by M. M. Silva
As I was talking myself into getting a few more winks before facing the day, my cell phone sang out its hoppin’ tune on the pillow beside me. I’d parked it there the previous night, as the room had a great bed but no nightstand as of yet. I’d have to complain to management. Grabbing the phone, I smiled as the familiar number appeared on the screen.
“Hey girlfriend, this is unexpected.” I wasn’t used to Kayla calling me this early in the morning.
“What? I need to setup an appointment to call you now?” she snapped. “Get your ass out of bed and meet me at your little coffee place in a half hour. I need some help.”
“I’m doing well, thanks,” I said dryly. “And I’d love to meet you for some caffeine, but I’m in Newport.”
“Nice! Did you get laid?” Her tone had changed completely, and I could hear the excitement in her voice.
“No, my promiscuous pretty, I did not get laid. I’m here on a case.”
“Really? What case? How long are you going to be there?” She sounded raring to go, nothing new for Kayla.
“It’s hard to say. I just got here yesterday, and I’m trying to find out why a dead body showed up in a friend’s new vacation home. It could take some time.”
“Don’t they have police who do that?”
I sighed. “They do, yes. But my friend has a large amount of funds at his disposal, and he’s a little impatient to get this solved and to make sure everything’s done perfectly. So he hired me because I’m a pro,” I said with some fake bravado.
“He?”
I sighed again and smiled. “Yes, it’s a he.”
Her voice was singsong. “So he hired you? He, with the vacation home? He, with the large amount of funds? You definitely got laid! Well done, my friend. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“Kayla, seriously. It’s all on the up-and-up. Doob is down here with me, as is Sampson, and I’m truly working on a case. But it doesn’t seem like very heavy lifting so far. I’ve got a view of the Newport Bridge and the water from the sleigh bed I’m currently sprawled in.”
There was a beat of silence. And then, “I’ll be there this afternoon.”
Ummm. “Kayla, I’m sure we’d all love to see you, but…”
“But what? If you’re not screwing Richie Rich, you can bet your sweet ass I’ll give it a go. Plus, I need to see you ASAP.”
“We can’t discuss whatever you need over the phone?”
“Meagan, it sounds like you don’t want me down there. What exactly is the problem?”
“Of course I’d love to see you, but it’s not my invitation to extend. I can run it by Jeff and get back to you. He just moved in a couple of days ago, and he’s already encountered one dead body, two overnight visitors, and a stinky dog.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo. Here’s the thing, Meagan. I’m coming unless you call and tell me I absolutely can’t. With your wit and charm, I’m sure your client will be fine with me joining the party. So make room in that sleigh bed of yours until I can be a ho-ho-ho on his sleigh bed. Get it? Sleigh? Christmas? Ho ho ho!”
Ho could only make me think of Melanie, but it didn’t matter because Kayla was forging ahead.
“What’s his name?”
God help me. “His name is Jeff Geiger, and again—”
“Well, tell him to batten down the hatches and put on some cologne.”
This was going nowhere good. “Kayla, don’t forget Doob is here as well. You’ll break his little Iowa heart if you fawn all over Jeff.”
“I’ll slip him a roofie, and he’ll never be the wiser.”
“Kayla! You’re not drugging Doob. I’m not really sure you coming down here—”
But she wasn’t listening. “Email me the address, Meagan, and I’ll be there mid-afternoon. Also, let me know if you want red or white wine. Oh, forget it. I’ll just bring both.” With that, the line went dead.
I rolled my eyes and then rolled myself out of bed. Anticipating Kayla’s arrival was kind of like waiting for a big storm. You knew things could get ugly. You might lose electricity. You might sustain damage to your home. You could possibly encounter loss to life and limb. And yet, in a weird, almost perverse way, a tiny part of you looked forward to the excitement of it all.
