by Larry Karp
Blackstone chuckled. “Meaning my daughter isn’t?”
Saramae kept silent, unwilling to interrupt Tom’s recitation, but couldn’t resist sticking her tongue out at her father.
“Betty said Angeline left her husband and went around the Midwest playing piano, and then came back to Sedalia with a baby, James No-land. It sounds like Angeline was a real nut case. That was why James changed his name to N-O-W-L-I-N and moved his family to Kansas City—just to get away from her.”
Tom paused. Anything further, about the way the Nowlins had separated into the Greed Clan and the Fame Clan, had not come from Betty’s work, but from Saramae’s eavesdropping in the restaurant. He was sure Blackstone wouldn’t be happy to hear about that episode, so he went on talking as if the material had in fact come from Betty.
“It looks like over the years, James’ descendants have separated into two groups, both of them chasing this batch of Scott Joplin’s music. Don’t know why they haven’t worked together, but they absolutely won’t cooperate. So now we’ve got at least three factions, two bunches of Nowlins and the Blackstones. That’s about it, I think.”
Blackstone shook his head sadly. “What a shame. Two bashed heads—maybe more—and a murder…and over what? A torn-up old, black duffel bag with a bunch of yellowing sheets of paper in it. I’ll give you that they’re special sheets of paper, but are they worth a man’s life?”
“Oh, horseshit, Daddy. It ain’t like Joplin wanted anyone to git killed. He ain’t ’sponsible fo’ what people try an’ do with his music papers.”
Blackstone grunted, and they shared a rare moment of familial silence.
Eventually, Tom looked at his watch. “I’ve got to update JJ too, and then get back to the hotel.” He didn’t mention homework. “I can catch him at the Democrat—Saramae, you wanna come?”
“Sho’. Of course.”
Blackstone frowned. “It’s getting pretty late…aw, nuts. I know when I’m fighting a losing battle. You will see her back here before you go to the hotel, I trust.”
“Promise.”
As soon as the couple reached the sidewalk, Tom said, “I wanted you to come so I could say something I couldn’t say in front of your father.”
“That the only reason you wanted me along?”
“’Course not.”
She grinned and linked her hand into the crook of his arm.
“That business about the two lines of Nowlins…how they separated into the Greed Clan and the Hooray-for-Angeline Clan? You’re the one who found that out, but I figured we didn’t want your father to know how you learned it. But I wanted you to know that I know who really gets the credit.”
“Good thinkin’. That wasn’t so bad as breaking and entering, but try tellin’ him that.” She chewed at her upper lip. “But something’s not quite right…”
“Something like what?”
“Dunno. Can’t put my finger on it.”
“Maybe it’ll come out when we talk to JJ. You think it’ll bother him or his boss if we come in looking to talk to him?”
“Nah. Won’t take long; we’ll probably be gone before his shift even starts.”
***
Updating JJ didn’t shake loose whatever it was that bothered Saramae. Tom kept sneaking glances at her on the way from the Democrat back to her house.
She’s usually chattering like crazy. Why so quiet all of a sudden?
As they turned the corner onto Moniteau and walked toward the Blackstone house, Saramae suddenly let out a whoop and grabbed Tom’s arm. “I got it! Son of a bitch, I got it!”
“Ow! Hey, don’t tear off my arm. Got what?”
She didn’t answer directly, just towed him up the front walk, through the hall, and down the basement stairs. At the speed Saramae yanked him down the rickety wooden stairs, Tom was afraid they’d miss a step and wind up in a heap at the bottom. Saramae flipped a light switch at the foot of the stairs and pulled him across the room to an ancient furnace. She yanked the door open and pulled out a duffel bag.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Saramae erupted into a barrage of the foulest language. “Oh, that fucker!” she screeched. “Jesus H. Fucking Immaculate Conception Christ on a crutch. That son of a bitch, bastard! With his goddamn pure-white-fancy-ass Harvard talk. Cocksucker talks whiter’n you, for Chrissake.”
Tom slapped a hand over her mouth. “Shh! He’s gonna hear you and wake up.”
