The Man Who Would Be F. Scott Fitzgerald

by David Handler

  “This here’s kind of the nerve center of the estate,” Fern explained. “Though I reckon you’ll find wherever Mavis happens to be at the moment is the nerve center.” She laughed. “She and Charlotte do their business here. Charlotte is her assistant. Nice quiet girl. Handles her correspondence, her schedule, and so forth. She’s up in Chicago with Mave and Richard right now.”

  We went out the kitchen door to an L-shaped brick courtyard that was the modern service yard. There was a three-car garage, a garden shed, a workshop. The tractor mower was parked here next to a pair of battered pickups. At the far end of the courtyard was a row of low, attached, wood-framed cottages that looked quite old.

  “Guest rooms,” Fern informed me as we headed toward them.

  “Converted carriage houses?” I asked.

  “Slaves’ quarters,” she replied matter-of-factly.

  “Perfect.”

  Mine had a small sitting room that faced onto the courtyard. There was a pine student’s desk, matching easy chair and love seat, and a fireplace. Lulu promptly tested the easy chair for fit. It passed.

  “I put in that little fridge you asked for,” Fern pointed out. It was over next to the desk. “Stocked it with milk, imported mineral water, and anchovies, like you wanted. What y’all do with cold anchovies anyway?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  A spiral staircase led up to the bath and sleeping loft. The bed had a skylight and ceiling fan over it, and a fine old quilt on it.

  “We’ll be more than comfortable here,” I assured her.

  “Y’all need anything, just let me know,” she said. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Come on in and eat when you’re ready.”

  The place was a bit stuffy. I left the screen door open while I got settled. Lulu busily cased the place, large black nose to the floor. She wasn’t crazy about the spiral staircase. The steps just weren’t made for someone with her body and her nonlegs. She had to descend sort of sideways, with a hop-thump-thump, hop-thump-thump. She sounded like a bowling ball going down. Before I did anything else I opened up a tin of chilled anchovies and wrapped one tightly around one of her allergy pills. She devoured this with a single chomp. She prefers them chilled — the oil clings to them better. Then I unpacked her bowl and spooned a can of her Nine Lives mackerel for cats and very weird dogs into it and set it by the front door. While she dove in, I opened the bottle of aged Macallan single malt I’d thoughtfully brought along, and I poured two fingers in a water glass. I sipped it as I unpacked my faithful late-fifties-vintage, solid-steel Olympia manual portable, my electric coffeemaker, my tape player, my tapes. I’d brought Erroll Garner with me. Something had told me it was going to be his kind of project. Then I went upstairs and hung up my clothes and changed into a polo sweater of black cashmere and a pair of old khakis that were soft as flannel.

  Lulu was waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase with a mournful expression on her face, mournful even for her. When I asked her what her problem was, she whimpered and glanced over in the direction of her supper dish, greatly distraught.

  A kitten was finishing her mackerel.

  “Well, what do you expect me to do about it?” I demanded. “You’re the huntress, not me. Defend your turf.”

  She did try. She growled at the kitten. Even bared her teeth, a sight known to throw sheer terror into the hearts of more than a few baby squirrels. The kitten just ignored her — it was pretty pathetic — while it licked the mackerel bowl clean.

  It was maybe four months old and on the scrawny side. Its ears stuck straight up and made it look a little like a bat. Gray mostly, with white belly and paws and a gray-and-black-striped tail. Its eyes were a yellowish green. I suppose it was cute, if you happen to care for cats. I don’t. I’ve never understood the strange power they hold over people. All they ever do is sleep or hide behind the furniture. People who live in apartments even let them shit in the house.

  There weren’t supposed to be any cats around Shenandoah. I wondered whom it belonged to.

  Its meal completed, it arched its back and leisurely came over to me and attempted familiarity. Rubbed against my leg. Bumped my ankle with its head. Made small motorboat noises. This business got Lulu growling again. I reached down and picked the damned thing up and showed her — it was a her — the screen door. I latched it behind her. I’d have to remember to keep it latched in the future, or Lulu would starve.

