by Larry Karp
“Well…Mickey told me he’d called in this friend of his, Alan Chandler, another piano player, and the biggest Joplin expert in the world.” Jarvis pursed his lips, shook his head. “Two things about Chandler—one was that if he said the music was Joplin’s, then it was Joplin’s, period. And the other was Mickey figured Chandler would come across with some nice dough t’ get his hands on th’ music. And the more I thought about that, the more I started to get a little nervous. Seemed t’ me, Mickey was tryin’ t’ cut me outa the deal. So I went into Sedalia the other night, I was gonna talk to Mickey and y’know, get him and me back on the right track.”
Jarvis paused, rubbed fingers across his mouth. Miriam stiffened, and made a stern face. “Just tell me straight. The way it happened.”
“Mickey, he was a guy liked his sauce, an’ when I went into his house, I call his name, but he don’t answer. So, good, I think, maybe he ain’t home, an’…y’know, maybe I can put my hands on the music, skip out, and I’m back where I started, it’s me got the music. And maybe I can make a deal with Chandler. So I go lookin’, but no luck. I check almost the whole house, nothin’. He got music in cabinets, shelves, everythin’, but no sign of my music. There’s even this one closet got a lock on the door, but somebody’d bashed the lock off, it was layin’ on the ground, an’ the door was wide open. An’ then I go in the bedroom, and yeah, there’s Mickey in his bed, and he’s drunker’n any skunk I ever laid eyes on.
“I try askin’ him what happened, and he just giggles, and says the music, it’s all gone, Fats Waller was Misbehavin’, he busted in and ran off with all the music. I tried soberin’ him up, tried to find out what really happened, but the more I tried, the more he giggled, and then he started cryin’, and I told myself shit, this ain’t gonna work. So I snagged this picture of Joplin and his Kraut buddy off the wall. Mickey was real fond of it, so I figgered I could come back th’ next day, tell him I holdin’ the picture hostage till I get what’s comin’ t’ me, we go from there.
“But there I am, goin’ on back home, and the more I think about it, the more I’m sure what the hell is happenin’. It could on’y be one other person, broke in there and copped the music. My crazy-ass sorta-cousin Abigail. The more I thought about it, the surer I was, and also the more pissed off. Then last night some asshole kid breaks inta my house, I figure Abigail sent him to give me what that Maggione jerk got. I goes over to Abigail’s. Woke her up, she said, and she started callin’ me names. Next thing I knew, there was blood all over, she was screamin’ t’ bust my ears, and here come the cops, and there I go. Dumb move, I gotta admit, but fuck!” Jarvis belched mightily and swayed in his seat. “She’s still gotta have that bag fulla music someplace in her house, and I’m gonna get it off her somehow. But I promise, no more trouble. No rough stuff. That just don’t work.”
“Well.” Miriam favored Jarvis with her patented tight-lipped smile, then drummed fingers on the clipboard papers. “That’s quite a little story.”
“Well, it’s true. Every word. What happens now?”
Miriam rose slowly, stretched. “I go back to the office, get your story typed up, and file my report.”
Jarvis squinted. “Am I gonna have to get some kinda counseling? Like anger management?”
Miriam edged past him toward the door; he stayed seated. She thought he looked like a penitent little boy. Why the hell can’t I have this kind of effect on Alan? “I’m not supposed to comment to clients,” she said. “But really. Don’t you think a big man like you who beats up an old woman…for any reason…ought to try to do something about it? But on the good side, everything considered, I suspect if you do get counseling, you won’t get any jail time.”
On her way past the little side table, Miriam paused, picked up the whiskey bottle, and dropped it into the wastebasket. “Good luck, Mr. Nowlin. Use your head. Behave yourself. Maybe if your head isn’t full of booze, you can make better decisions.”
Once out the door, it took all Miriam’s self-control to keep from breaking into a run, but she maintained social-worker demeanor all the way back to the car. Saramae gave her a sullen look as she returned to the passenger seat. “Get anything useful?”
Miriam slid behind the wheel, turned the key, and peeled away from the curb. “Bet on it. I think I may have discovered a new career. I’ll fill you in on the way home, but the important thing is that Jarvis isn’t the killer.”