Saramae pulled the hand away. “No fuckin’ way. When he goes to sleep, he might’s well be dead. I could be yellin’ ‘fuck you’ in his ear, and he wouldn’t do more than turn over.”
She gave a savage tug to the strings at the top of the duffel bag, peered inside, then held it out for Tom to see. “That’s it, all right. If that ain’t all the music, I’ll eat it.
“See, now, here’s what was botherin’ me before. Remember what he said: ‘A torn-up, old black duffel bag with a bunch of yellowing sheets of paper’? But the Nowlins grabbed it way the fuck back in the seventies! He was what? Five? Four? And we’re supposed to believe he ain’t seen it since? Horseshit! Bullshit! Pigshit! If his old man even showed it to him at all—a little kid like that—he ain’t gonna remember it that well all these years later. I knew he had to have seen it pretty damn recently.”
Tom pointed at the furnace. “But how did you know…?”
“He thinks he’s so fuckin’ smart. He stashes all kinds of stuff in there. This old coal furnace hasn’t been used since Granddaddy put in forced-air heating before I was born. When Daddy’s workin’ on a juicy story at home, he doesn’t want to leave stuff that could be embarrassin’ out in the open where li’l ol’ me might see it and get my tender li’l titties all in an uproar. But I saw him sneakin’ my Christmas presents down here when I was five or six. Found ’em hidden in the furnace along with a bunch of papers and even a little money—some kind of emergency fund, I guess. Wasn’t interested in the papers back then, but now I sneak down sometimes to see what’s really goin’ on—the stuff he doesn’t put in the paper.”
The girl began to cry. “My father’s a crook. A thief and a murderer. Well, fuck that shit! He’s not gonna get away with it.” She yanked the duffel bag strings closed. “Come on.”
“What? Come on where? What the hell’ve you got in mind?”
She planted a hand on one hip, and regarded the boy as if he were an idiot. “Where do you think? I ain’t gonna go to the fuckin’ cops! We’re goin’ to the hotel and find your granddaddy. He’ll know what to do.”
***
Tom turned his key in the room door lock, pushed the door open, and motioned Saramae inside. From the bed nearer the window, Miriam stared at the youngsters. No one spoke.
Tom glanced at the bathroom; the door was wide open, no Alan there. No Alan anywhere in the room. Only one possibility. “He’s…t-time-traveling again?” the boy stammered.
He thought his grandmother might fly from the bed and do a couple of loops around the room, but she settled to turn a disapproving face on her grandson. “Either that or he’s wandering around the city somewhere, hallucinating,” she grumbled. “And I don’t know which to hope for. But don’t you think you might introduce me to your friend there? The one carrying a duffel bag.”
“Sure, sorry, Gramma. This is Saramae Blackstone, and she’s working with us…” He jabbed a finger at the duffel bag. “And she just found the missing music. Saramae, this is my gramma, Miriam Chandler.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Saramae,” Miriam said as she swung her legs off the bed. “Tom’s mentioned you once or twice since I got here.” She winked at the girl. “Maybe a few times more—certainly no more than a dozen, anyway.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Chandler…” Saramae extended the duffel bag toward Miriam, then lost her precariously held composure and started to bawl. “My goddamn…father’s a crook an
d a…murderer.” She dropped the duffel bag onto the floor and covered her eyes with her hands.
Miriam hustled over to the girl’s side, steered her toward the desk chair. “Come sit down and let’s talk about it.” She turned to Tom. “Sit down, young man. Let’s see whether we can all get to the bottom of this business.”
Tom dithered, then scooped up the duffel and set it on the table, covering his homework, not entirely by accident. He sat on the bed, close to Saramae.
Miriam bent and put an arm around the girl. “I can’t believe it. A respected man, raising a daughter, wouldn’t do something like that.” Saramae sniffled for a moment, then buried her face in Miriam’s shoulder and started crying again. Miriam looked at Tom and mouthed, “Help me out here!”
Stalling for time, Tom said “Saramae.” He touched her shoulder. “Saramae, look at me, please. Your father didn’t do it.”
