The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  After they dropped Saramae at her house, Alan headed for the Bothwell Hotel. JJ’s anecdote had triggered a notion he thought Tom should hear. “The first time I came to Sedalia, I was your age. And I had something happen I’ll never forget. There was a KKK man after me because I had a journal of Scott Joplin’s that he thought was worth a lot of money. He probably would’ve killed me, but a couple of black guys saved my life. One of them was called Sassafras Sam, because he dug sassafras roots and made tea to sell from them…and the other one was Tom Ireland. The KKK guy trailed Sam and me to Sam’s house, and when we picked up on him, Sam hid me in the woodshed. When I saw that Sam’s family was going to end up shot dead, I grabbed an ax, snuck into the house behind the bastard, and brained him. Sound familiar?”

  Tom’s eyes bulged. “Except for the fire iron…jeez, Alan. Same age, same town…what’d you do about the KKK man afterwards?”

  Alan paused, then said slowly, “Sam sent me off to Tom Ireland’s house, while he got rid of the body. I never did find out how.”

  “Rid of the body…Alan. You killed him?…oh my God, I never thought…could I maybe have killed Jarvis? I figured I knocked him cold.” The boy started to cry.

  Alan reached across the seat and gave his grandson’s arm a quick squeeze. “Yes, Tom. That KKK man was deader than dirt. I was really upset for a little while afterward, but once the feeling passed, it never has bothered me since. That man would’ve killed me if it wasn’t for Sam, and then he’d have killed Sam and his whole family. It was either-or. Tom, sometimes life deals us a hand we don’t like, but we have to play it. I don’t know if you killed Jarvis—we’ll have to find out; you need to be sure one way or the other. But remember this—if you hadn’t acted, we’d be only three of us back here in Sedalia now.”

  He paused to let the idea take root, then went on so Tom wouldn’t brood on it. “What I can’t get out of my head is how close your experience was to mine. We’re not the same person, but we’ve got a close genetic relationship, we’re on the same page with music—”

  Tom wiped his eyes. “Kind of a time-travel, you’re thinking.”

  “Well, maybe more like history repeating itself.”

  “Jesus…Does Gramma know you killed someone?”

  “She knows the whole story. I think that’s one of the reasons she’s never wanted me to go anywhere without her.” Alan shifted in the driver’s seat, trying to ease the ache in his spine. “I’m about done for the night. As soon as we get back, I’m going to give her a call and then we should take a good rest. We’ve been running non-stop too long, and I think something close to a full night’s sleep would do us both good.”

  As Alan and Tom came through the lobby of the Bothwell Hotel, the desk clerk reached behind him, then waved a piece of paper in their direction.

  “Mr. Chandler—Detective Parks wants you to call him as soon as you come in. He seemed quite upset that he hadn’t been able to reach you.”

  Alan’s stomach did a flip. He read the paper, grinned, and thanked the clerk. In the elevator, he passed the paper to Tom and deleted his phone’s call log. He pursed his lips and nodded.

  “Good.” A sigh. “So much for getting straight to bed.”

  In the room, Tom flopped on his bed as Alan dialed the detective’s number. “Yes,” he said. “This is Alan Chandler…well, no, Sir, I never…wait, now, hold on just a minute. The first I knew you wanted to see me was when the desk clerk gave me your written message…no, I’ll be glad to talk to you…I—look, I’m an old man, I’m ill, and it would be a lot easier for me if you’d come here. You can have all the time you want…good. Thank you, Sir. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  As the receiver settled into the cradle, Tom laughed. “For an old, ill man, sounds like you had the detective down on his knees.”

  “That’s what I hoped.” Alan looked at his watch. “Just a bit after ten—only eight in Seattle. It’ll take him a little while to get here. I’ll call your grandmother while I wait.”

  “Get the hard one over with first, huh?”

  “Probably.”

  ***

  “Miriam, hello. Did your meeting go well?”