After brushing my teeth and emailing Kayla from my phone, I shuffled downstairs to greet the men, who were both loafing on separate sofas and watching cartoons. How old were they? But really, who was I kidding? After grabbing a frosted strawberry Pop Tart and Diet Coke, I plopped down beside Doob and joined in on the animated mayhem.
During a commercial, I relayed my conversation with Kayla to my housemates, and thankfully Jeff was more than happy to have an additional guest. And Doob? Let’s just say Doob lit up like a lighthouse and then sniffed at his armpits. I was certain he’d mix in a shower before her arrival.
“I know we have a ton of food here,” I announced after a particularly violent cartoon came to its bloody end. “But it looks gorgeous outside, and I wouldn’t mind running into Newport again to grab a bite and do some sleuthing. I’d like to grab a newspaper and possibly swing by the police station to see if I can learn anything about this dead body of yours. I’ll pick up the breakfast tab, if you guys want to tag along.”
Evidently, telling a multi-millionaire and a trust-fund baby that breakfast would be on me wasn’t very motivating. They both continued to stare at the television. I wondered if they’d even heard me.
Jeff finally said, “I’m pretty cozy right here, Meagan, but thanks. There’s a special on ESPN coming up—”
I held up my hands. “No explanations necessary.” I glanced at Doob and smiled. “I assume you’ll be keeping Jeff company here at Casa Relaxa?”
Doob nodded. “I’m going to save my energy for Kayla’s visit,” he said with a grin and raised his eyebrows twice.
“It’s good to know you have some energy, Doob,” I said and tromped back upstairs to get cleaned up for the day.
I’d enjoyed last night’s diner so much that I ended up at the same place. There was a cute little stand-up chalkboard on the sidewalk outside of the restaurant that advertised brunch and a bunch of other assorted goodies until 2:00 PM.
Shelley was waitressing again and greeted me like an old friend. She showed me to a table, slapped down a menu, relayed the specials, and went off to retrieve some coffee. Thank God.
After perusing the menu and deciding on the biggest omelet possible, I scanned the other patrons at the diner and spotted an elderly man just a couple tables over. The man looked to be eating a very light breakfast, and I noticed Shelley spent some extra time paying attention to him. The man asked Shelley if he could look at the newspaper another customer had left behind, and she immediately grabbed it and gave it to him. The man smiled broadly, and I concluded he had a little crush on the pretty waitress. It was sweet. Meagan Maloney-Spotter-Of-Crushes-From-A-Mile-Away-Extraordinaire.
Suddenly the man’s blue eyes locked onto mine, alert and not completely friendly. It seemed he read my mind and communicated he didn’t have a crush. Rather, he was just a lonely old guy who appreciated a kind waitress, he conveyed with his sharp look my way. Heat rushed to my face, and I then nodded deferentially at the old man. Since I couldn’t wish myself invisible, I decided to be proactive.
“Good morning,” I said politely.
His gaze softened a notch. “Good morning,” he replied with a slight nod.
We looked at each other for an awkward moment before I resorted to the topic everyone resorts to during awkward moments.
“It sure is a beautiful day, isn’t it? Feels more like September than November.”
“That it does, young lady.” He studied me for a moment. “Are you new to town or just visiting?”
“Visiting. I’m from Boston and staying with a friend of mine who just bought a place by the water. I’ve got some errands to do today, so I decided to fill up on some good food before running around.” As if on cue, Shelley arrived at the table with my omelet,
home fries, sausage, bacon and toast. She then grabbed my empty coffee cup and chocolate milk glass and said she’d be back with refills.
The man looked at my food and cocked his head. “You must have a pretty large appetite in that little frame of yours.”
I looked down and said, “This is just the first course.” That finally elicited a smile from the old man. He pulled a flask out of his jacket pocket and poured black liquid into his coffee. I stifled a giggle. He didn’t seem nearly as menacing with his little container.
“It’s not what you think, young lady. I don’t mind having a nip or two during the day, but I generally wait until late afternoon. Since you’re from Boston, I’ll ask that you pardon the molasses. It’s just a habit that’s been passed down through my family, despite the great flood.”