Slowly, she turned toward him. “The hell he didn’t!” she said between sobs. “The bag was in his hiding place!”
Tom waved a hand dismissively. “But he didn’t kill Mickey. I’m sure of that. Gramma’s right. Your father might get all pissed off and take it out on somebody. But torture and kill someone? No way!”
Saramae’s expression said she wanted to believe Tom, but couldn’t quite bring herself to it. “But…”
“But, nothing. No way he’d do anything like that!”
Miriam nodded. “I don’t know your father, but from everything Alan’s told me, I’m sure Tom is right. Take a deep breath, wipe your eyes, and let’s figure out how to prove it.”
***
Alan kicked Bryant-Tewmey’s front door.
Damn it! No, of course they’re not going to open today. Nobody in Sedalia is open on Sundays, even in 2015. They’re sure not going to be any more liberal now. He kicked the door again. It rattled, but didn’t open. He glanced around. I could break the display window, but the sun’s up. Somebody might see me, and then I’d be well and truly fucked. Maybe there’s a back door.
He walked the few steps to the corner and looked down Fourth. There was a gap between the back of the dry goods store and the next building along the street. Or a window that isn’t so obvious. Alan walked slowly down the sidewalk, staying close to the building in an attempt to stay hidden in the shadows. A dozen steps, and the light changed, early morning sunlight replaced by late night darkness broken by electric streetlights.
What the hell? Alan leaned against the wall next to the Bothwell’s front door and took a deep breath. A moment’s thought gave him an answer.
Like when I time-traveled from Fitter’s. I came back when I got close to the music. This time, I bet it was the wire. Nothing to do with going inside. The wall of the building must be close enough to our hotel room to do the trick. Good to know.
He swallowed a Vicodin and stretched his back, trying to work out the pain before facing Miriam.
***
Saramae wiped an arm across her eyes, stared at Miriam and Tom for a second. “Can…can I have a tissue?”
“Here you go,” Alan said, handing her several.
“Alan!” A duet by Miriam and Tom, followed a second later by Saramae’s solo “Mr. Chandler!”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle anyone. I must have been right behind you kids—somebody was going up when I got to the elevator. Saramae, they’re right. Your father might’ve stolen the bag from Mickey, but he didn’t kill him. Remember the autopsy report?” Before she could answer, he held up a hand. “Hang on a second. I’m really behind on my meds.” He stepped into the bathroom and started gathering pills from the bottles on the counter.
Miriam asked the room, “Will somebody please tell me what the autopsy said?”
“The cause of death was strangulation with piano wire,” Tom replied.
Saramae nodded. “And—” A vigorous sniff. “’Scuse me. And he was burned with cigarettes and beaten up.” Her face lit up. “And my daddy doesn’t smoke.”
Alan came back into the room and claimed the chair. He rested a hand on the duffel bag, but forced himself not to open it. “It also said the pattern of bruises and scratches suggested that the torturer was right-handed and wore rings. I don’t recall your father wearing a ring.”
“He doesn’t. He took off his wedding ring a couple of years ago when he tried online datin’. It didn’t go anywhere, but he never put the ring on again. And he’s left-handed, like me.” She took a deep breath and looked relieved for an instant, then frowned. “But none of that proves anything. Easy enough to buy cigarettes. And the other stuff, he coulda done to fake out the cops.”
Alan nodded slowly. “True. It’s all what a lawyer would call circumstantial evidence—like JJ being out looking for his father around the time Mickey died. None of it is proof, but pile up enough, and it does a good job.”
Miriam harrumphed. “Maybe in a court, Alan, but not in the heart. There’s only one way to prove her father’s innocence where it matters.” She tapped her breastbone. “You—we—have to find the real killer!”
Alan held both hands up at head level, palms forward. “You’re right, you’re right. But a lot easier said than done.”
“Heck, it’s gotta be Abigail or Jarvis,” Tom put in. “That’s what you said at Betty’s. They didn’t steal the duffel bag, but that doesn’t let ’em off the hook for Mickey. Makes one of ’em even more likely—trying to make him tell where the bag was, but he couldn’t because he didn’t know.”