  “Just fine,” crackled through the speakerphone. “We’re set up perfectly for the next year. And you? I don’t suppose you called to tell me you’re coming home.”

  “No. I didn’t. We’re making some progress. We think we know where the Joplin music is, and we may be able to get it back soon. And in any case, the police haven’t released us to travel away from Sedalia.”

  “Where is the music, Alan?”

  “We think it’s at the house of…” Short version. “…one of the descendants of a woman who felt Joplin had stolen music from her. The family is divided over whether they should present it to the world as their ancestor’s, or cash in on Joplin’s name.”

  “And they told you all that? How do you suppose you’re going to convince either of those factions to give you the music?”

  Alan thought of Saramae, pumping information out of Little Angeline at the restaurant. “Miriam, you know I’ve got my ways and means, and it would take more time for me to give you all the details now than either of us has to talk on the phone. Just take me at my word—”

  “Oh, I do. But only up to a point. Fine. You don’t want to tell me over the phone, you can tell me to my face.”

  “I told you, Miriam. If I try to come home now, the police will have the Seattle cops on me instantly, and—”

  “I understand, Alan. Though I’ll admit, I’m not sure how much faith goes in with that understanding. But if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain will get on the first plane to Kansas City in the morning. I trust you could meet me at the airport.”

  Loud sigh. “I could do that, Miriam, yes. I’m not going to try to talk you out of coming; that would be as futile as your trying to talk me into coming home. But I really am a bit concerned about what the police detective is going to insist I do and not do.

  “Now, there are four of us involved in this business: myself, Tom, and two wonderful ki—young people—who live here. None of those three has access to a car, and I’m the only one of us old enough to drive a rental car. It would help if you’d come in, rent a second car at the airport, and drive to Sedalia, the Bothwell Hotel, you know where that is. Then we’ll have a second car at our disposal, and a second driver. Would you do that?”

  “Jesus, Alan…yes, yes for Christ’s sake, I’ll do that. After sixty-four years, I should be used to this stuff.”

  “Good. Wonderful. Send me a message so I’ll know when your plane arrives, and I’ll be sure I’m in the room by the time you get here.”

  “All right, Alan. Sleep well.”

  “You too.” He hung up the phone and waved the conversation away. “Well, at least one of us will be here when you arrive.”

  Tom shook his too and snickered. “You want me to go out somewhere so you can be alone with our cop friend?”

  “No. He’d only ask where you are and wonder why, at this hour, and it would be one more thing for me to explain. Sit tight. Or lie tight. Hang tight.”

  ***

  Detective Parks’ knock was loud and long. Alan opened the door and motioned him in. “You won’t mind if I sit,” Alan said, and dropped into the desk chair. “My back is killing me.”

  “Nah. Go ahead.” Parks shot Tom a quick glance, then sat on the edge of Alan’s bed and gave him a long glare. “So you’re saying you never got my call on your cell.”

  “I am saying that,” said Alan. He reached for his phone, but Parks waved off the motion. “What number did you call?”

  Parks pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, dropped it on the table.

  “That’s it.” Alan shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Where have you been the past three hours, Mr. Chandler?”

 
“With all due respect, Sir, I don’t think I’m required to tell you my whereabouts, but I will say we had some dinner. You had my phone number, the phone was on, but the call apparently didn’t come through. Cell phones.” An elaborate shrug. “Not my fault. I’m willing to stay in the Sedalia area as long as you need me to, but if you need to know exactly where I am every minute, you can have an officer google my cell phone location.”

  Parks chewed on his lower lip.

  Alan leaned forward in his chair. “So here I am. What is it you’d like to talk to me about?”

  A sarcastic smile distorted the policeman’s face. “I think you might be able to help me with the case, Mr. Chandler. You’re a piano professional, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. I’ve played piano since I was eight years old, and it’s been the only job I’ve ever had as an adult.”

  “Good.” Parks reached into his pocket, pulled out a coil of wire in a clear plastic bag, and passed it to Alan. “What would you say this is?”

