by Tina Whittle
She threw herself around me before I could move. She was the twin sister of my Aunt Dotty, who had been married to my Uncle Dexter. Dotty had been gone for five years, but this was Dee Lynn’s first event without Dexter at the table next to hers.
Her eyes were bright. “Dex would be so proud to see you here. Where’s your stuff?”
“Still in the car. I’m waiting for the crazy to die down.”
“It’s not. They’ll have to give ’em a booth. Not giving them one is giving them a soapbox, and that’s more dangerous.” She shoved a folding chair at the back of my knees. “So sit for a minute. Catch me up.”
I sat. And we talked. This was the way with Southern business folk of a certain age, as if the whole world were a wide front porch. This approach was fast disappearing, thanks to generations like mine, with our earbuds in place, eyes on our phones, thumbs constantly texting. Eventually, though—and it’s a fine art to be able to tell when this moment is—talk always shifts to the commercial.
“It’s a tough market.” Dee Lynn picked up her sandwich again. “The finder’s game is overrun with people who don’t know what they’re doing—digging on protected land, desecrating burials, leaving trash all over the place. On the upside, I’m getting more calls from people who want to search right. There’s still a lot of good finds out there if you know where to look.”
I scooched my chair closer and dropped my voice. “Speaking of.”
Her ears perked up. “What? You got the trail on something?”
I told her the story. She listened, wide-eyed. All around us the other vendors continued setting up, laughing and back-smacking in a genial hubbub, their voices echoing in the gymnasium-sized room. The man across from me, bearded and overall-clad, specialized in mid-nineteenth century medical equipment. His display case of glass eyes unsettled me even more than the bone saws gracing the ivory tablecloth.
When I was finished, Dee Lynn gave me a look that could have curdled milk. “Did you say Audrina Harrington?”
I sighed. “I did.”
“You working for her?”
“No.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” Dee Lynn made a noise of disgust. “Ignorant high-minded bitch. Doesn’t even appreciate what she has. She’s a thief, that’s what she is, and you can’t convince me otherwise.”
I didn’t try. Dee Lynn was hardly alone in her condemnation, which I shared. Somewhat.
“Unfortunately, Audrina’s not the only one after that Bible. Rumor has it the Klan’s looking for it too.”
Dee Lynn’s eyes hardened. “Where’d you get that rumor?”
“Lots of places.”
“Including you-know-who, I bet.”
I made a face. “Don’t start. He’s been rehabilitated, you know. Good honest businessman now.”
“Right. Boone’s gonna be working some angle as long as he lives. And then his boys are gonna inherit that angle and run it as long as they live.”
“Which is why I need him. I tried to stay on the uncomplicated side of the line, but what with Hope stalking me, Winston being all shifty, the old man dying, and now the Klan—”
“What old man?”
“Oh. That.” So I told her that story
Her eyes went even wider. “Shit.”
“What?”
She pointed across the room. “See that woman?”
“The little gray-haired one surrounded by the bike gang?”
“That’s Emmy Simmons. She and her husband Bob run a trinket shop. T-shirts, flags, you know.”
I knew. Every backroad highway in Georgia featured at least one such shop. Heavy on cheap tourist goods emblazoned with the Confederate Battle Flag, light on actual artifacts.
“Who are the guys in bike leathers?”
“One’s their son—the big one in the vest—and the rest are his crew. The important part is who isn’t there—Bob.”
“Why isn’t he there?”
“He’s missing.”
I closed my eyes against the news. “What happened?”
“Went out last night and never came back. Emmy says he’d gotten real excited about an old treasure map he’d found in a box of books some customer brought in.”
“Treasure like in pirates?”
“Treasure like in lost Confederate gold.”
“Oh jeez.”