A long moment of silence passed while everyone processed the idea before Alan slapped his forehead. “That’s what Mickey was trying to tell me! Tom, where’s that note?”
Alan snatched up the page from Tom, and tapped the music at the top. “Swipesy Cake Walk. That’s what pointed us to JJ in the first place.”
Miriam and Saramae exchanged baffled looks, which Alan missed completely.
“I’ll explain later,” Tom whispered.
“We thought Mickey wanted to say he was afraid the thief might come back.” Alan was caught up in his brainstorm. “And he was, but it’s also a clue. He mentions two of Fats Waller’s songs—mischief and misbehaving—and even wrote Fats’ name to tell us the thief was a big black guy. Like your father, Saramae. Right? And we know the thief didn’t come back. Why should he? He had the music.”
“Still just more circumstantial evidence.”
“But it also backs up Tom’s idea. The thief left and Mickey didn’t know if he got away with the duffel bag or not, because he was too drunk to open the hidey-hole. So when the killer started torturing him, Mickey couldn’t tell him anything.”
Saramae nodded, a little reluctantly. “Okay, I see that. But Daddy coulda come back and—no, wait, I get it. Even if Daddy thought Mickey recognized him, and came back to shut him up, there wasn’t any reason to torture him.”
“Right.” Alan didn’t point out there was no evidence proving the torturer was also the murderer. “So now what?”
Miriam spoke up. “Now we get some sleep. It’s the middle of the night, and Saramae’s father isn’t going anywhere. Neither is the killer. So let’s pick this up in the morning. You’ll plan your next move better with clear heads.”
Saramae glanced at the bag. “I gotta talk to Daddy about this.”
“Not now, though,” Alan said. “Wake him up in the middle of the night, accuse him of being a thief…That’s not going to be a good conversation. And it’ll cause a big fuss. Let’s find the killer, settle the whole mess. Then you can talk to your father.”
“But how am I gonna sit there at breakfast and not say anything?”
“That, we can fix.” Miriam reached for the desk phone. “We’ll get you a room here. You don’t want to be going home this late anyhow. Tomorrow, you can tell him you’re following a hot lead. That’s nothing more than the truth.” She turned a mild Gramma Glare on Tom. “Put your tongue
back in your mouth, Puppy. You’re sleeping right here, in the same bed you’ve had all week.”
***
A little after eight, Alan gave up trying to get back to sleep. He sat up slowly and quietly so he wouldn’t wake Miriam.
These days, five hours is doing well. Might as well get up and dig into that bag while I wait for everyone else.
“All right, Buster, just what did you think you were doing last night?” Miriam sat up and leaned back against the headboard.
Alan groaned and leaned back as well. “Well—”
“Skip the three lies you have queued up. It’s too early in the morning for your nonsense.”
“Lies? Moi?”
“You.” Miriam elbowed him in the ribs. “I asked you to wait until I got back. Why did you take off?”
“It wasn’t entirely my idea. Time-travel is more like composing than performing. You know how I get wrapped up in the music when I’m writing. You’ve complained about it often enough—dinner cold because I needed five more minutes that turned into a couple of hours. If you asked me to wait on the time-travel, I didn’t really hear you.”
“You had me scared to death, Alan! You could have been in trouble—dead, even—and I never would have known!”
“Shh, let’s not wake Thomas. I’m sorry, I really am. Once I went, one thing led to another. And then I had trouble getting back. If you thought nothing happened on Sundays in Sedalia now, you should see it in 1899. I had to—well, that can wait.”
“The only reason I agreed to let you do it—”
“Agreed?”
Miriam ignored the interruption. “—was to settle the question of where you were once and for all. You disappeared for hours and came dancing in here like nothing had happened, and we still don’t know what’s going on with you. No more!”
“Miriam—”
“No. More. I mean it. Alan, I go where you go. That’s always been our agreement. Whether you’re going to 1899 or someplace inside your own head, I can’t follow you. And I can’t protect you if I’m not there.”