  Careful. He made a show of studying it. “I’ve seen this before,” he said. “If I’m not wrong, this is the string my friend Mickey Potash was strangled with…or one exactly like it.”

  “Yes, that’s right. But I don’t need help identifying it as a murder weapon. That was obvious. Can you tell me what it was before it became a murder weapon?”

  “It looks like a piano string, one of the low bass notes…it’s wrapped, you see. But, odd, it looks badly corroded, and I’ve never seen a piano string in that state. Never seen anything like these black stains here and there, either—”

  “Those are bloodstains, Mr. Chandler. Your friend’s blood, to be exact. But can you tell me how a piano wire would have gotten so corroded? You’ve never seen one like it, you say?”

  Alan shook his head. “Piano wire’s pretty sensitive—you don’t want to go touching it because the oils in your fingers will ruin the tonal quality. After that, you’ll see visible decay and the pitch goes off. But anybody who cares about their piano would replace the strings long before they get this bad. I’d have to think either someone spilled liquid into a piano, or the piano has been sitting outside, getting soaked in the rain.”

  “Do you have any idea why someone would have used this wire, of all things, to kill Mr. Potash?”

  “Mickey was a pianist. Maybe someone with a warped sense of humor thought the string was appropriate in a sick way. Maybe Mickey didn’t just hand the music over; he could be pretty caustic, especially if he happened to have a little of the sauce on board. But why an old, corroded string?” Alan shrugged. “What can I say? I guess I might look for a piano that had been left out in the rain, maybe in a dump, and try to trace things back from there.”

  The detective’s face went crafty. “You’re a pianist, Mr. Chandler. You want that music. You’re a top scholar on Scott Joplin and other ragtime composers from a long time ago. This couldn’t have been Scott Joplin’s wire, could it? Maybe I need to go to Seattle and take a look through your research materials.”

  Alan shook his head slowly. “You’re welcome to do that. But you’ll be wasting your time. I assure you, if I had a piano string that could be authenticated back to a piano Scott Joplin played, it would be displayed in a beautiful glass case in my music room. And I never, ever, would have used it to commit a murder.”

  Parks tapped a finger on the bed. “Okay…for now. Guess I’ll be turning Sedalia upside down looking for a piano left outside, with some of the bass wires—”

  “Strings, Detective.”

  “What?”

  “Once piano wire is cut to size and installed in a piano, it’s called a string. See the loop on the end? Making that loop at just the right distance from the end of the wrapping is something you do when you size the raw wire and make it into a string.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chandler. I’m sure that’ll be a big help.” Parks rolled his eyes. “I’ll go looking for a soggy piano with bass strings missing. I’m not going to push the matter of where you were this evening, but I expect that you will remain in Sedalia for a while longer.”

  “Yes, I’ll be here.”

  “And perhaps you’d like to take your phone to the Verizon store, let them look it over and make sure it’s receiving calls. One missed call, I’ll overlook. More than that, no. Kapeesh, Mr. Chandler?”

  “Loud and clear, Detective.”

  ***

  By the time Alan finished his ablutions, Tom was curled up in bed, half asleep.

  “Good night, Thomas.”

  “’Night, Alan.” A pause. “Hey, what’s that railroad thing Gramma calls you? About how you always know what’s going on in the ragtime community.”

  “Ticket Taker on the Gossip Express?”

  “Yeah, that. Too bad there isn’t anyone in 1899 who knows everyone and what they’re up to. Someone who could tell you what Angeline and Lathan are up to.”

  Alan chuckled. “That would simplify that particular mess, wouldn’t it?” He dropped into bed, expecting to fall asleep immediately, but found himself staring at the insides of his eyelids. Tom’s comment nagged him. He was sure he did know someone who knew all the players, but his damned porous memory refused to cooperate.

  Shortly after six, Alan bolted upright, vaguely aware that he had been asleep. “Ireland!” he shouted, then clapped a hand over his mouth and looked guiltily at Tom.