Pardon the molasses? Great flood? “Uh, sorry. I’m not familiar..?”
He grinned. “You’re far too young. It happened back in 1919. Heck, even I’m too young, if you can believe that. But I’ve heard the stories.”
Before I could help it, I heard myself saying, “If you’d like to join me and tell me about it, I’m always up for a bit of history.” I gestured to the other side of the table.
He said nothing for a few seconds, and it struck me this would be the ultimate rejection—getting blown off by a guy about forty years older than me. It wasn’t like I was hitting on him, for God’s sake. I was simply being polite. Oh well, adios self-esteem. I focused on my breakfast and pretended I hadn’t extended the invite.
Digging into my eggs, I sensed him sliding out the chair across the table from me. I smiled and saw Shelley looking over at us with a tender look on her face. He had two girls half his age looking out for his welfare. Good grief, this guy was probably a player. Or, a playa, to be accurate. I’d have to introduce him to my Uncle Larry. They’d be breaking hearts up and down the east coast in no time.
Before he sat, the man held out his hand. “I’m Gus, and I accept your breakfast offer.”
Hunh. He reminded me of Doob the day before, all formal with the introductions, but it was cute. I shook his hand and said, “I’m Meagan. Thanks for joining me.”
He opened his paper while I attacked my plate with reckless abandon. Shelley clucked and doted on us, and it was surprisingly comfortable. When I’d finally inhaled my last bite, I realized Gus and I hadn’t exchanged a word the entire time I devoured my meal. This moved Gus up a notch in my book. He seemed to intuitively understand my complete focus on my food.
I leaned back and patted my stomach like some overfed king at the head of his over-packed table in his overdone castle. Sampson and I would have to go on a long walk later if I wanted to shed any of the billion calories I’d just ingested.
“So Gus, do you live here in Newport?”
He folded his paper and took a sip of coffee, as if transitioning to conversation mode. “I do. I’ve lived here my entire life and feel like it’s the best place on earth.”
I nodded. “You sound like me. I’ve been up in Boston my whole life, and I don’t think there’s anywhere better.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Boston is a great city, but it’s got too much hubbub for me. And the damn traffic and one-way curvy streets will drive you batty inside of an hour, pardon the language.”
Pardon the language? Oh boy. I’d have to watch my mouth around this one if he considered damn offensive. But again, it was cute.
“That’s okay, Gus. You’re absolutely right. That’s why they call Boston a walking city. No one in their right mind drives there on a regular basis. But as far as hubbub goes, Newport gets a little hectic during the summertime. Plenty of hub and bub,” I said.
“Very true, young lady.” He added a bit more molasses to his coffee and gestured at it. “I’ll be glad to fill you in, if you’re still interested.”
The molasses story. I was intrigued, because I couldn’t figure out why Gus putting molasses in his coffee today had anything to do with a flood in 1919. The Titanic maybe? But that wasn’t a flood. A tragedy, but not a flood. And wasn’t that in 1912 or 1913? The White Sox throwing the World Series? I’m pretty sure that was in 1919. Again, not a flood.
My food coma had clearly started. “Yes, the molasses. I’m definitely still interested.”
Gus sipped his coffee and snapped his napkin. He seemed to relish having an audience. “Well, my father was born in Boston and was a little boy back in 1919. He, along with my grandparents, my aunts and uncles, had seen some hard times in years prior, because of World War I, the supposed war to end all wars. How I wish that was true.” He took another drink from his cup. “Do you remember when that war ended Meagan?”
Oh great. Trivia questions on a full stomach. Okay, think Meagan. Flashing back to grade school, I remembered something about the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. “November of 1918 was when the ceasefire was signed,” I responded like a game show contestant, with much more conviction than I felt. If he started asking me about the Treaty of Versailles, I was screwed.
Gus smiled. “Someone paid attention in history class,” he said.
As if. “It’s just easy to remember that many elevens,” I shrugged.