  This kitten didn’t know how to take a hint. She tried to push the screen door open again. When she failed, she started yowling out there in the growing dark. I had to shoo her off. She darted under one of the pickups, her eyes glowing.

  I poured myself another Macallan. I was unpacking my briefcase when someone tapped at the screen door. I went over to discover a midget human life-form, type male, standing out there looking warily up at me. I opened the door. He was maybe eight years old, with a mess of dirty-blond hair and freckles and narrow shoulders. He wore a blue sweatshirt cut off at the elbows, soiled khakis, and high-topped sneakers.

  “Thorry to bother ya, mithter,” he said. He was missing a couple of front teeth. “Can I … ” He looked nervously over his shoulder at the house, then turned back to me. “Can you keep a theecret?” he whispered urgently.

  “I doubt it,” I replied. I ought to tell you right off — I like cats a lot more than I like kids. Kids I rate dead even with large, spiny reptiles. “What kind of secret?”

  He hesitated, swallowed. “Y’all theen Thaydie?” he asked gravely.

  I frowned. “Thaydie?”

  “Not Thaydie,” he said, shaking his head. “Thaydie.”

  “Sadie.”

  “Have ya?”

  “That all depends,” I said, tugging at my ear. “Is she small and furry? Has a tail?”

  He nodded eagerly.

  “Under that pickup over there.”

  He scampered over to the truck, knelt, and talked her out softly. Then he carried her back to me, hugging her tightly to his small chest. “Thankth, mithter. Thankth a whole lot.”

  “No problem. I’m a big believer in happy endings.”

  He glanced inside at my sitting room through the screen door. “Y’all have a dog? Wow!” Thrilled, he barged inside, handed me Sadie, and bounded over to Lulu.

  “Sure thing,” I muttered. “Come right on in.”

  “What’th her name?”

  “Lulu.”

  “Hey, Lulu.” He fell to his knees and began stroking her.

  She suffered this quietly. She isn’t crazy about kids herself. Most of them tend to tug on her ears and call her Dumbo. Sadie, meanwhile, began wriggling in my arms. When I tightened my hold on her, she bit my thumb. Her teeth were razor sharp. Wincing, I put her down on the sofa.

  “I thought cats weren’t allowed here,” I said as she made herself at home.

  “She’s mine!” he cried, suddenly terrified.

  “Okay, okay. She’s yours.”

  He relaxed. “She’th a thtray. I found her. Been hidin’ her, feedin’ her from my plate. Don’t tell the witch, okay? She’ll take her off to the pound to get murdered, for sure.”

  “The witch?”

  “That of Fern.”

  “Seems pretty nice to me.”

  “I hate her.”

  “I’m Hoagy by the way.”

  “I’m Gordie. Live in the cottage next to ya, Mithter Hoagy.”

  “Make it plain Hoagy, seeing as how we’re neighbors.”

  He gave Lulu a final pat and jumped to his feet. “Wanna play catch? I can throw a thpitter.”

  “Darn. I didn’t think to bring my mitt down with me.”

  “Wanna watch a movie? Got me a tape with my favorite actor in it.”

  Before I could reply, someone outside called out his name. It was Fern.

  “Oh, no!” he gasped, shoving Sadie at me. “Hide her, quick! She’ll kill her!”

  “Gordie?” called Fern from my doorway. “You in here?” She put her glasses on and saw he was a
nd came in after him.

  I hid Sadie under my sweater, wondering just how I’d gotten myself into this.

  “Gordie, you’re supposed to be taking yourself a bath,” Fern barked, every inch the drill sergeant. “You ain’t supposed to be bothering Hoagy here.”

  “He wasn’t,” I assured her.

  Gordie said nothing. Just stood there stiffly.

  She pointed a finger at him. “Bathe yourself, Gordie. Or I’ll be in to do it for ya, hear me?”

  He still said nothing. His manner had changed noticeably in her presence. He’d withdrawn into himself. His face was now a mask, betraying nothing.

  Exasperated, she grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. “You hear me!”

  “Yeth’m,” he finally said softly and obediently.

