The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  Alan shrugged and gestured toward the door. “We’ll just have to keep our eyes open. Let’s get on our way. We’ve got a lot of places to go to. How about we start with Maggione’s shop? Korotkin said he was killed with a music stand, and I want to know if it was one of the ones he got along with the duffel bag.”

  ***

  The group stared through the front window of Maggione’s shop. Three strips of yellow police tape covered the entrance.

  “I thought it would look different,” Tom said, half to himself. “The way Korotkin was talking, it should look like a Halloween haunted house.”

  Alan laughed. “A really tacky one. Fake blood dripping down the inside of the windows and flowing under the door, right? He’s a bit excitable, our Mr. Korotkin.”

  Tom nodded, and put his nose against the window. “Wonder what a ghost-hunter might find in there,” he mused. After a moment, he brought his hands up beside his head to block the reflection from the evening sun. “Not that pile of junk he got with the duffel bag, anyway.”

  “You sure?”

  The boy moved a couple of steps closer to the door. “No, there it is. Dresser was in the way. I see the pole lamp, anyway. JJ, you’re taller ’n I am. Take a look, okay?”

  JJ plastered himself to the window. “What’m I lookin’ fer?”

  “Halfway back on the right. See that ugly lamp with the green shades?”

  “Huh. Yeah, got it. Piece o’ crap.”

  “You see any music stands near it?”

  “Jus’ one. Wood thing carved into a whozits. Treble clef.”

  “There oughta be another one, a bass clef.”

  “If it be there, it gotta be lyin’ down. Or maybe the cops took it away if that’s what whoever it were use to bash his head in. Too bad he di’n’ use the lamp.”

  “Goon,” Saramae said. “What difference does it make what he used? The guy’s dead.”

  “Esthetics,” Alan answered. “The lamp is crap from the seventies. Destroying it would make the world a measurably more beautiful place.” He looked at JJ. “You’ve got good taste, Mr. Jackson.” He clapped his hands. “Let’s go pay Ms. Nowlin a visit.”

  “Huh?” Saramae interrupted. “I thought we were going to check out Jarvis.”

  “There’s so much garbage in there the killer could have picked from. Why would he go out of his way to use something from her house unless he was trying to send some kind of message? So let’s go take a look and see what we can see. Besides, her house isn’t that far out of the way from here to Jarvis’ place.”

  ***

  Alan parked and slid down in his seat. At Saramae’s questioning look, he said, “I don’t want her to spot us hanging around.”

  From his seat behind Saramae, JJ called, “So what’re we lookin’ for?”

  “Anything that looks out of place.”

  “Outa place where? Saramae ’n’ me ain’t been here before, y’know.”

  “Oh, right.” Alan pointed across the street and up a couple of doors. “The little brown one with the gray trim.”

  A derisive chuckle. “How you esspec’ me to see anythin’ from back here?” A sigh. “Now, look, Alan—she don’ know me from nobody.”

  JJ got out of the car, quietly eased the door shut, and crossed the street. He ambled up the block as though he knew where he was going, and wasn’t in any hurry to get there. Just past the Nowlin house, he stopped and leaned against a tree. He pulled a pencil out of his breast pocket, mimed lighting it as though it was a cigarette, and pretended to smoke it, gazing vaguely back the way he had come. After several minutes, he continued up the street and around the corner.

  Saramae had snickered when JJ lit his “cigarette.” “He pulled that trick in math class one time before he dropped out,” she explained. “Got it backward and poked himself in the tongue. Said he tasted lead for a week.”

  A few minutes later, JJ strolled up the street from behind the car, and tapped on Tom’s window. “Slide over,” he said when Tom rolled it down, then settled behind Alan and shut the door. “Place look quiet. On’y one person home, I think. Least there on’y one light. Room in back, maybe a bedroom.”

  “If we come back, say, in the middle of the night, can you get us in there to look around?”

  “Like at Mickey’s? The whole herd of you elephants? Real bad idea. Jus’ me? Sure, no problem. ’Less she gotta ’larm, be a snap.”

  “Hmm.” Alan thought for a minute. “You’ll know what to look for?”