Ever since 1865, every treasure hunter’s dreams were plated with Confederate gold. That was when five wagons full of coins and bars went missing between Virginia and South Carolina, supposedly buried on the grounds of an old plantation to avoid Union confiscation. When neither the plantation nor its occupants would give up the gold’s location—not even under torture—treasure hunters began searching other areas: cemeteries, lake beds, shipwrecks, family farms, submerged islands. A couple of gold coins turned up now and then, but the mother lode remained a mystery.
That cache wasn’t the only missing treasure out there either. When General Sherman marched his way to the sea, many citizens buried their valuables, only to lose track of their location in the burning and pillaging, some dying with that knowledge. According to treasure hunters, a dragon’s horde of loot nestled in the red clay and sand of Georgia’s landscape.
“Seriously?” I said.
Dee Lynn nodded. “Emmy’s freaked out, but I didn’t think too much of it. You know how treasure fever is—you start digging and you don’t stop. But now you’re telling me your story, and there’s a dead guy at the beginning of it, so…”
She shrugged and forked up a mouthful of slaw. She had a point. Gold made people do stupid things, vicious things, completely out of character things.
“Emmy saw the map?”
“She says so. She said it looked genuine.”
“It’s easy to make something look genuine. Does she know much about old manuscripts?”
“I doubt it. That’s not their trade.”
I looked over at the booth. The woman sat surrounded by a circle of burly young men. She was slight, with blue-gray hair cut in a pageboy that suited her elfin features. She was pale, though, and very thin under a denim dress a size too large.
“You think she’d talk to me?”
Dee Lynn shrugged. “You can try. But don’t mention that Bible, especially not around those boys.”
“Don’t worry.”
I went over. The woman eyed my approach with frazzled caution. When I got six feet from the table, the bikers closed ranks around her. I put on my best non-threatening expression.
“Ms. Simmons? My name is Tai Randolph. I—”
“Who?”
“Tai Randolph. I was talking to Dee Lynn over there—she’s my aunt—and I heard—”
“You!” The woman bolted upright and threw a finger in my face. “You’re the one brought that box of books by yesterday! You’re the one sent my Bob off on that wild goose chase, and now he’s…” Her voice cracked, but her eyes blazed fury.
“But I’ve never been to your shop!”
The tallest biker put his arm around the old woman. He had thoughtful green eyes and bark-brown hair and a torso like a sack of concrete. “You sure it’s her, Mama?”
“Of course I’m sure! I’ll go back to the shop and find the receipt.”
“Now, Mama—”
She shoved past him and headed for the parking lot, leaving me alone within the circle of suspicious bikers. The tall one, obviously her son, jerked his head toward the back. “Earl, go keep her out of trouble. I’ll take care of this.”
One of the bikers hurried after the old woman. He shot me a look—sneaky, furtive—and I shouldered my bag, heavy with my .38. Unloaded, as required by the rules of the Expo, but more reassuring than a nail file.
I tried to sound reasonable. “Look, I’m as baffled as you are. I don’t know anything about any treasure map. Why would I come over here if I did? I’d sure as hell have stayed in my own booth.”
“Guess we’ll know when Mama gets back.” Those smart eyes narrowed. “Tai, huh? You do
n’t look like a Tai.”
“I’m a Teresa Ann actually. Tai’s a nickname. Long story involving my Aunt Dotty and her fanciful delusions. You knew Dotty and Dexter, right?”
He nodded. “They’ve been coming as long as I can remember.”
“I’m their niece. I inherited the shop back in the spring. And I swear to you…what’s your name?”
“Richard. But everybody calls me Rock.”
“Look…Rock. I didn’t try to pass off some treasure map on your dad. Somebody’s trying to get me in trouble, and I have a pretty good idea who.” I scribbled my cell phone number on the back of a business card and handed it to him, along with my photos of Hope and Winston.
He accepted both. “They don’t look familiar.”
“Show them to your mother. And if either of these people show up, please call me. Let me know what your mama finds, okay?”
He looked at the card. Then he looked me up and down. “We’ll see.”