  “That’s better. C’mon, Hoagy.” Thwack. “Dinner’s waiting.”

  “I’m right behind you.”

  Gordie relaxed as soon as she left. I gave him Sadie back.

  “Thankth, Hoagy,” he said. “You take baths?”

  “Frequently.”

  He shrugged, disappointed. “Well, ’night.”

  “Good night, Gordie. Who is your favorite movie star, anyway — Arnold Schwarzenegger?”

  “Naw. McQueen.”

  “That makes two of us,” I said.

  “Really?” he cried.

  I nodded approvingly. “You’re okay, Gordie. You’re definitely okay. Too bad you’re a kid.”

  The big round kitchen table was heaped with a platter of fried chicken, bowls of coleslaw, macaroni salad, mashed potatoes, black-eyed peas, stewed tomatoes, a basket of corn bread.

  Fern was filling two chilled mugs with beer. She squinted at me blindly when I came in. “That you, Hoagy?”

  “Looks good,” I said, partly to identify myself, and partly because it did.

  “Well, sit and get at it, honey. Just save a little room. I made an apple pie this morning, and there’s vanilla ice cream. We make our own. Vanilla, strawberry … ”

  “Licorice?” I asked, daring to hope. It’s my favorite, and damned hard to find.

  “Licorice? Why would anyone want to eat that?”

  “I can’t imagine.”

  I sat and got at it. We both did. The chicken was crisp and moist, the salads homemade, the corn bread fresh baked and laced with hunks of bacon. It wasn’t a common meal. I told her so between bites.

  “Got a husband, Fern?”

  “That a proposal?” She erupted in her big jolly laugh. “Naw. Never have.”

  “Gordie. Who is he?”

  “He’s the VADD poster boy,” she replied. “Picture’s plastered up all over the state. Them public service posters for Virginians Against Drunk Driving. Poor thing’s parents were killed by one a few months ago. Local working people. Gordie had no other living family, so Mavis decided to adopt him. She feels very strongly about drunk drivers. They’ve never known for sure, but it’s generally believed her own mom, Alma, was run over by one. Mavis helped start VADD. The proceeds from the golden-anniversary celebration are going toward it.”

  “She sounds mighty into her causes.”

  “Mavis don’t know how to do things halfway. And she’s got a darned good heart, too, deep down inside. People around here thought it mighty kind of her to take Gordie in as her own. I kinda like having him around to fuss over, you want to know the truth. I’m just sorry there isn’t more for him to do around here. No other kids to play with. He gets bored. Real quiet, too. Can’t hardly get a word out of him.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “He talked to you?” she asked, surprised. “Wonder how come.”

  “Just my good fortune, I guess.”

  She got us a couple of fresh beers from the fridge and filled our mugs.

  “If he’s a member of the family,” I said, “how come he’s living out there in a guest cottage?”

  “No room for him in here,” Fern replied, cleaning her plate. “Mavis has got her gymnasium in the spare bedroom upstairs. She works out like a demon. I offered to give up my room down here for him. She wouldn’t hear of it. But, hey, he bothers you, let me know. I’ll move him somewheres else.” She drank deeply from her mug, then she sat back with a contented sigh. “So it’s not true what they say about you in all them articles?”

  “What do they say?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me shrewdly. “That you solve murders.”

  “Oh, that. Not true. I attract them. A flaw of some kind in my character. I wish I knew what.” I had some of my beer. “Why do you ask?”

  Fern took a deep breath and plunged ahead. “Cause I think somebody was murdered here. Sterling Sloan, the star of Oh, Shenandoah. I think he got himself murdered here fifty years ago next month, and that whoever did it to him got away with it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  “STERLING SLOAN,” I POINTED out, “died of a ruptured aneurysm in his brain.”

  Fern puffed out her cheeks. “That’s what they said, to sweep the whole mess under the rug. But I know otherwise.”

  “What do you know?”

  “I know I was there on that set,” she said, leaning forward anxiously. “I know I saw something. Something I’ve never dared tell another living soul about.”

  “Why tell me?”

