There was a tap on his right shoulder. Charlie smiled and whipped around. He’s curious.
The man adjusted his glasses and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Do you think I should have asked if he would take less?”
The idea of yet another victim to Shug’s lecture was entertaining; however, in truth, he wouldn’t subject anyone, except maybe his deal-forcing former co-worker who was now sitting in his chair at the bank – Carl Rogers – to that kind of torture.
“You got a great deal!” For a decorator.
“All right then, thank you.”
Charlie gave the man a few minutes to step back; then he went in for the pick. “Wait! Can I see it?”
The man willingly handed the horn to Charlie. Charlie ran his hand around the bell; the name King Schmidt was eloquently engraved into the horn. Brands were good, but this horn wasn’t solely about value; it was about his pride. Charlie had only held the horn for a brief moment on his first encounter – not enough time to read the inscription. “I’ll give you five.”
The man would counter, but this was Charlie’s game, and he played it well.
“Six.”
Charlie studied the instrument, obviously running his hand over a dent in the mouthpiece. “Five-fifty?”
“Done!” The man’s bleached white teeth gleamed in the light of the glittering chandeliers. Both parties had won. Charlie got his horn, and the decorator was departing with an extra hundred.
Charlie pulled out his cash. He counted the bills until he got to five hundred and fifty, leaving him with only ten. He took the horn and watched as the man went back into the market in search of more instruments for his client to deconstruct and display. Charlie’s head felt light and his stomach empty. This was all he had left in the money set aside to pick for the day. He doubted the horn was really worth more than seven; the return would not be good. He had made it a practice to at least double his investment.
Music is money, but not this time.
“How did you get it?” Charlie turned around and found himself standing face to face with the red-bearded Shug Blackwell.
“I bought it off a decorator. He’s going home happy.”
“I said you couldn’t have it.”
“True, but you didn’t say the decorator couldn’t have it, and I bought it from him.”
“Listen here, Price. This market belongs to my family. You see that woman back there?”
From where he was standing, it didn’t look like anyone was back there – no customers and no Granny. The bakery was closed. She sold out. Good for her. He was on unstable ground with Shug, so he nodded.
“This is her home; it’s our home. We’re not some cheap swap shop waiting to make the best deal.” His breath smelled sour and bitter. “Look around, Price. These shops have been here longer than you have been alive, and I plan to keep it that way. The likes of you cheapen the place. All these fancy ladies don’t need to see you making deals. Next thing you know they’ll be asking Granny for a discount on her muffins. I won’t have it. I’ve got plans and you’re not going to mess it up. This isn’t the place for you, Price. Leave.” The man turned his back to Charlie and walked away.
Go back to your hole of underpriced antiques. I’ve got what I came for. Charlie was glad Velveteen had stayed behind.
Charlie Price wasn’t afraid of Shug Blackwell, but there was no need to stay around if he didn’t have money to spend. With the French horn securely in front of him, Charlie set out to find Gideon. He knew what his first port of call would be.
Stephen Blackwell rested his elbows on the bookshop counter and watched Charlie as they talked. “Did Shug have a talk with you?”
“I guess that’s what you would call it. How did you know?”
“You’ve looked over at his shop about a half dozen times since you walked through the door. Don’t worry about him. It’s not our way to say anything negative about the family, but if you haven’t figured it out already, old Shug is a tough one. He’s taken care of Granny since he was a boy. He’s the oldest of her sons.” Stephen laughed. “He thinks it’s his life mission to protect us. He loves this place; it’s his home, but a lot has changed over the years. We voted to bring in the vendors not long before you showed up. It’s the only way we can keep the lights on. Shug voted against it, but we had to try something.”
“Why would he vote against it?”
“This place has been home to the Blackwells for years – most of them artists, some of us collectors. I guess he doesn’t like change. It’s either we change enough to make it all worth it, or we are overtaken by some management company that will replace Granny’s with a food court.”
“But it’s busy! From what I can see, the numbers don’t add up. You’re a businessman – how can you be in the red? And the article in the paper and the magazine?”
“The article was my idea. I contacted them. After we renovated the place, I thought it would be good if people saw it. Sure increased foot traffic. I thought Shug was going to have my head when the van of photographers showed up.”
This made Charlie think about Velveteen’s fear of skinning.
“I guess the town is just too small for the market.” Charlie couldn’t help but let his eyes wander to the Kipling.
“Shug found it for me, at an auction. Half of my inventory came from that auction. I was unpacking the boxes and there it was.”
“I’ve been looking for it most of my adult life.”
“Haven’t we all? ‘We have forty million reasons for failure, but not a single excuse.’”
Charlie had a strange feeling Stephen Blackwell wasn’t using his favorite Kipling quote in reference to the book. He glanced out the door toward Shug’s once more. “I’m not worried about Shug.” He had bigger issues than Shug on his mind – like how he would pay the bills if the horn didn’t sell. His stomach knotted with the thought. They’d started over. It had been months since he’d had to hang up on a debt collector. “I should be going. You haven’t seen Gideon around by any chance, have you?”
“Check out back. I thought I saw them headed that way.”