***
After that, I unloaded my car, set up the table, then I bummed a cigarette from the guy with the glass eyes and headed for the parking lot. Mrs. Simmons still hadn’t returned. Rock and Company were still eyeing me suspiciously. And my nerves had been pulled as tight as guitar strings.
I’d had enough. I would have bet my entire arsenal that my mysterious impersonator was none other than Hope Lyle. Which meant that it was too late for me, I was in the web. So was a second old man, missing now under mysterious circumstances.
I found a shady spot off the beaten path, flopped on the ground, and stuck the cigarette in my mouth. Nicotine. Sometimes it was the one sure thing in my life.
Chapter Nineteen
The cigarette hit me hard on top of the nicotine patches, but it soothed the wrenching buzz. It did nothing to tamp down my anger, however.
I called Trey. Voicemail. Then I called John. When he answered, I blasted him. “There’s another old guy involved.”
“What? Who?”
“A vendor. He’s missing. Mysterious circumstances. Plus your wife’s been blackening my name all over town. And now the Klan—”
“What?”
I sucked in another lungful of smoke. “I should’ve never let you in my shop, you and your post-dated check and big boots. I should’ve known this would be the result—being stalked, being manipulated, being set up—”
“Slow down, Tai. Start at the beginning.”
My cell phone beeped with an incoming call. Trey.
“I gotta go. But you and I will be discussing this further, John Wilde, you hear me?”
“But—”
I hung up on him and answered Trey. “You are not going to believe—”
“Tai?”
His voice was lost in a swooping chop and woosh, like a stainless steel tornado. “Trey?”
“I’m sorry, I….since this morning…. later?”
“I can’t hear you, where are you?”
“…at the latest…the helicopter…”
“Trey, do not get in a helicopter with Reynolds, there is a slight chance Audrina is trying to kill him.”
And then the line went dead. I tried calling back. More voicemail. So I sent a text instead, telling him to meet me back at the Expo as soon as possible. Then I stared at the phone. Now I had identity theft and a missing person to deal with. I sucked down another lungful of smoke.
The voice came from behind me. “Put down the phone and turn around.”
I looked over my shoulder. It was Mrs. Simmons. She looked sick, trembling and pale.
I stood. “Are you okay?”
The gun came out of nowhere, a semi-automatic, enormous and jet black and scary as hell. It shook violently in her hands.
My cigarette dropped to the ground. “Mrs. Simmons—”
“It was you! Your name’s in the receipt book! He even took your business card!”
I raised my hands slowly, palms forward. “Not mine, he didn’t.”
“You said you were Tai Randolph!”
“I am, but the person who left the card—the person who sold your husband that box of books containing that map—wanted you to think it was me. But it wasn’t.”
Her hands shook harder, and the big damn gun shook with them. So much for Earl the Biker Dude keeping her out of trouble.
I kept my voice slow and easy. “I’m the real Tai Randolph, and I have the credentials to prove it. But I don’t know how to prove that I’ve never been in your shop.”
“I’m calling the police!”
“Please do. And once you’ve figured out that I’m telling the truth, we can figure out how to find your husband.”
Mrs. Simmons considered me over the barrel of the gun, her voice as shaky as her hands. “He wouldn’t run off like this. The police keep saying I have to wait to file the missing persons report, that he’s only been gone twelve hours.”
I lowered my hands a little. The gun stayed up, but her anger wasn’t behind it anymore.
My heart panged. “I’ll do what I can, Mrs. Simmons. But first…could you put the gun down?”
She seemed suddenly ashamed of herself. When she handed over the weapon, I ejected the magazine. Empty. The gun hadn’t been cleaned in a while either.
“Where’d you find this?”
“Bob kept it under the register.”
“He didn’t take it with him on his expedition?”
She shook her head. “No. He said he didn’t need it.”
Most likely he’d been wrong about that, but I didn’t say so.
“Do you remember anything about that map?”
