by Nathan Roden
The two men turned to jump in a truck and follow their orders.
“Stop right there, ya bunch of overreactin’ nervous nellies,” Seth barked. He stepped in front of the man in the white hat, who was obviously not used to being spoken to that way. The other men froze with their eyes wide open.
“Yer man is wide awake, Captain,” Seth said with a smirk. “But he wasn’t about to shoot us both in the haid for drivin’ down here to ask you—
“JUST WHAT IN THE SAM BLAZES DO YOU THINK YER DOING HERE?”
Seth was red in the face as he yelled at the man—just inches from that man’s face. And that man was afraid.
The man took three steps back and held up his hands.
“Hey, hey, hey! I’m sure we have some kind of misunderstanding going on here, Sir. Let’s just calm down, now, what do you say?” the man said.
Holly noticed that a few of the men were enjoying seeing the boss yelled at.
Seth breathed a little easier. His nostrils were still flaring like a bull’s. His fists relaxed just a bit.
“My name is McAllen. Brian McAllen, project foreman,” the man in the white hard hat said. “We’re only contractors—doing the job we were paid to do here, Mister…”
“The name is Larrimore. Seth Larrimore. This is my niece, Holly McFadden,” Seth said, calming down slowly.
“Pleased to meet you, Seth, and Miss Holly. I must admit, we only been here since daybreak, and everything about this job has been completely mental—never had one like it. Obviously, the two of you have some connection to the place,” the foreman said. He seemed very relieved at the lighter mood.
“Aye,” Seth said, nodding. “We just sold it. I’m Holly’s legal guardian until she comes of age, and I handle the financial affairs for now. We had no choice but to sell, but it never crossed me mind that….that this might happen.”
The foreman discreetly waved his men back to work.
“I’m very sorry, folks. I know it must come as quite a shock. So, you had no idea that this is what the buyer had in mind?” the foreman asked.
“None. None at all,” Seth said, deflated.
“I never owned or sold a castle before. My sister and her husband, Holly’s parents, bought it twelve years ago. I don’t think they paid all that much for it; they were but school teachers. But they started running tours of the castle after they fixed it up some. The place had been empty for years—filthy and run down, it was. The tours helped pay the bills, and those two loved giving those tours, they did—the both of them. I think they would have done them for free, is the truth. They loved the history, and they loved this castle like they loved life itself.”
Seth looked to Holly, his eyes red and brimming with tears.
“They passed that love on to their little girl. The only other thing those two cared about was the water. The castle tours were what made them able to buy their boat.”
Seth shook his head side to side, and his chin dropped.
“This wasn’t supposed to happen. It’s one thing to move just up the road, Holly, but I’ve…I’ve gone and sold… I’ve sold away your memories.”
He leaned backward against his truck.
“I’m so sorry, Holly. I’ve let you down.”
Holly threw her arms around Seth’s neck. “You could never let me down, Uncle Seth. You couldn’t have known this would happen. I love you.”
The foreman stepped away quietly, bowing his head as he trudged back toward the work site. When he reached it, he clapped his hands and resumed yelling at his men.
Brian McAllen pulled a set of plans from a document tube and spread them on the hood of his truck. Several of his men gathered around, as McAllen began pointing and giving them instructions. A sudden gust of wind swept the plans from McAllen’s grasp. They floated lazily away; higher and higher, in spite of the fact that there was very little wind.
Holly watched Brian McAllen flailing his arms and cursing at his men. The men yelled at each other and they yelled at the wind, as the plans evaded capture like they had a mind of their own. Which, truth be told, they did. Princess Arabella was deep in concentration and using her limited abilities to drive the paper higher into the sky.
Holly sighed.
“Well, Uncle, we might have known that our two least favorite people were not going to stay quiet for long,” Holly said. “Arabella is at work on the demo crew. David is working on some other torment, no doubt.”
A group of workers began pointing, yelling, and running from where the drawbridge used to be. The hose from a pump truck bounced along the ground. It was finished draining the water from the old moat. Sixteen large turtles crept along the muddy bottom.
The largest of the turtles had climbed the wall and was approaching the men, walking on its back legs.
“Aye, I believe our Prince David has become Lord of The Turtles,” Seth said.
“Should we do something, Seth?” Holly asked.
Seth shook his head.
“Worthless they are, lass, but their home is being dismantled a stone at a time right before them and there’s nothing that can be done to stop it. I feel sorry, even for them.”
Holly’s heart hit bottom. The McIntyre family circled the mayhem at a distance and moved toward Holly. Dallas was in the front with his family behind him in single file. They each clutched the garment of the one in front of them.
“Lady McFadden. Lord Larrimore. Might you clarify what is happening here?” Dallas asked.
“It’s all my fault, Baron,” Seth blurted out before Holly could answer. “I meant no harm. I had no idea this was going to happen. I sold the castle to a man from America. I had no idea he intended to take it down and move it.”
The McIntyre family was in shock.
“Move it? To America?” Elizabeth said. “Dallas, is that not halfway around the world?”
“That it is, Elizabeth. We’ve seen it on the…it’s called the telly, is it not, Holly?”
“Yes, the telly,” Holly said.
