The RagTime Traveler

by Larry Karp

  During Betty’s report, Alan had been studying the pedigree. “Yes!” he shouted. “Look at this. There are a few lines of Nowlins. Here, we’ve got Jarvis in the…let’s see…the fourth generation. And over there, look, there’s Abigail Nowlin and her granddaughter, another Angeline. She’d be that little girl in Niecie’s. Abigail’s son is Nelson, and…Tom—didn’t Saramae say there was a Nelson at the restaurant? I think it all checks out. Old Angeline died in 1951, plenty of time for her to have gotten Abigail Nowlin under her spell. So that’s the branch of the family that wants to get their hands on the music to publish it as Old Angeline’s. And the Jarvis branch, they’re the ones who just want to make a pile of money on it. And the ones Saramae heard in the restaurant saying they want to burn it all and wash their hands of the whole mess are probably scattered around in the other lines.”

  “Yes!” Tom was bouncing in his seat. “And Saramae said nobody paid any attention to the burners.”

  “Right. So the only ones that matter, the only likely possibilities for the thief-and-killer, are the ones greedy for money or fame. Jarvis or Abigail. We just need to find out which.”

  Betty beamed. “So, I’ve been some help to you.”

  “A lot. A whole lot.”

  ***

  The drive back from Betty’s had been silent. Alan’s back was aching again, Miriam was obviously thinking hard, and Tom was staring blankly out of the window.

  “Thomas.”

  Tom winced. It was never a good sign when his grandmother used his full name.

  “Weren’t you the one who promised to keep your grandfather out of trouble? ‘Won’t let anything happen to him’—weren’t those your words?”

  Tom knew a rhetorical question when he heard one. He kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes.

  “Don’t you roll your eyes, young man,” Miriam shot over her shoulder. “I could hear it all the way up here.” She twisted around in her seat to give him a half-strength Gramma Glare. “I know nobody can keep this old reprobate out of trouble. You’re obviously just as bad, but you’re young enough that you might still be teachable. Next time you go off on one of these little jaunts…You. Will. Keep. Me. Informed!” She turned the glare up to full-strength. “Hear me, Thomas?”

  “Yes, Gramma.”

  “Good.” Miriam rolled her own eyes. “Two of you, alike as two wooden nickels. Girl doesn’t stand a chance with the pair of you ganging up on her.”

  Alan interrupted, “Wooden nickels?”

  That got him a glare of his own. “Too weird to toss out, too worthless to keep. That’s you. Both of you.”

  Alan grinned. “Weird and worthless? Sounds about right.” He eased the car to a stop in front of the Blackstone house and hit the button to unlock Tom’s door. “Give Saramae an update on what we learned from Betty,” he said and glanced at his wristwatch. “By the time you’ve done that, JJ should be at the Democrat, and you can swing past there and update him—better than having to walk all the way up to his house and back.”

  “And then you get yourself back to the hotel,” said Miriam. “Your homework will be waiting for you.”

  “Homework? Gramma!”

  “Yes, Thomas, homework. A couple of pages of Math, some Social Studies and English reading, and the instructions for next week’s Biology lab.” She frowned. “A week to dissect a daffodil? I’m going to have a talk with your counselor when we get home.”

  ***

  The hotel room door had barely closed behind Alan and Miriam before she demanded, “Out with it, Alan. You’ve been talking around something all evening, you and your junior delinquent.”

  Alan sighed. “Hard as it might be for you to believe, that’s what I was planning to do.” He eased himself into the desk chair with a sigh. “Car seat’s too damn soft.”

  Miriam kicked off her shoes and settled herself on the bed. “Which has nothing to do with whatever you couldn’t tell me in front of Betty. Something with your cancer?”

  “No! Well…I don’t think so, anyway. It’s complicated.”

  “Isn’t it always?” She thought for a moment. “It’s got something to do with Saramae, doesn’t it?”

  Alan choked.

  “Oh, I know it’s not like that—though don’t think I haven’t noticed how Tom keeps bringing her up! But you’ve been talking about her however-many-greats-grandfather like he’s a personal friend. I’ve heard you talk about Scott Joplin that way. Some of the other old ragtimers. But never a non-musician.”

  “I have been talking like I know him, haven’t I? Brace yourself, Miriam. That’s because I do. In a very strange way.” Alan took a deep breath and dived back into the explanation again. “Since we got our hands on those few pieces of music, I’ve been traveling in time. I’ve visited 1899 five—no, six—times…”

  ***

  Miriam leaned against the headboard. “Okay. I think I get it. Either you’re time-traveling—which I doubt—or you’re hallucinating. But why is there any question? If you’re imagining it, then your body ought to be sitting right here in the present. Correct? What does Tom say?”

  Alan suppressed an urge to wince. He had been hoping Miriam would miss that point. “I’ve never done it when anyone was around,” he said. For a moment he thought he was going to get away with it.

  “Wait a sec. Wasn’t there something…right. Your first morning here, when Tom couldn’t find you. That was while you were on your first trip, wasn’t it?”

  “Well, yes…” Alan resigned himself to his fate.