“It had lots of gibberish on it. Weird drawings. A moon, some stars.”
Putting down the gun, I pulled a schedule from my bag and flipped it over. Then I grabbed a pen and squiggled a crescent shape. “Like this?”
“And there was other stuff too. Wavy lines.”
I doodled in some spirals and circles. “Like this?”
“No.” She shook her head, frustrated. “None of it made any sense. But there was a list in the middle. Bob said it was a treasure tally. He said he recognized the symbol for gold. AU.”
I scribbled a list in the middle. “Like that?”
She nodded. “And there were other numbers too, strings of them. He said it was a code. But it was the paper that made him decide it was real. He said it was old, real old.”
“Did he say where he was headed with it?”
“No. But I think it was a cemetery.”
“Bonaventure? Laurel Grove?”
“He didn’t say. But I think he managed to figure out the code. I found the piece of paper next to the register with letters and numbers and the word ‘boneyard’ on it.”
Boneyard. Savannah had plenty of those. The whole city was a boneyard. Even the medians of Victory Drive were burial grounds.
“Was there anything more specific?”
She shook her head. “That’s all I can remember.”
I was staring at my makeshift map when I saw them at the edge of the parking lot. Two uniformed Savannah metro officers. They spotted us, double-checked a piece of paper, and then headed our way.
I tried to keep my voice calm. “Mrs. Simmons? Did you call the cops?”
She shook her head. And then my stomach plummeted. Because that meant there was only one reason those cops were there, looking full of duty. Mrs. Simmons followed my eyes, turning to look behind her. And then she knew too.
“No!” she said, hands to her mouth.
But the cops were headed straight for us, with stoic compassion on their faces. And they kept coming, relentlessly bearing their official burden forward.
Chapter Twenty
When I got back to the hotel, I found Trey at his desk. He’d sent me a text asking if I were okay. I’d told him I was, that I’d explain later. Now he was looking at me, the question in his eyes.
I sat on the edge of the desk. “I guess you heard.”
“About the body? Yes. Dee Lynn explained.”
> “You went to the Expo?”
“I did, but you’d already gone to give an official statement.” He put his work aside and looked at me seriously. “Do they have cause of death?”
“Not yet.”
They’d found the old man’s body in the shipping channel. Shrimpers going out for the day had spotted it. No boat, however. Mrs. Simmons, now a widow, had insisted she and her husband didn’t own a boat, then collapsed on the officer and been taken away. Another officer had escorted me downtown and grilled me for an hour, although without much enthusiasm for my guilt, unlike every other police interview I’d ever endured.
I put my bag down inside the door. “And on top of everything, Mrs. Simmons filed a restraining order against me.”
Trey rarely looked surprised, but that comment did the trick.
“On what grounds?” he said.
“That I threatened to hurt her if she turned over the evidence implicating me to the cops. She’s the one pulled a freaking gun on me! That sweet old lady. I could kick her ass.”
“You’ll need to explain.”
So I did. As I told the tale, he pulled out a fresh yellow pad and made notes, lots of them. I went to the mini-fridge to get a soda.
“Dee Lynn says I need to make myself scarce at the vendors’ meeting tomorrow, and she’s probably right. No sense causing a confrontation.”
“Restraining orders don’t take effect that quickly.”
“No, but rumors do. And my reputation as a purveyor of shady goods is spreading fast. Dee Lynn says I need to appear docile and cooperative and respectful to Mrs. Simmons in her time of loss. She says I’ll do this better from a distance.”
I kicked the fridge door closed and flopped myself on the sofa. “Besides, that frees up some time for me to figure out what the hell is going on here. Which reminds me—the Savannah police want the security footage from the night Hope came here. Can you send that?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Kendrick says that’s an important part of my defense, that I’m a victim of identify theft. He said I need to start collecting evidence to prove it. Apparently, this is the one time the police actually encourage a civilian to investigate.”