Charlie left the bookshop and studied the shoppers going in and out of the shops – their hands full of packages, old lamps, discarded shutters, and framed artwork. How could the market be struggling? It didn’t make sense, especially if the Blackwells owned the building. A new sense of responsibility filled Charlie – he had to help keep the market going; he might be a picker, but he was also a local. But first he had to sell the French horn… and let Shug Blackwell know he wasn’t leaving town without a fight.
CHAPTER 9
1877
Mungo Blackwell removed the beeswax from his tan leather satchel and rubbed it through the thick red hairs of his mustachio pulling them into an upward curve at the ends. He resembled his father, Mumford – tall, nearly six-foot-two with a bushy red beard he would wear for the rest of his life. Mungo ran his finger down the scar on the right side of his face. The wound that started at his hairline and ended at the base of his neck was a reminder of his encounter with a bloat of hippos while crossing the Nile en route to the viceroy of Egypt. Mungo wriggled his toes in his boots – the perfect fit, as it should be, considering he had made them himself.
Thunder drummed in the distance. The ship balanced on the turbulent waters as the mist of the sea sprayed Mungo’s olive skin – his father had called it the gift of his mother. Mungo longed to have known her, the quiet voice he had never heard but which carried him across the grainy deserts and through the darkest jungles of Peru, searching.
Mungo had never liked traveling by boat – it took too long to get wherever the wind was taking him – but he wouldn’t complain; it was the only way to get to the other side of the world.
Mungo stared into the eyes of the pirate king as the ship rocked back and forth against the storm-torn waters. Salty winds blew through his cotton shirt and threatened to knock him to the ship’s deck, but Mungo would not avert his
gaze. His father had taught him to always look a pirate in the eye, because it was a known fact a pirate’s shiftiness could be determined in a single blink. As this was his second sea voyage – his first in the company of the Royal Navy – he had not yet validated this lesson on the mannerisms of pirates; however, he was not in a position to take chances.
A swaying lantern cast an eerie glow across the ship as Mungo stood at the other end of the captain’s blade.
“I don’t believe ya!” the pirate bellowed.
Mungo bowed before the captain. “I have no reason to lie to you, pirate. The encounter with the knights is as I say.”
“No one crosses paths with the Knights of Odenbon and lives!”
“I bring a gift from his royal highness.” Mungo reached into his satchel and produced a stone large enough to replace the pirate’s missing eye. “A man would do anything to find his soul, Captain.”
The pirate lowered his sword. “Ay,” the captain agreed, taking the sparkling blue diamond of Odenbon from the hand of Mungo. “Is this soul a woman that draws you into peril, Blackwell?”
“Could be, Captain. I’ve never known.”
“You are an odd man, shoemaker. I will spare your life so you may find your soul. And as for the stories you tell of the gold…?”
“It is where I claim – north of Barataria.”
“And why shouldn’t you have the gold for yourself?”
“I have enough, Captain.”
At this the Captain raised his one visible eyebrow. “And why shouldn’t I take yours as well?”
Mungo ran a finger along his mustachio, pulling the salve through the red hairs to reform the hook at the end. “I’d like to see you try, Captain.”
“Ay!” The pirate captain sheathed his sword and slapped Mungo on the shoulder. “Then to Barataria!”
“Captain, we had an agreement.”
“Ay?”
“Safe passage, for the gold?”
“You have my word, Blackwell. Safe passage. My crew will cause you no harm. And my boots?”
“I can fix that.”
The pirate leaned in and whispered, “You will ensure they are a better pair than Odenbon’s?”
“Of course, Captain.”
“You are a stoic of gentle demeanor, and a rarity of strength and wit. May all who come under the craftsmanship of Mungo Blackwell be as surprised as I. We go east!”
Mungo closed his eyes and allowed the onset of rain to soak through his clothing. Maybe he would find his contentment in the east.
CHAPTER 10
Velveteen set the porcelain plate of muffins in front of Charlie and Gideon. There was a pause, possibly a moment of shock, as Charlie tried to make sense of the presence of the goodies. Had she had them shipped from Francine’s? He hoped not. No, she wouldn’t have made such an expensive purchase. Not now. But he had told her they had a little extra. Did she drive to the city just for muffins? Surely not. They hadn’t made a trip to the city since the move. Maybe she made them? She hadn’t baked him anything since his twenty-seventh birthday – her butter cake tasted delicious, but her dishevelled appearance and flour-dusted hair made him suspect the making of it had not been smooth. That year had changed everything for him. It was the year he received his first promotion and along with it a substantial pay increase. He swore she would never need to bake him another birthday cake ever again, and so she hadn’t.
Charlie and Gideon stared at her, waiting for a cue to dive into the unexpected treats. They had eaten an early dinner – early enough that the tavern had not yet run out of deer meat – and so they were both in eager need of an evening snack.
“Go on.” She held her hands over her face to hide her smile.
Gideon reached first and took a bite, allowing the crumbs to fall from his chin and onto his plate. “It’s so good! I didn’t know Francine’s delivered.”
Velveteen blushed. “They don’t.”