  “So you’re wandering around Sedalia with your head in 1899. Alan! You could get killed just crossing the street.”

  Deep sigh. “I know. The most I can say is that I haven’t been killed or even injured. That would be unlikely if I was hallucinating. It’s part of the reason why I think I really am going to 1899.”

  Miriam’s scowl spoke volumes. “You do, do you? It’s ridiculous, and you know it! If you’re hallucinating, walking around in some kind of daze, I want your doctors to see you right now.” She folded her arms. “We’re going to settle this once and for all. Go. Take another trip. If you vanish, well and good. But if not, and you try to walk out of this room, we’re getting on the next flight back to Seattle, and your Detective Parks will just have to lump it. Take as much time as you need. Tom won’t be in any hurry to leave Saramae, so we won’t be interrupted.”

  Alan surrendered. “All right. Let’s see…” He pulled the piece of piano string and the card out of Tom’s backpack, set them on the table, and considered where and when to go. The obvious answer was Angeline’s meeting with Scott Joplin. Alan tried to picture the scene, Angeline and Joplin facing off across a table. He had the mental picture of the card in the lockbox under the bar and the piano string in the piano, the sound of the card music, and “Maple Leaf Rag,” but no matter how he put them together, that sense of rightness and wrongness eluded him.

  Nor was the concentration he needed quite the same as he used in playing piano. The best performances depend on a feedback between performer and audience. He might not be disturbed by the audience, but he always knew they were there and how they were responding to his music. Time-travel needed a more self-contained level of concentration, shutting out the present to allow the past to take over. He couldn’t summon it, not with Miriam’s eyes digging into his forehead. After a few minutes, he shifted the chair around to the other side of the table, putting her behind his back. That was slightly better, but the necessary state still eluded him.

  ***

  Miriam shifted uneasily. Dinner had been delicious, but it was making its way through her digestive system and dealing with it was starting to become an urgent issue. Finally, she stood. “Don’t do anything until I get back.”

  Alan absently waved a hand. He had given up on joining the meeting between Joplin and Angeline
, and was ready to settle for catching Joplin alone and getting his version of the discussion. Without the pressure of Miriam’s presence, the scene snapped into focus. Joplin at the club’s rented piano, darkness outside the windows. The piano string, he felt, was under the bar. He started playing the card strain in his head. Yes, the string was under the bar. In an envelope, he was almost sure. The card was in the lockbox. He started the strain again. Once again, a night’s accumulation of debris scattered around the room. Walker Williams descending the stairs with a box full of empty bottles. That was right.

  Alan took a step forward. “Mr. Joplin! May I have a few minutes of your time?”

  ***

  Miriam flushed the toilet and washed her hands. As she dried them, she realized she hadn’t heard any noise from the room in several minutes. “Alan?” No response. “Oh, that man!” No Alan in the room. No Alan in the hall. She wasted about a second and a half dithering between checking the stairs or taking the elevator straight to the lobby before deciding on the latter.

  The elevator arrived quickly; the ride down was only slightly longer than the wait. No Alan in the lobby. Miriam shot a glance at the desk clerk. His attention was riveted on something behind the counter.

  Must be watching a movie on his phone. Wouldn’t notice a flock of loons flying through here, let alone one loony old man.

  She loosed a sharp “Damn!” before looking around guiltily to be sure nobody had noticed.

  ***

  Joplin looked up and smiled. “Alan!” He stood, closing the fallboard over the keys, and crossed the floor, holding out his hand, then withdrawing it to cover a yawn. “I beg your pardon. A long night. It’s always a pleasure to have an enthusiastic audience, but you know how draining that can be.”

  Alan shook the re-extended hand. “I do, and I’m sorry to burst in on you at a time like this. Unfortunately, I have little say in when I can pay you a visit.” He shrugged and glanced around the room, making sure they were alone. “Tell me, please, how long has it been since I was last here, the day after the piano was damaged?”

  After a moment’s startled pause, Joplin thought aloud. “The fight was Wednesday night, and it’s now Saturday—Sunday morning, to be precise.” He frowned at Alan’s muttered curse.

  “My apologies. I had hoped it would have been sooner.” Alan pulled a chair away from the closest table and sat. “I need to pry into matters that shouldn’t be any of my business. Will you allow me?”

  “If your questions are so important that you violate the laws of Nature to ask them, it would be foolish of me to deny you.” A second later, Joplin smiled. “Still, the laws of Man allow me to decline to answer any question that offends me excessively.”

  Alan nodded to acknowledge the point. “Thank you. I’ll be blunt. More so than I’d like to be. Mr. Joplin, I understand you recently met with Angeline Blackstone—or rather, Angeline Noland.”

  It hadn’t been a question, but Joplin nodded. “She gave the latter name. An uncomfortable meeting. You wish me to describe it?”

  “Please.”

  “It was, let me see, two or three weeks ago. She sent a note asking me to come to the Black 400 Club to discuss a matter of some importance. She was polite at first. Told me that the trio of ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ was hers.”