The young woman’s expression brightened. “Then it’s gotta be Abigail! We could zip over there and take her down!”
“No. Absolutely not. I’m not prepared to break the law more than twice in one day.”
Saramae flopped back in her seat and folded her arms over her chest as Miriam headed for the freeway.
***
Hours later, Saramae was still sulking. She felt ridiculous pacing in the tiny hotel room, twisting around the corner of the bed every few steps, and that just added to her frustration. Still, pacing beat all hell out of sitting down and staring at the wall. And griping to an audience of furniture was better than listening to lingering doubts about her father’s innocence.
“Damn it!” she said for at least the fifteenth time. “Everyone agrees! If it wasn’t Jarvis who killed Mickey, it had to be Abigail.” She stomped across a pillow she had earlier thrown on the floor. “Argh! I coulda handled her all by myself—and we were right there in Kansas City. We shoulda gone to her place and made her spill her guts.”
She stopped to glare at her reflection in the TV. “But no. Buncha crap!” Saramae didn’t give her reflection a chance to respond. “We came all the way back here, and the guys are too excited about the music to do anything! Jeez!”
Saramae glanced guiltily at the manuscript of “Will’s Way” on the table and dropped into the room’s only chair. “Okay, I’ll admit, that’s kinda neat—I mean, a song my own triple-great grandma wrote for my double-great granddaddy? That she wrote with her own hands, not a printed copy? And Mr. Chandler let me keep it, just because I thought it was cool. He’s an okay guy, and I know he’s sick and hurtin’, but damn it, he can’t go to Kansas City to look for evidence at Abigail’s place any more than he could go to Jarvis’ house. So why are we all hangin’ around here?”
She jumped to her feet and started pacing again. The pillow tried to trip her, and she snatched it up and hurled it onto the bed. “Triple-great Angeline didn’t sit around waiting on some man to fix her problem. She was bat-shit crazy, yeah, but she got in there and started swinging, even against Mr. Scott Joplin. And Abigail’s not some big-ass celebrity, she’s just my auntie. Okay, so I haven’t actually met her, but it’s never too late to meet relatives, right? I can talk to her, find out what she knows about Mickey, and get a line on the real killer.”
She stopped, again facing the TV. Hands on her hips, she studied her reflection. “One gal doing something by herself’s worth a dozen guys sittin’ around a hotel room workin’ their jaws.” A sharp nod. “Right. Daddy’ll be at work for hours yet. He’ll never know if I take the car for a little trip to K.C.”
Saramae slid “Will’s Way” back into its manila envelope, and scribbled a note on the notepad next to the phone. “Going to K.C. See you when I get back with the proof I need for my daddy.” She propped the pad against the phone to make it obvious. “Miriam’s got a spare key. They’ll find that when I don’t show for dinner.”
Chapter Eighteen
Miriam looked at the clock. “I’d have thought Saramae would have cooled off and come back by now.”
“I’ll text her, Gramma!” Tom was already pulling out his phone.
“Thomas…” Miriam shook her head. “She’s already feeling like she’s being ordered around. How do you think she’ll take it if she gets a message, ‘Quit sulking and come upstairs’?”
“Jeez, Gramma, credit me with some sense. I woulda asked nicely.”
“There’s no such thing as
a nice text.” She tossed the spare key onto the bed in front of Tom. “Go down and ask her politely if there’s anything she needs.”
Tom caught the key on the first bounce and was on his way to the door while Miriam’s hand was still in the air.
Alan grinned at his wife when the door clicked closed. “She’s going to eat him alive. You know that.”
Miriam smiled back. “It’ll be good for him to get gnawed on a bit. Builds character. Look how much good I’ve done you.”
Tom knocked on Saramae’s door. After a moment, he knocked again, harder, and called the girl’s name. Still no response. He unlocked the door and pushed it open, visions of catching her napping or showering flashing through his mind.
No Saramae. Nobody on the bed, no sound from the shower. “Saramae?” No answer. It took Tom less than thirty seconds to find the girl’s note and grab his phone.
“Alan! Saramae’s on her way to Kansas City! By herself!”
***
“Editorial, Charles Blackstone.”