  “’Sides Mickey’s bag? Old piano strings. Old music. Anythin’ show she in Sedalia when Mickey was kilt, or her nephew were. Like that, right?”

  “You got it.”

  Alan was about to start the car when the front door of the Nowlin house opened. “Whoops! Hang on.”

  Ms. Nowlin locked her front door and, despite heavy use of her cane, managed to march to a dilapidated Ford parked in front of the house. Her hair was pulled back, and she had traded her shapeless dress for an old, but well-kept suit.

  Tom leaned forward between the seats to see what was happening, and whistled. “Cleans up impressively, doesn’t she? Alan, she’s not dressed up like that to go down to the corner store. She’s going all out to impress someone.”

  “Right. Let’s hope she’s not just meeting her boyfriend. JJ, you stay here while we follow her. When we’re out of sight, get inside, look around, and get out. Should be safe enough: she’s got a partly enclosed porch, and the houses aren’t one right on top of the next. We’ll come back for you as soon as we can.”

  JJ reached for the door handle, but stopped when Tom put a hand on his arm.

  “Just a sec.” Tom pulled out his phone and quickly set it to vibrate. “Not gonna unlock it, but at least we can call you if something comes up. If it vibrates, slide the green phone icon to answer it, okay?”

  “Coulda figgered that out myself.”

  “Now you don’t have to.” Tom bit back the urge to tell JJ to be careful with the phone. “Go, man. Move it, before we lose her.”

  Alan kept a careful half-block behind Ms. Nowlin. After the first turn, Saramae looked over her shoulder. “Hey, Tom, gimme your granddaddy’s number, in case we gotta split up.”

  “Two oh six,” Tom and Alan said in stereo before Alan laughed and let Tom finish.

  ***

  A man in his mid-forties, closer to three hundred pounds than to two, wearing a garish red shirt, was guarding the parking space closest to the front door of Niecie’s Restaurant when Ms. Nowlin pulled up in front. He waved her into the space and offered an arm to help her out of her car as Alan cruised past on the far side of the street.

  Saramae and Tom twisted in their seats and saw the old woman give her parking guardian a peck on the cheek before the mismatched couple moved to join a group of thirteen, seven men, five women, and a young girl, standing by the door to the restaurant. They clearly were waiting for her arrival.

  “Pull over so I can get out!” Saramae said. “Looks like a family dinner with every damn Nowlin in creation.”

  Alan pulled a quick left onto Sixty-fifth, and stopped in a no-parking zone. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m gonna go in there and tip an ear at ’em. If Jarvis is part of that mob, I can give you the heads-up and you can go hit his place like JJ is doin’ to hers. And maybe I’ll hear somethin’ else we can use. ‘One never knows,’ right?”

  “Are you crazy?” Tom exclaimed.

  “Heck, no. It’s a great idea, even if I gotta say it myself. None of them knows me any more than they do JJ. I go in, have a bite, and nobody’ll pay me no nevermind.”

  Alan stared at her, then nodded. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

  “Who, me? I’m the carefullest girl on Earth.”

  Alan sighed and stared at Saramae’s outthrust hand. “What?”

 
; “If I’m gonna buy some food, I need some money.”

  Another sigh and a twenty crossed the front of the car before Saramae got out and Tom moved into her seat.

  Saramae leaned through the window. “Hang loose a couple of minutes. I’ll let you know what I hear.” She walked slowly to the door of the restaurant, and made a little show of waiting impatiently at the door.

  Two hefty middle-aged women came up behind her and smiled. “You gonna like the food here, Honey,” one of them said. “Best food in K.C.”

  The girl nodded politely, then gave the women a couple of minutes to get inside and seated before she followed. The Nowlin party had pulled several tables together in the center of the room and were seated seven to a side. The little girl was sitting cross-legged at one end of the table, pouting. Saramae glanced around quickly, then slid into a booth near the other end of the table, behind the old woman. After a moment, she flipped open the menu and pulled out her phone.

  ***

  Alan’s phone signaled a text, which he read aloud. “nothappyfamily.14&1littlekid.jarvisb14sure,&hemixingitupwithabigailaboutalegacy.sheuroldlady&arealbitch.theycouldbhours,andtheyloud.Foodsmellsgood,cu”

  Alan and Tom exchanged shrugs, before Alan turned around and headed back north on Troost toward Jarvis Nowlin’s house on Forest.