She didn’t have them delivered. Relief. Charlie could scratch that off his list of questions. Her response would do; he would not have to inquire any further. He took a bite. They were delicious. The blueberries popped in his mouth, and the buttery sweetness of the muffin tempted him to have another. It was one of the best pastries he had ever eaten. He didn’t need to know where she had gotten them, but he was curious. “They are very good.”
Velveteen watched as they devoured Granny’s treats. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and then quickly placed her gray-stained fingernails behind her back. “Would you like another?”
“Of course! How could I pass up these delicious muffins?” He eyed her curiously. There was something different about her – possibly her hair. No matter; she wasn’t going to give up the origin of the muffins easily. He could barely stand it. His inductive reasoning had led him to the smell of baked goods wafting through the cottage, but Velveteen didn’t bake… or cook for that matter.
“So, Gideon, who was at the market today? Did you learn about the pirates?”
She’s changing the subject.
“Yes!”
“He did more than learn about one. He gets to be one.” Charlie took another bite.
“The fierce pirate raised his sword and pointed it directly at the chest of Mungo Blackwell!” Gideon shouted, jumping up from his seat and onto his chair. He pointed his fork at his mother and glared at her with one eye squinted closed. “No one has fought the Knights of Odenbon!”
“Odenbon?” Velveteen asked, shocked by her painfully shy son’s sudden burst of enthusiasm.
Charlie leaned into her. “They’re letting him play a part.”
“It’s not a big one, but I’m a pirate! I wanted to be the Maharaja of Kuru, but Danger said I’m too young.”
“What great stories!” Velveteen laughed.
“They aren’t stories. Danger says it’s their history. And I read about it in their book.”
“Don’t let the Blackwells get in your head.” She pulled her hair back with both hands and then let it fall again.
What had she said earlier about her hair? “I wouldn’t be too quick to pass them off,” Charlie added. “They are an eclectic bunch.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about him having his head filled with all that nonsense, Charlie.”
Gideon yawned and stepped down from his crow’s nest with a look of defeat smeared across his face. “May I be excused?”
“Of course, you one-eyed pirate.” Charlie loved seeing his son act out the adventures of Mungo Blackwell with the other boys. True or not, he was having fun.
Gideon wrapped his arms around his father’s neck. “Night Dad.” And then kissed his mother on the cheek. “Night Mom.”
“Goodnight. Now go climb in bed, or I’ll make you walk the plank!”
Gideon lifted his fist and roared, “Argh!” then ran up the stairs.
“You shouldn’t encourage him,” Velveteen chastised.
“Why not? It’s good for him to be around the other boys. For once he’ll have friends at school.”
“They don’t go to his school, remember? Clover homeschools them.”
“Maybe you should give it a try.” Charlie was hopeful; Velveteen rolled her eyes. “No homework, no schedules, he would love being home with you.” Charlie sensed Velveteen did not like where this conversation was going. “I’m sure Clover would help. Maybe you could do some classes together.” Velveteen twirled her mug around in a circle, watching the tea slosh back and forth in her cup. “You could teach art!”
“Do you also want me to move into a camper van?”
“Of course not! I’m not suggesting you become a Blackwell. But remember – this is our fresh start. We can go about life differently here – no parent–teacher conferences or uniforms.”
“But he looks so nice in his uniform.”
“I thought you were open to trying something new?”
“I’ve tried enough something new for one day.”
He watched curiously as she twisted the tips of h
er hair between her thumb and forefinger. She had definitely done something to her hair.
“So, you had a successful day at the market?” She was changing the subject again.
He could play that game too. Now was not the time to discuss their finances. “Have you seen my suit?”
“Your suit? Oh Charlie, does that mean you have an interview? Charlie, that’s fantastic! Is it in the city? What are they offering to pay? Why didn’t you tell me you were applying again?”
There was an awkward silence, a moment where Charlie wished he could tell her he had been offered a six-figure salary with benefits, but that would be a lie. “It’s for the market, Velveteen.”
“You are interviewing for a job at the market?”
“No.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Job. He loathed the word. A job meant a boss. He didn’t want to talk about this. He wanted to go back to the muffins and the pirates, but it was too late.
We’ve been through this already. Why is she bringing all this up again? He tried to change his thoughts – she hadn’t said anything wrong. Why wouldn’t she assume he needed a suit for an interview? Where else would he wear one in Coraloo? He hadn’t worn one since the day he’d bought the Waterman.
“Oh… So the market, how was it?” She leaned her head against the back of the chair. She was disappointed, probably trying to pull herself down from the instant where she hoped he might have a real job.
“I had an encounter with Shug Blackwell today.”
“Of course you did. I see the oaf didn’t skin you alive.”
“No, but he did say I was cheapening the market. That’s why I want the suit. I figure I will bring some class to my new profession. Stephen says the vendors are a recent addition to the market. I guess it was a last-minute attempt to cover the cost of maintaining the building. But I ran through the numbers in my head. It seems to me that since the place belongs to the family, and with what the vendors are paying them, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“What happens if they lose the market? What happens to us?” She cleared the table, forgetting to ask if he was finished, and sat back down.
The Death of Mungo Blackwell Page 8