“It’s Alan Chandler, Mr. Blackstone. If you had to get to K.C. right now, couldn’t wait for the next train, how would you go?”
“What do you think I am, a travel agency? I’d drive, of course!” A wary note crept into Charles’ voice. “Dare I ask what you’ve done with my daughter this time?”
“Absolutely nothing. She’s done it herself—she decided to take charge of our case and took off for K.C. on her own.” Alan hesitated, then quickly added, “We know who she’s going after, and we’re heading out now.”
“Hang on.” Charles’ chair creaked and then there was a long silence. Alan was just about to call Charles’ name when he heard another creak. “She took my car right out of the Democrat’s lot.” A sigh. “I’ll be at the Bothwell in ten minutes. Don’t you dare leave without me.”
***
Before he even shut the car door, Charles demanded, “Have any of you tried to call Saramae?”
“Yes, Mr. Blackstone,” Tom said. “Gramma and I both called. She didn’t answer.”
“She didn’t pick up when I called, but I thought her co-conspirators might have had better luck.”
“Hopefully it’s because she was driving,” said Miriam. “If she’s on the road now, we might catch up while she’s still looking for Ms. Nowlin’s house.”
“Maybe. But you’ve met my daughter. She’s probably ignoring our calls just because she can.”
***
Picking up JJ and squeezing him into the backseat between Miriam and Tom didn’t add more than another ten minutes to the trip. They rode in silence for a quarter of an hour before JJ could no longer contain himself.
“Why’dja take th’ bag, Boss? That music, it mean more to Mickey than anythin’. Only thing coulda made him happier woulda been t’ meet Mr. Joplin hisself.”
Charles twisted in his seat to look at his accuser. “I know, JJ. I could claim I was just taking back something that rightly belonged to me—it was stolen from my father, remember. But since it’s you who’s asking, I have to admit it was mostly about the money.” He turned back the other way and stared vacantly out the passenger-side window. “Putting a kid through college—a really good one—isn’t cheap. I worked my way into a good job, one I love. But I wanted to make life easier for Saramae, and that bag would have gone a long way to turning her into a successful lady.” He shrugged. “Not going to happen now.” He coughed. “Hard to believe my own daughter stole the bag from me—but better she should have it than those Nowlins. If she’s smart enough to get some help without losing the music, it’ll still do her good.”
A long silence followed Charles’ speech. Alan’s mind wandered from the bag to Mickey’s torture. He glanced at Charles’ hands. No rings, as Saramae had said. Abigail wore a ring—Alan clearly remembered seeing it when he and Tom first went to her house—but how could she have held Mickey down and beaten him, let alone strangled him? Jarvis was probably right: she hired some muscle. But what kind of criminal for hire would be dumb enough to wear a large, heavy ring on a job?
His train of thought crashed when Charles spoke again. “Saramae didn’t leave that duffel bag at the hotel, did she?”
Alan tucked his tongue firmly into his cheek and readied an accurate but misleading response, but Miriam beat him to the punch. “Not likely, Mr. Blackstone. Give the girl credit for her brains. She knows better than to trust anything valuable to a hotel lock.”
Charles nodded. “Good to hear.” He laughed briefly. “We’d likely be having a very different conversation right now if Mr. Potash had been as smart. The lock he used was a real piece of junk. Barely slowed me down.”
“I tol’ him that a whole buncha times,” JJ added. “Tol’ him it just call attention t’ the closet, too. If he hadda keep it close, he shoulda jus’ depend on nobody knowin’ about th’ hidey-hole. Hey! How’d you know ’bout that, anyways?”
“Mickey showed it to me,” Charles said with a small chuckle. “Back when I was a reporter, I interviewed him for a local history piece on bootleggers. The story never ran, but I still had my notes.” He gave JJ a sharp look. “Never throw away anything you write. No way to tell when it’ll be useful. I figured Mickey would use that space for something as important as Joplin’s music.”
Alan shook his head. “That was Mickey, all right. Couldn’t resist telling a good story. And he’d never have put the music anywhere that would’ve prevented him from gloating over it whenever he felt the urge.”
“At least that’s a mistake Saramae won’t make,” Tom said. “She’s not a hoarder.”