  “Because I think I can trust you. And because it has to come out now. Don’t you see?”

  I tugged at my ear. “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “Other people know what really happened. She knew. Miss Laurel knew. Why do you think she went so nuts?”

  “She was an actress. Kind of goes with the territory.”

  Fern shook her head. “The others, they’ll be coming here for the fiftieth anniversary. Aren’t many of them left. Most of ’em are gone now, the secret buried with them. Don’t you see, Hoagy? It’s now or never. This is the last chance to see the plain truth come out.”

  “The truth is anything but plain,” I said. “It’s a very confusing business, and the closer you get to it, the more confusing it gets.”

  “But you’ll help me, won’t you?”

  I hesitated. “Well … ”

  “Don’t say you aren’t intrigued,” she said, grinning. “I can tell you are by the way you look.”

  “And how do I look?”

  “Profound. Disillusioned. Bored.”

  “I always look this way. That breeding thing again.”

  “Look here,” declared Fern. “I ain’t no crank from down on the farm thinks she seen flying saucers shaped like cigars. I ain’t crazy.”

  “I didn’t say you were, Fern. It’s just that —”

  A car pulled up outside in the courtyard. Fern stiffened, raised her index finger to her lips. The engine shut off. The car door opened, closed. There were footsteps. Then the kitchen door opened and in walked a tall young blonde clutching a pile of books. She was pretty, in a neat, correct, Laura Ashley flowered-print-dress sort of way, complete with lace collar and puffed sleeves. She would never exactly be willowy. She was a bit sturdy through the legs and hips. But there was a healthy pink glow to her cheeks, a youthful brightness to her blue eyes, a clean lustrousness to her hair. And there was what is, for me, the most attractive quality any woman can possess — she knew who she was. She was Mercy Glaze, the girl who would inherit Shenandoah.

  “Say hello to Stewart Hoag, Mercy,” said Fern as she dished up our pie. “Goes by Hoagy.”

  Mercy looked me over briefly and offered me her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” she said, manner forthright, grip firm. No Southern coquette this.

  “Likewise,” I said.

  Mercy dropped her books and purse on the counter, grabbed a leftover drumstick from the chicken platter, and started to bite into it.

  “Get yourself a plate and napkin and sit down,” commanded Fern. “You’re a lady, not a field hand.”

  “Tastes better this way,” Mercy insisted, attacking it happily.

  “Mavis would kill you if she saw you,” Fern
said.

  “So don’t tell her,” Mercy said.

  Fern promptly whipped a Polaroid camera from a drawer and aimed it at her.

  Mercy froze, genuinely alarmed. “You wouldn’t.”

  “I would,” Fern vowed.

  Mercy rolled her eyes and flounced over to the cupboard, every inch a suffering teenager now. She got a plate and napkin and sat across the table from me. “You’re the writer who’s going to get along with Mother?”

  “That’s the idea. Any advice?”

  “Yes,” she replied, nibbling at the chicken leg. “Place your foot firmly on her neck and keep it there.”

  “That’ll work?” I asked.

  “I honestly couldn’t say,” she replied. “But it sure would be fun to see someone try it.”

  “Polk Four phoned for you a while ago, honey,” Fern told her, setting my pie and ice cream before me. For my benefit she added, “Polk’s her fiancé.”

  “He is not,” Mercy said petulantly. “He just thinks he is.”

  “Polk Four?” I inquired, tasting my dessert. I was not disappointed.

  “Polk LaFoon the Fourth,” Fern explained. “He’s Augusta County sheriff like Polk Three and Polk Two before him. Handsome as Mistuh Bob Stack in his uniform. And he’s smart, too. Got his law degree from Duke. Gonna be our attorney general someday. Maybe even governor” — she winked at me — “if he marries right.”

  “I swear, Fern,” declared Mercy. “You are getting absolutely senile, the things come out of your mouth.” She turned to me, frowning. “You’re not the same Stewart Hoag who wrote Our Family Enterprise, are you?”

  “I am.”

  She looked a bit awestruck now, poor child. “I-I read you in modern lit.”

  “You don’t say. Large class?”