  Tom was flat on his back, arms flung wide. He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “Erin go bragh,” and resumed snoring loudly enough to rattle the lampshade on the bedside table.

  Tom Ireland! A newspaperman and a musician. In 1899, he was in his prime, and he knew everyone in town, black and white. And everyone, black and white, respected him. If I want to meet Lathan and Angeline…”

  Alan eased himself out of bed. Six hours of sleep wasn’t really enough, but he knew it was all he would get. Between his cancer, chemo-inspired insomnia, and a hot lead, no way he could get back to sleep.

  Alan considered his options while he used the bathroom and got dressed.

  I could look for him at his house on Osage, but that’s way the hell north in Lincolnville. Not someplace a white man should be wandering without an escort, then or now. I could try to catch him at one of the clubs, but God only knows what his schedule is like. Best to go to the newspaper. It’s downtown, at least.

  He settled himself at the table, and set out the piece of wire. Picturing the wire in the piano was easy, and so was zooming his mental image out to include the yard behind Mr. Taylor’s shop. He pulled back further, putting his viewpoint in front of the store.

  The Democrat was a morning paper, and Mr. Ireland worked nights. To catch him coming off shift…hmm…early morning, just before sunrise, I think. He filled in shadows, a hint of gray in the sky to the east.

  Alan started the music in his head. Not the theme on the invitation. “Maple Leaf,” as Mr. Joplin would play it. He rigidly suppressed all memory of Angeline’s cutting competition version. The music felt almost right, but not quite…Of course! He restarted the music, this time including the beer-induced tonal discrepancies and the buzzing of glass shards among the strings. As the piece continued, his recollection of the sour sounds improved, and by the end he was certain he had it down. He began again, and blinked as the light changed. He leaned against the front door of the piano and organ shop for a moment to collect his wits, then started north on Ohio, toward Third Street and the offices of the Sedalia Democrat.

  Alan’s original intention had been to wait outside the office until Mr. Ireland left. As he walked, he reconsidered. How good was his memory of his quarry nearly sixty years after the last time he had seen him? Even if his memory held up, Mr. Ireland would be a good fifty years younger.

  Fortune smiled. Alan stepped into the building, intending to ask the first person he saw, receptionist, reporter, or delivery b
oy, for directions to Mr. Ireland. The only person in the lobby was a janitor pushing a broom. Alan didn’t recognize his face, but his posture, especially the way he held his head, was unforgettable. Only Tom Ireland could turn sweeping the floor into a claim that he’d not only fix whatever problems the universe handed him, but he’d enjoy the doing. Assuming, of course, that he thought they were problems worth fixing.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Ireland? May I have a few moments of your time?”

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Alan Chandler. I have a problem I hope you can help me solve.”

  Ireland folded his hands over the end of the broomstick and gave Alan a long, considering look. “I trust you can provide a few details of this problem you want me to solve.”

  “I can and will. But it’s complicated and you have little reason to trust me. I believe Mr. Scott Joplin would vouch for me—but he’s at the center of the problem, and until I know more, I’d rather he didn’t know I was making inquiries.”

  That earned him a deep sigh. “I’m thinking this ain’t the kind of problem that can be solved standing here. I’ve got more floors to sweep. Suppose you have a seat in the office there. Mr. Stratton won’t mind. I’ll finish up, and then you can tell me about your problem.”

  ***

  “So, Mr. Chandler, I’d like you to start at the beginning. Who are you, where are you from, and what sort of a problem do you have with Scott?”

  Alan had considered the best way to present the problem.

  The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth is all well and good for the courtroom, but explaining about time-travel isn’t going to fly. Getting him to listen long enough to convince him I’m not crazy would be tough, and even if I pulled it off, it’d take too long. And it’s a good way to make myself too memorable. Mr. Ireland didn’t—won’t—remember an old fart named Alan Chandler when he met—is going to meet—a kid with the same name in 1951. I’d just as soon keep it that way. Keep it simple, focus on Angeline.