  ***

  Saramae decided that even though the Nowlins looked thoroughly wrapped up in their discussions, she’d better make sure she didn’t blow her cover. When the waitress came by, she ordered chicken and waffles. Should last me long enough if I eat slow. Then she sat back at her table, took out her phone again, and began to type. Anyone looking at her would think she was just another teenager who couldn’t stop texting even to eat a meal.

  “theyfightingoverwhat2dowiththemusic,” she wrote. “Jarvis&halfofthemwantstosellitandmakeabundle.oldbitchabigail&someothersmean2putangeline’snameonit.Couplewants2burnitup&bedone.whoops,gottastop.morelater.”

  ***

  “Jesus,” Tom whispered. “You think she’s in trouble?”

  “Probably not,” said Alan. “If she were, I think she’d have ended with some kind of ‘Help’ message. Let’s go on with what we were planning; then if we haven’t heard anything else from her, we can go back and check after we pick up JJ.”

  Jarvis Nowlin’s street was a carbon copy of Abigail Nowlin’s. Small houses, generally well-kept, with semi-enclosed porches, separated by wide, scruffy side lawns. The house itself was a small step above his aunt’s. The white paint had been applied recently enough not to be peeling noticeably; beyond that, the only significant difference was a small sign warning the curious that the house was protected by an alarm.

  “Now what?” Tom asked, pointing at the sign. “It’s not even worth bringing JJ over if there’s an alarm.”

  “Maybe not, but we can take a look around.” Alan reached for his seatbelt release and winced.

  Tom caught the expression and quickly opened his own belt. “Peeking in the windows? That doesn’t need both of us. Take a break; I got this.” He jumped out, leaving the door slightly ajar, as JJ had done at Abigail’s.

  Alan swallowed a Vicodin while Tom walked to the front door, tucked his hand into his sleeve, and rang the doorbell.

  The door stayed closed. After a minute, Tom turned, glanced casually around, and strolled across the lawn. He peeked quickly between the bars over the living room window, shrugged and walked around the corner of the house.

  Alan crossed his fingers and held his breath when Tom disappeared and let it out in a long sigh when he reappeared almost immediately.

  “See anything?”

  “Nada. The only light on was behind frosted glass. Bathroom, I guess. Everything else was dark. Maybe we should bring JJ over.”

  “Maybe.” Alan sounded dubious. “Let’s go pick him up and see if he learned anything.” He tossed his phone to Tom. “Give him a call and let him know we’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  ***

  Saramae quickly tucked her phone away, and turned a big smile onto the little girl, maybe seven years old, at the long Nowlin table. The girl was glaring at the plate the waitress had just set in front of her, then pushed the plate away and turned sideways in her chair toward Saramae, her expression all but screaming “I’m bored and starving and pissed off.” All the adult Nowlins were engaged in their dispute; no one else was paying Saramae any attention. She made a “come’ere” motion with her finger at the little girl, who responded with a “You really mean it?” expression.

  Saramae nodded and turned her smile up another notch.

  The little girl slid off her chair and walked across to Saramae’s booth. “Hey, how you doin’?” Saramae patted the child’s shoulder.

  “Not so good. I had to come with my mom ’cause the babysitter punked out.” She inclined her head toward the Nowlins. They’s gonna be there forever, just fightin’ and fightin’. An’ I’m starvin’ for something good. My mom made me order the liver an’ onions, but I hate that stuff.”

  “Boy, that’s tough. Hey, my name’s Saramae. What’s yours?”

  “Angeline.”

  Saramae thought she’d managed to keep a straight face. “Nice name.”

  “Aw, there’s Angelines all over my family. The first one was like a zillion years ago. She wrote some music, an’ so a buncha us is named after her. Dunno what’s so great ’bout writin’ music. When I does it, only Grammy ever listen to it. Ev’rybody else, they just tells me to shut up.” She pouted. “They all fights over Great-great-great—” she stopped, counted on her fingers, and nodded her head decisively, “Grammy’s music, but they don’t care nothin’ ’bout mine.”