“Father is quite fond of the American program ‘Baywatch’,” Nora said.
“You speak nonsense, girl. We’re discussing important business here,” Dallas said.
“Yes sir,” Nora said.
Elizabeth said, “Dallas and Oliver McFadden must have watched every installment of Baywatch ever—”
“If you please!” Dallas said, his face turning red, “We have matters of importance to get to the bottom of.”
“Speaking of bottoms…” Elizabeth said.
“Where will we live, Father? When the castle is gone?” Charlotte asked.
“I…I don’t know, Charlotte. I tried the boundary after they took that first wall down, and it still exists. Perhaps we may move about more freely once it is gone, but there is no way to know,” The Baron said.
“You’re welcome to stay with us…is it okay, Uncle?” Holly said.
“Sure, sure,” Seth said.
“Aye, you’re very kind. You have always been our good friends,” Elizabeth said. “But is your new home not quite small?”
“Well, it’s not like you need a lot of room, ya know,” Seth said. “No offense.”
“Of course,” Dallas said. “But I don’t know how we would keep the Turtle Man and his sister away. No one desires close quarters with those two.”
Holly, Seth, and the McIntyre family watched as fifteen men ran and jumped after flying paper while eleven others backed away from a possessed turtle.
Seven
Wylie Westerhouse
Branson, Missouri
I’ve never been to jail before, but the Branson City Jail is probably one of the nicer ones. My cell was the standard, no-frills version, but it was clean. The only smell came from several years of Pine-Sol. The mattress was much like the one I have at home. The meatloaf dinner I had two hours ago wasn’t bad, either.
It makes sense, I suppose. A tourist town like Branson is going to have its share of bar fights, drunk and dis-orderlies, and assorted other
misdemeanors. Out-of-towners are occasionally going to have to sleep one off before they get a wrist slap from a friendly judge. That judge might even ask them not to hold the experience against our friendly little town.
“Ya’ll come back and see us now, you hear?”
At eight A.M., I looked up from the bed when I heard a key rattling in the door. I sat up and saw the guard, Mr. Plimpton, his son, Porter, and another m—no, wait. It was Quentin Lynchburg, wearing a dark goatee and round, John Lennon-style glasses.
“You’ve made bail, Westerhouse. Let’s go,” the guard said.
“Are you all right, Wylie?” Mr. Plimpton asked. He grabbed my shoulder and looked me over.
“I’m fine, sir. Are you the one that’s uh... bailing me out?” I asked.
“I was on my way to do just that. I had Porter bring me down, in spite of all his complaining. But Mr. Lynchburg had already taken care of business by the time we arrived,” Mr. Plimpton said.
The guard said, “Mr. Plimpton. Mr. Lynchburg. The sergeant would like a word with you two gentlemen before you go, if you please.”
“Certainly,” Mr. Plimpton said. Quentin winked at me as he and Mr. Plimpton turned to go.
Porter Plimpton stepped to my side.
“So, now you have the rest of the day to look for a new job.”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“You really have no clue, do you?” Porter said.
“I didn’t know I needed a clue. So I guess I don’t. Have one.”
“The boy you sucker punched. You broke his jaw.”
“I was punched in the back, ambushed by three drinking-age men, and I threw a sucker punch? You need a better line of information, Mr. Plimpton.”
“I obtained the information first-hand, thank you. From Grady. He had to write it down, being unable to speak with his jaw wired.”
“Well, Grady is a liar. Your father will believe me.”
“Which side of the story do you think he will believe, you little twit?” Porter said through clenched teeth.
“The boy’s name is Grady Plimpton. He is my son.”
Of course.
“Well, you must be very proud,” I said. “Your son is a first rate audience heckler. That’s quite a skill to have in a town that’s known for its live music.”
“You watch your smart mouth,” Porter said. He faced me, and he was uncomfortably close. “An unemployed second-rate singer with an assault charge hanging over his head can hardly afford to keep making enemies.”
“So, your father is going to fire me, is that it?” I asked.
Porter stood silent for a few seconds, his nostrils flaring.
“He will by the time I’ve had my say.”
I couldn’t help smiling just a little.
“You don’t seem all that confident,” I said.
Porter’s eyes narrowed and he leaned toward me even further. Hmmm. Bacon and blueberry pancakes with maple syrup for breakfast—that would be my guess.
“Look, you little creep. That store lost money for ten years. I almost had him talked into selling or leasing the building until you came along.”
“So, let me get this straight. The store is turning a profit since I took over, and this makes me a bad guy?” I said.
“You know what I’m talking about. The way that old part of town is growing, I could be getting ten times the money by leasing that building,” Porter said.
“Don’t you mean that your father could be getting that much money?” I asked.
“Yes.”
Porter gathered his thoughts.
“Yes, my father, and I could be making that money. He spends his days on the golf course while I sell self-indulgent electronic crap to the spoiled brats of your generation. He protects that store like it’s his child after I almost had him convinced that it was obsolete. Now he intends to leave that place open until—”
“Until he dies?” I said.
Porter straightened up.
“Until it starts to lose money again, which I predict will not take long,” he said.
“I’m not so sure,” I said, crossing my arms.