“So in January of 1919, the war had recently ended, but the nation was getting ready to enter a new era—Prohibition. I’m sure you’re familiar with that?”
I shuddered in mock horror. “I’m grateful that experiment failed long before my time.” A life without wine and margaritas was not one I wanted to experience.
“What’s key to this story is the vote that would eventually ratify Prohibition was scheduled for January 16, 1919. There were forty-eight states at the time, and thirty-six were needed to ratify the 18th Amendment.”
“Okay.” I didn’t know where he was going with this. but hoped it would be somewhere interesting.
“So, Meagan, do you know which state voted on January 16th?”
No amount of flashing back to any grade in any year whatsoever would help me with that question, so I shook my head. “No idea.” Then, I held up a finger as if I’d just remembered something crucial. “But I do know Utah was the thirty-sixth state who voted to ratify the 21st Amendment, which repealed the 18th. So, God bless Utah,” I said and held up my refilled coffee in a toast.
Gus clinked his coffee cup against mine. “Okay, you get half a point for that one. It was Nebraska who voted on January 16th.”
“And this matters because..?” I wasn’t trying to be a wise guy, but molasses and Prohibition and Utah and Nebraska just weren’t doing it for me.
One side of Gus’s mouth curled into a slight smile, and I knew he could read my impatience. I further sensed he wasn’t going to rush his story because of it. In fact, I was pretty sure he was going to slow down.
“Back then in Boston, there was a storage tank on the water side of Commercial Street. Do you know the area?”
Cocking my head, I thought about that for a couple of seconds. “I do, but I’m not remembering a storage tank, unless it’s small. I think there’s a park in that neighborhood, isn’t there?”
The curl of Gus’s mouth enlarged. “There’s a park now, yes. And no storage tank anymore. But back in the day, there was definitely a tank that had been built by the Purity Distilling Company, and it was massive.” Gus spread his arms wide to emphasize his point. “It was fifty-feet tall and about ninety-feet in diameter, a monster of curves and steel. The bottom plates were set in a concrete base and pinned together with a stitching of rivets. The whole structure was built to store molasses and could hold two and a half million gallons of the brown stuff.”
My eyebrows shot up. “Whoa.”
“You bet whoa,” Gus said.
“So what happened?”
“The short version of the story is that it collapsed, exploded, take your pick.” He took another swallow of coffee.
I scrutinized Gus for a moment or two. Exploding massive storage tanks of molasses? Hunh. I began to wonder if Gus re
ally had some spirits in his tiny flask and would next be telling me tales of little green men in spaceships.
“Look it up if you think I’m off my rocker.” He motioned with his chin to my phone resting on the table.
My cheeks flushed. “You’re a mind reader in addition to a molasses instructor?”
He winked and nodded but didn’t say anything. Then he blew on his coffee, and waited to see if I wanted to hear anymore of his story.
“I hadn’t completely decided if you were off your rocker or not.”
“He’s not,” came a voice from behind me.
Shelley skirted around the different tables, and she smirked when she saw me looking at her.
Good grief. “Okay, I’m officially interested. But if little green men ride out of that tank on a wave of molasses—”
Gus laughed a full-belly laugh, and it echoed like music in the little café. I noticed several people look over at us, but not in an unpleasant way.
“There are no little green men, Meagan. But it was like something no one had ever seen before. When you think of a flood, you generally think of the ocean, a lake, or the great one in the Bible, but this was an actual flood of molasses that got up to three feet deep in certain parts of Boston.
I raised an eyebrow. “What in the world? How have I never heard about this?”
Shelley zoomed by to refill our cups and chuckled. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t know about it, either.”
Pretty impressive. She definitely had some rabbit ears on her because she seemed to have heard our entire conversation even though she’d been zipping around from table to table.
I turned back to Gus. “What happened? How did this tank, uh, explode or whatever?”
“Well, here’s where we get to the scientific part of the story.”
“Oh joy,” I muttered.