  Joplin’s sigh, Alan thought, was more theatrical than the situation really warranted. “I explained that six other people had already laid claim to ownership of that piece, the only one of whom I had so much as met being Otis Saunders.” He looked at Alan. “Otis did, on occasion, play a theme I thought had some potential. Over several months, I developed it, brought out that potential, and used it.”

  Alan raised an eyebrow.

  Interesting. A contribution to “Maple Leaf”? I don’t think any ragtime scholar has found a hint that Mr. Joplin would give Saunders any credit whatsoever!

  Oblivious to Alan’s surprise, Joplin went on. “I told Mrs. Noland as much. That displeased her. ‘Otis,’ she said, ‘took that theme from me. Listen!’ She played a rag built on the theme. It was certainly similar to Otis’ version, and despite being the first strain of the piece, far from fully developed.”

  He shrugged. “I pointed out that the question of who played what for whom was a matter she should discuss with Otis—but regardless of who the Muses first bless with an idea, music belongs to the man who develops the idea, writes it down, and publishes it. That being the case, neither she nor Otis was due any portion of the proceeds from ‘Maple Leaf Rag.’

  “She gave me a look then, Alan, that put me unpleasantly in mind of a lion in a circus menagerie: grim and with far too many teeth. ‘Oh, I don’t want any money, Mr. Joplin,’ she said—you understand I’m paraphrasing, sparing your ears and my tongue her vulgarities—‘You must admit that without my involuntary contribution, ‘Maple Leaf Rag’ would be a far poorer composition. I simply want my contribution recognized. An introduction and recommendation to your publisher and my name on the sheet music as co-composer.’”

  Even though Lathan had told him what Angeline had demanded, Alan was still surprised. He had assumed she had shown Joplin several pieces. “A recommendation? On the basis of a single piece of music? Ridiculous!”

  “My exact words, Alan. An introduction to Mr. Stark? Certainly. I’ve introduced many musicians to him. But a recommendation was quite out of question. Nor would he be likely to publish her music if she couldn’t deliver it on paper. When I said as much to Mrs. Blackstone, she puffed up and raised a hand as though preparing to scream and strike me. I stood, getting ready to depart before she could carry out any assault, but she mastered herself. Between clenched teeth, she said ‘I am quite capable of writing music, and “The Queen of Calico Rag” is hardly my sole composition.’

  “I might have apologized for my assumption of her ignorance, however much her speech had justified it, but she then swore at me, accusing me of the commission of a variety of unnatural acts. I wouldn’t allow a man to say such things about me, and I was not going to listen to a woman do it. I informed her that the interview was over, and left.”

  I doubt his exit was that easy or graceful. For that matter, I doubt he was really as polite as he claimed when she demanded credit for “Maple Leaf.” But I suspect his version is closer to the truth than Lathan’s.

  “And since then?” Alan asked.

  “I haven’t spoken to her since, though she has dogged my footsteps, appearing at performances to glare at me throughout. She was here Wednesday night, in fact, wearing a ridiculous hat, I assume to ensure that I couldn’t fail to see her.”

  Alan nodded. “I saw the hat.” He wasn’t ready to mention what else he had seen Angeline do.

  Walker Williams had been moving around the room, cleaning up the previous night’s garbage, but keeping enough distance to allow Alan and Joplin some privacy. Now, however, he approached the table, an envelope in his hand. He nodded at Alan. “Mr. Chandler.”

  “Mister Williams. Good morning.”

  “Good enough. ’Pologies for interrupting, Scott, but I found this behind the bar ’long about midnight. Wanted to give it to you afore I went home.”

  Joplin took the envelope with a smile. “And it was a good excuse to tell me to get on home so you can lock up.”

  “Now, I never said that!”

  “Doesn’t mean you weren’t thinking it. All right, Walker. A few more minutes to finish our discussion, and I’ll pick up my music and we’ll clear out. Alan, let’s move to another table so Walker can clean this one—or have you learned what you came for?”

  Alan was looking at the envelope, blank except for the word “Joplin” in slightly uneven block letters. His impression that the piano wire had been in an envelope under the bar remained with him, and the question of what else might be with it was an uncomfortable one.

  When Joplin spoke to him, he shook himself free of thinking, a
nd stood. “I thought I had my answer, but I have a feeling that envelope will ask some new questions.” He crossed to the piano with Joplin following. “It’s silly of me, but I feel safer in front of a keyboard.”

  “Safety in Euterpe’s arms? Not so silly, I’d say. The Muse should take care of her own, after all.” Joplin sliced the envelope open with a clasp knife and shook the contents onto the fallboard.

  Much to Alan’s relief, the envelope held nothing more than a single sheet of paper and a foot-long piece of piano wire, cleanly snipped at one end and crudely hacked at the other. Alan waited impatiently while Joplin scanned the unsigned letter. It wasn’t more than a minute before the composer frowned and handed it to Alan.

  You lousy son of a bitch,

  The Bible say if you be proud, God will destroy you. Preacher say the higher you look, the easier it be to stumble and the farther you fall.

  You steal my music and you proud of the tiny fame your theft has brought you. You the lowest of the low, no matter what you think, and soon you be reminded where you belong.

  This wire and another helped you up where you think you is, and soon they show you how low you truly be.