  “That sure ain’t fair. I’d love to hear one of your songs sometime,” Saramae said, mentally crossing her fingers. “Not right now, of course,” she added quickly when the little girl’s face lit up. “It’s not polite to go singin’ in a restaurant, right?”

  “Angie, what you doin’ over here, botherin’ this lady, huh?”

  Angeline’s mother—probably also an Angeline—looked about thirty, and thoroughly irritated. Talk fast, Saramae. “Oh, Ma’am, she ain’t botherin’ me at all. Fact is, I’d be glad to have her for company. I was supposed to meet my mama here for dinner, but she called at the last minute and told me she was sick. But I was here already, so I came inside to eat. If you don’t mind, I’d be happy to have little Angie sit with me and be my guest.” She slid a sly grin at the little girl. “They’ve got awesome peach cobbler here—we could have it for dessert, if you eat all your dinner first.”

  “Oh, Mama, could I do that? I likes this lady.”

  The mother squinted. Saramae held her breath.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t mind a bit, Ma’am.”

  “Well, okay, then. Guess maybe we’ll all be happier.”

  Little Angeline clapped her hands. Her mother walked off, back to the Nowlin table, returned a moment later with Angeline’s liver and onions.

  Saramae realized she was covered with perspiration. “Well now,” she said, pushing Angeline’s plate aside and sliding her own into the middle of the table. “If you don’t tell your momma you didn’t eat the liver, I sure ain’t gonna. You help me with my chicken, and then we’ll get us some of that cobbler. Sound good?”

  Angeline nodded enthusiastically, and grabbed her fork.

  “And while we eat, you can tell me all about that music they’re fightin’ over. Your Auntie Abigail has it at her house, right?”

  “Nah—she’s my gramma, not my auntie. She useta have the music, ’long with all the other stuff she keep from that Old Angeline, and she wants to get it back. But now my Uncle Jarvis got it, and he says he ain’t gonna give it to her, no way. He say it be worth a bunch a money,
a lot more money than it be worth to put Old Angeline’s name on it, like Gramma want to do.”

  ***

  JJ all but danced out of his hiding place beside the tree in front of Abigail Nowlin’s house. He plopped into the seat behind Tom and grinned.

  Tom glared at him. “You didn’t find anything either, huh?”

  “You kiddin’? JJ done brang the bacon!”

  Alan sat up straight. “You found the duffel bag!”

  “Well…” JJ visibly deflated a few PSI. “Okay, I di’n’t get the bacon, but I found the pig. Sorry.”

  “Found the pig? What the—?” Tom censored himself. “What are you talking about?”

  “Lissen. The ol’ lady don’t got an alarm, so I was inside five minutes after you left. I ’member what you say the dead guy, Maggione, tol’ you ’bout the bag bein’ in a room at the back of the house, so’s I start there. An’ when I open that door, I hit the jackpot.” He paused and looked smug.

  “What kind of jackpot?” Alan was on the edge of his seat.

  “Somebody turn a big closet into a kinda shrine. Old photo, really old, on the wall, couple a shelves full of junk, little table in front. Stack a music paper on one side o’ the table, an’ a buncha pieces a wire on the other.”

  “Wire?!” Alan and Tom chorused.

  “Piano wire. One ’bout yay long.” He held his hands up about a foot apart. “Look like somebody cut it offa bigger piece. The rest is smaller, mebbe half. Check it out.” JJ pulled out Tom’s phone, unlocked it, tapped a couple of times, and handed it to Alan.

  “Hey! That’s private!”

  JJ shot Tom a withering look. “Cool down, okay? I didn’ look at anythin’ ’cept the camera.”

  Alan ignored the squabble in favor of swiping through JJ’s photos. A long shot of the closet shrine. A close-up of the portrait on the wall, showing a pinch-faced woman in her sixties glaring directly at the camera. The wires, the long piece raggedly clipped at one end, mottled with corrosion along its length, the shorter pieces cleanly cut. And the top of the stack of music, a handwritten page titled “Lowdown Rag” and signed “A. Noland.” Alan held the phone near his face.