me the paper.

  I saw an article about a big merger of companies negotiated by Philip Winchester. I read it and handed the paper back to him. “Sounds like big business.”

  “Oh, it is.” He unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap. “Mr. Winchuster is a brilliant man—always one jump ahead of the competition.” Holding his cup with his pinkie poking out, he peered over his glasses. “I presume you know that Mrs. Winchuster inherited a shipping fortune from her grandfather.”

  I shook my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”

  “In the years since he and Mrs. Winchuster have been married, Philip has probably doubled her inheritance.”

  Calling Mr. Winchester by his first name did something to Nozzle Nose—it looked like it made him feel he was right up there with the bigwigs.

  “Did you say shipping?” I asked.

  “Yes. Mrs. Winchuster’s family came to America from the Netherlands in the early 1800s. Over several generations they became the country’s premier shipbuilders, operating passenger liners and an import-export business unequaled in the world.

  “Much has been written about Mr. Winchuster. Due to his shrewd management, the shipping business still thrives, but with the evolution of other means of transport, he had the foresight to expand and diversify. Philip—” the name did not roll off his tongue easy—“bought mines, breweries, citrus farms, hotels, and many other enterprises.”

  The waiter served our eggs, and I recognized the hollandaise sauce. I had made that on special occasions.

  Nozzle Nose did not let up even while he ate. “As you might have surmised, theirs is a marriage of convenience.” He sipped his juice. “Here I am, taking Mrs. Winchuster to Alaska and her husband is aboard his yacht in the Caribbean.”

  “Percival, that is none of our business. We shouldn’t be talking about their marriage.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Philip—” the name came easier—“is happy, and she enjoys her little pranks.”

  “Pranks?”

  “Oh yes. She’ll do anything to get attention.”

  I guess a body could think that putting her husband’s picture on billboards as a missing person was a prank.

  “Have you had much difficulty with Mrs. Winchuster’s alcohol consumption?” he asked.

  “I’d rather not talk about that. She might have come to breakfast with me, but she was sleeping when I left.”

  “Mrs. Winchuster always sleeps late, but I hope she is up before noon. Today we go to a couple more gravesites.”

  “Oh?”

  “Chet Atkins is one of them, not far from Nashville.” He was dabbing at his little mustache and gave the waitress the high sign. I drank the last of my coffee and was pulling out my wallet to pay my bill.

  “No, no,” he said. “All expenditures are billed to Mrs. Winchuster’s account. They know me here.”

  “How about the tip?”

  “Believe me, madam, a very generous tip is included in the bill. Put away your wallet.”

  We walked outside, and he left to take the dogs for a stroll. I watched a boatload of tourists floating around a bend in the river and was thinking how I’d love to be on that boat. But I needed to get back upstairs in case Mrs. Winchester needed me.

  Mary let me in the door and then went back to arranging a new bouquet of fresh flowers. Mrs. Winchester was still sleeping.

  After brushing my teeth, I went in my room to read my Bible and sat down wondering what the day would bring. Suddenly, I remembered that waitress and got an idea. I jumped up, told Mary I’d be back in a few minutes, and left to get back downstairs as fast as I could.

  9

  I spent most of the morning trying to find what I was looking for. The waitress told me where I could buy an apron like hers, but the store was some distance from the hotel. After I bought the apron, I looked all over for Velcro. I found it, then saw a Christian bookstore and bought more Gospels of John.

  By the time I got back to the suite, Mrs. Winchester was getting dressed. I didn’t want her, and especially the maid, to know what I was up to until I was ready, so I slipped in my room without saying anything.

  I hand-sewed the Velcro onto the pockets so they could be sealed and, to make doubly sure, got out the safety pins to pin the pockets as well. I sure hope this works.

  Once I was done with that, the next step was to see if I could fit all that jewelry in the pockets. But before I went that far, I figured I needed to ask Mrs. Winchester if what I was doing was okay.

  The phone was ringing, and when Mary answered it, I beckoned to Mrs. Winchester. “Would you like to see what I bought, Mrs. Winchester?”

  She came in my room, and I closed the door behind her.

  “Can you keep a secret?” I asked. “I’ve come up with a way I might keep your valuables safe.”

  “Oh, you needn’t bother about that. Everything’s insured. I probably have half a million dollars’ worth of jewelry with me, but I don’t care if it is stolen. A robbery would make headlines, and I don’t mind being written up in the papers.”

  “Well, I do! I don’t want my name splashed all over a newspaper, and it would be, because I would be the prime suspect! I would wind up in the hoosegow, and, the court system being what it is, I would probably be sent up the river for the rest of my life.”

  Pulling the apron out of t
he bag, I held it up. “Mrs. Winchester, for my own protection, I would like to use this apron to carry your jewelry on my person. Do I have your permission?”

  Her mouth dropped open. “You’re going to wear that?”

  “Under my clothes, of course.” I fitted the apron around my waist. “See these pockets? They’re big enough to hold everything you’ve got. Don’t you see? This will work, I think.”

  The idea tickled her. “Well, you go get the jewelry case, and we’ll see.”

  Mary was still on the phone, which made it easy for me to slip the case out of the drawer and back to my room.

  Mrs. Winchester was standing before the mirror, fitting the apron around her own waist and giggling like she was having the time of her life. She handed the apron back to me.

  Between the two of us, we got all the jewelry into those pockets and sealed and pinned them securely, then I slipped off my skirt and tied the apron on me.

  Underneath my skirt the pockets bulged a bit. Something made a circle impression—must have been a bracelet. Anyway, it made me look like I had a big ringworm on my stomach. I tried to pat the pockets flatter. Mrs. Winchester giggled. “Looks like you have tumors!”

  I laughed. “Either that or I’m pregnant with triplets!” I turned the apron around so the bulges were in back.

  “Now you have a bustle,” she said, and that threw her into such a fit of laughing it looked like she couldn’t stop.

  “No need to get historical,” I told her. “I’m used to carrying around a caboose bigger than any bustle.”

  Well, I could see that having the apron in back was no solution, so I said, “Let’s see if we can’t do something so they don’t poke out so much.”

  Well, that worked. We rearranged the jewelry, separated the big stuff between the three pockets and spread the little stuff as flat as we could. Then I put the apron on in front of me, and it worked! The pockets were flatter, and nobody would ever guess there was anything more under my skirt than my own bay window.

  Of course, I’d have to get used to wearing the thing. Mrs. Winchester was so tickled she was practically rolling on the floor. “Of course,” I told her, “if some lowlife discovers what I’m carrying, chances are I’ll wake up in the morgue and the whole country will hear about the robbery.”