“No? You should have seen her with her first baby doll.” Charles stretched his legs, making the seat creak. “She doesn’t have too many choices. Car trunks aren’t any more secure than Mr. Potash’s safe room. You wouldn’t believe how many car thefts we get every summer when the tourists come in for the Joplin Festival and the State Fair.”
Was that a hint? Damn it, now I’m going to have to keep him away from this car’s trunk. Alan spent the rest of the ride trying to figure out how to alert Tom and Miriam to stay between Charles and the car, all speculations about rings and stupid criminals forgotten.
***
Saramae drove slowly up the street, looking carefully for the house. The only other time she’d seen it, she hadn’t noticed the number. But it hadn’t been hard to find online: Nowlin, A., 5708 Virginia. Saramae parked at the curb, picked up the manuscript of “Will’s Way” from the passenger seat, and got out of the car.
She walked slowly up to the front door, feeling the hammer of every heartbeat. Yeah, she was scared a little…but why?
She needs a cane for Christ’s sake. Try anything funny, I’ll make hamburger outa her.
The girl set her chin, and pushed the doorbell.
A couple of minutes later, the door slowly swung open. Abigail Nowlin squinted at Saramae. “Who you be, and what you want?”
A faint sound of ragtime piano music came from back in the house. The girl swallowed the lump in her throat and waved the manuscript. “You’re Ms. Nowlin, right? I was hopin’ you could help me, I’ve got this music that was written by a lady with a name like yours, Angeline Noland, and it looks real old…”
A large man stepped up behind Abigail, and Saramae’s voice trailed off. The girl blurted, “Oh fuck! You’re the one that did it!” She turned to run. But Nelson Nowlin grabbed her by the arm, his heavy ring bruising her bicep, before she got off the porch. He yanked her into the house, slammed the door, and snatched “Will’s Way” from her hand. Abigail grabbed the music and hobbled behind Nelson as he dragged Saramae into the living room.
The big man threw the girl into an ancient, overstuffed chair and stood over her. “Now, you tell me, who you be?” Nelson growled.
“And where it was you got this music,” Abigail shrieked.
“Don’t you try no funny
stuff,” said Nelson. “I ain’t the most patient man in the world.”
Saramae snuffled. “Hey, Mister, Lady, please don’t hurt me. I’m doin’ a project for my high school class, I found the music at the library, and I’m supposed to write a paper about it. So I went lookin’ for somebody who can tell me somethin’ about it, and I found Abigail Nowlin—that’s kinda like Angeline Noland, y’know, so I figured maybe—”
Nelson raised a fist. “Girl, what be your name, huh? An’ where you be livin’?”
Saramae shrank back in the chair. “Hey, Mister, come on, huh? I ain’t done anything wrong. Please—”
The big man ripped Saramae’s purse from her shoulder, and was fumbling at her wallet when a young girl ran in from the back room. “Hey, what’s everybody shoutin’ about…oh, Saramae. You come to hear my songs, like you said you would!” She ran over and threw her arms around her older friend.
Nelson peered into Saramae’s face. “Well, goddamn! You the girl had dinner with Li’l Angeline th’ other night, ain’t you? An’ now, here you is again.” He shook the wallet open, held her driver’s license up to Abigail. “Looky here, Mama. Her name’s Saramae, all right—Saramae Blackstone. From Sedalia. Betcha my las’ nickel her daddy be Charles Blackstone!” He leaned close. “Is I right, Girl?”
Abigail held up a hand. “Nelson, hush!” She turned a cold eye on Saramae. “Got the music from the liberry, huh? And how you know her name was Angeline?” The old woman shook the manuscript in Saramae’s face. “Look, she sign her music with jus’ her initial.” Abigail put her hands on her hips, glared at Saramae. “Lyin’ to an old lady. Oughta be ashamed. Nelson! We need to talk.”
The big man straightened and patted the puzzled Angeline’s head. “Sure, Honey, sure. Saramae come to hear your songs, all right. You take her in the music room and play ’em for her, okay?” He glared at Saramae. “Don’t you be thinkin’ ’bout trying to get away, neither. Only way out is past me.” He tossed Saramae’s license and wallet into her purse and stepped back, staying between her and the doorway to the front hall.