“Why don’t you have your buddy Lynchburg buy you your own store? You could run it for him, you know, before you run home and cut his grass and clean his pool,” Porter said with a smirk.
“There is no reason to talk that way about Quentin. All he’s done to you is drop several thousand bucks into the cash register at Branson Music,” I said.
Porter leaned back in. Great.
“That’s just what this hillbilly village needs, isn’t it? A white trash millionaire?”
“Quentin’s not white trash,” I said.
“How would you know anything, kid? How many people of importance in this town do you know? How many members of the Chamber of Commerce? My Father would rather play golf with those people than talk business with them. That’s where I come in. I am acquainted with several people that are well aware of the goings on of one Quentin Lynchburg.”
Mr. Plimpton and Quentin returned from the sergeant’s desk.
“All set, Wylie,” Q said. “I guess you could use a ride to your car.”
“Yeah, thanks, Q.”
Mr. Plimpton said, “Wylie, I have tee times tomorrow morning and afternoon, but I would like to take you lunch on Tuesday. I hope that works for you. I’ll call you at the store tomorrow to confirm.”
“Sure, Mr. Plimpton,” I said, with some relief. ”Tuesday is—”
“Father!” Porter interrupted. “This boy assaulted your grandson. Are you seriously—”
“Porter!” Mr. Plimpton barked, in a voice I’d never heard him use, and from a face I had never seen.
“Your son got drunk and tried to humiliate Wylie in front of—” Mr. Plimpton began.
“But Father, he—”
“Don’t you interrupt me, boy!” Mr. Plimpton said.
Wow. Mr. Plimpton is a baddass. Who knew?
“Your son was drunk,” Mr. Plimpton said. “He tried to humiliate Wylie in front of two hundred people. Your son gets his feelings hurt and ambushes Wylie along with two of his friends—one of whom is brandishing a hunting knife. Wylie works two jobs while your son is in his fourth year of junior college and attempting to avoid ever having to do an honest day’s work.”
He waited for a few seconds to gather himself. Porter had folded up like a scolded puppy.
“Porter,” Mr. Plimpton said.
“Yes?” Porter said.
“I love you, Porter. And I love Grady,” Mr. Plimpton said, “But—”
Mr. Plimpton faced his son, and with a poke to Porter’s chest to emphasize each word—
“Do. Not. EVER. Preach to me.”
Q dropped me off at my car, which sat alone in the parking lot of the Majestic Mizzou. I plugged my dead cell phone into the car charger. I used it to make a merchandise order, which included a hefty charge for overnight shipping.
I called Johnny B., the assistant manager of Branson Music, and asked him to cover for me in the morning. I told him that my hand was sore and swollen from two punches in a row. He would find out what happened, soon enough.
I had voice mails from Nate and from Elvis Rushmore. I called Nate and left him a phone tag message letting him know what happened at the jail. Elvis answered my call on the second ring.
“Hey, Wylie. Thanks for calling back,” Elvis said. “One of the tour drivers called me last night. He said the cops had to break up a fight after your gig. They hauled you in, is that right?”
“I’m afraid so. I just got bailed out.”
“Wow, my mild-mannered neighbor goes out at night and turns into a superhero. I’m going to start writing that screenplay right now,” Elvis said. “Are you okay, Wylie? You haven’t been violated or anything, have you? I know a lot of attorneys. Lawyers love tattoos.”
“No, every thing’s cool, Elvis. Hey, do you know Quentin Lynchburg?”
“We’ve met. He seems like a good guy, but I don’t really know
him. A girl took me to a party at his condo after he had it remodeled. Man, his place is beyond incredible. When he parks in front of the store, every new person that walks in the door asks me if I have a James Bond car,” Elvis said.
“So you know where he lives, then. That’s what I need to know. He special ordered some stuff, and I can’t get hold of him,” I lied.
Aw, c’mon. It was a tiny little lie. I’ll confess later. Right now, I don’t feel like explaining why I want Q’s address.
“He’s in Biltmore Estates,” Elvis said. “I don’t know the number, and you can’t tell the place is anything special from the street. It’s on a big corner lot. The back of the place faces the big pond in front of the fifteenth green. I don’t remember if you can see the back wall from the road. If you can, there’s no doubt which one is Lynchburg’s. It’s three stories, and almost all of the back wall is glass.“
Elvis paused.
“But the easiest way to find it is to follow the birds.”
“Follow the birds?”
“Yeah. You can’t miss it. Trust me.”
“Okay, thanks, Elvis. Johnny B. is covering for me tomorrow, so I guess I’ll see you Tuesday.”
“All righty then, jailbird. Try to keep it under control, my friend,” Elvis said.
Monday morning I nursed a cup of coffee while sitting on the patio. Toby finished his bowl of dog food and then sat in front of me and raised one paw. That’s his signal that he’s ready for dessert. Today’s dessert consisted of two pieces of turkey bacon. The Fed-ex man showed up on schedule. I put Toby inside and drove to Biltmore Estates.
Q’s condo was easy to find. It was the birds, just like Elvis said.
The entire side of Q’s condo was a rock garden. The rock garden was home to hundreds of birds.