Land Sakes (9 page)

Mrs. Winchester had that little book open and was going over her notes. I admired the little black book with its smooth cover and elastic band. “It's moleskin,” she told me. “All great writers carry one like this with them everywhere they go. We never know when we will be inspired and need to write something down before the muse leaves us.”

I had never known a real writer before. I'd ask her for her autograph when I knew her better.

While she was writing, Percival put the dogs in the car and got back under the wheel. Soon we were on our way again.

When Mrs. Winchester finished writing, she handed the little book to me. I read the poem to myself.

I was so impressed I couldn't say a word.

“You like it?” she asked.

“Like it? I think it's great!” I handed the book back to her. “Would you make me a copy?”

“Of course,” she said, closing the book and securing it with the elastic band. She looked very pleased and leaned back with a smile on her face. “You are one of the few people I know who appreciates good poetry.”

When we arrived back at the hotel, we had time to freshen up before we headed for the saloon. Once in the suite, the first thing I did was check out the valuables to see if they were still there. Of course, I didn't know everything she had, but it looked like the jewels were all there just as the maid had left them.

In the elevator going down, Mrs. Winchester told me, “My secretary has made reservations for us at the Cascades for dinner.”

“The Cascades?”

“Yes. They serve seafood cuisine and there's a lovely view of the waterfall.”

That sounded good, but if she got drunk we'd never make it to the Cascades. The minute we stepped off the elevator she struck out for Jack Daniel's barrelhouse. The same waiter we had the night before led us to our corner table. Once seated, Mrs. Winchester ordered a martini for herself and iced tea for me.

When the waiter served our drinks, hers looked the same as the night before, but the waiter gave me something in a tall glass that looked too good to be good. “What's this?”

“Madam, that is a Singapore Sling, compliments of the house.”

I laughed. “Well, take it back to Singapore with my compliments! By the way, young man, your iced tea tastes like ditch water, so bring me a ginger ale.”

Mrs. Winchester smiled. “So that Singapore Sling was no temptation to you?”

“None whatsoever.”

“I wish I could say the same,” she said in that soft little voice she has got. “Tell you what, as soon as I finish this one drink, we'll go to the Cascades.”

8

Dinner at the Cascades had me really living high on the hog, but I wasn't eating pork! For a souvenir I took one of the menus, so I could tell Beatrice what I ate. I had something called “Chilean Sea Bass with Sake.” Whatever that sake was, it made the fish taste real good. Then they had something they called “Braised Shiitakes,” which to me did not sound like anything a body should put in their mouth. I reckon that's what they called them big mushrooms. The “Fresh White Asparagus, Fried Ginger, and Chile Oil” was out of this world, and the dessert was just the thing to top it off, lemon pie, which was just as fancy as the names they gave it: “Lemon Lime Meringue Tart with Mango, Raspberry, and Cassis Coulis.”

Mrs. Winchester ate a pretty good meal, and maybe that kept her from drinking too much and talking half the night. Anyway, she went to bed when we got back to the hotel, and as soon as I could, I hit the hay.

But I kept waking up thinking about this and that—especially worrying about those jewels stuck in that
drawer. I'm not one for taking much medicine, but I did get up and took two Tidynol. Still, I didn't fall asleep. When daylight came I got up and dressed.

Mrs. Winchester was still sleeping. Mary, one of the other maids, had come in and was putting fresh towels in the bathroom, so I asked her if she would be there a while.

“Oh yes. All morning.”

“Then I think I'll go down and have breakfast.”

The coffee shop in the hotel was on the first floor. It was crowded, but I found a table and was studying the menu when who should come in but Nozzle Nose himself. He walked around with a newspaper under his arm, looking for a table. Finally, he spotted me and came over.

“May I join you?”

“Sure.”

He motioned for the waitress to bring coffee and then sat down. Folding his paper to a certain section, he commenced reading. Talk about bad manners!

“Good morning,” I said. “What's good for breakfast?”

That jerked a knot in him; he put the paper to one side. “Good morning,” he said without the “madam” before or after.
That's good
, I thought.
Maybe this morning he'll act like a normal human being
.

“What's good?” I repeated.

“I'm having eggs benedict and prune juice.”

Prune juice—must be he's not regular. That could account for a lot of things, namely his disposition
.

The waitress came with the coffee and was ready to
take our orders. She made me think of home. Around her waist she was wearing one of those short little aprons with pockets like the girls wear at the all-you-can-eat restaurant in Live Oaks. What was missing was a great big pretty handkerchief in her blouse pocket. That would have been cute.

I ordered eggs benedict too, although, except for the eggs, I didn't have any idea what I was ordering. I didn't need prune juice; I'm as regular as clockwork. I ordered orange juice and debated about getting toast, but since Nozzle Nose didn't order toast, I figured maybe it came with the eggs benedict.

While we were waiting to be served, Percival drank coffee and went back to reading his newspaper. Rude, that's what he was, just plain rude.

When he finished reading, he looked up. “You will be interested in this,” he said and handed me the paper.

I saw an article about a big merger of companies negotiated by Philip Winchester. I read it and handed the paper back to him. “Sounds like big business.”

“Oh, it is.” He unfolded his napkin and spread it on his lap. “Mr. Win
chus
ter is a brilliant man—always one jump ahead of the competition.” Holding his cup with his pinkie poking out, he peered over his glasses. “I presume you know that Mrs. Win
chus
ter inherited a shipping fortune from her grandfather.”

I shook my head. “No, I didn't know that.”

“In the years since he and Mrs. Win
chus
ter have been married, Philip has probably doubled her inheritance.”

Calling Mr. Winchester by his first name did something
to Nozzle Nose—it looked like it made him feel he was right up there with the bigwigs.

“Did you say shipping?” I asked.

“Yes. Mrs. Win
chus
ter's family came to America from the Netherlands in the early 1800s. Over several generations they became the country's premier shipbuilders, operating passenger liners and an import-export business unequaled in the world.

“Much has been written about Mr. Win
chus
ter. Due to his shrewd management, the shipping business still thrives, but with the evolution of other means of transport, he had the foresight to expand and diversify. Philip—” the name did not roll off his tongue easy—“bought mines, breweries, citrus farms, hotels, and many other enterprises.”

The waiter served our eggs, and I recognized the hollandaise sauce. I had made that on special occasions.

Nozzle Nose did not let up even while he ate. “As you might have surmised, theirs is a marriage of convenience.” He sipped his juice. “Here I am, taking Mrs. Win
chus
ter to Alaska and her husband is aboard his yacht in the Caribbean.”

“Percival, that is none of our business. We shouldn't be talking about their marriage.”

“Oh, I don't know. Philip—” the name came easier—“is happy, and she enjoys her little pranks.”

“Pranks?”

“Oh yes. She'll do anything to get attention.”

I guess a body could think that putting her husband's picture on billboards as a missing person was a
prank
.

“Have you had much difficulty with Mrs. Win
chus
ter's alcohol consumption?” he asked.

“I'd rather not talk about that. She might have come to breakfast with me, but she was sleeping when I left.”

“Mrs. Win
chus
ter always sleeps late, but I hope she is up before noon. Today we go to a couple more gravesites.”

“Oh?”

“Chet Atkins is one of them, not far from Nashville.” He was dabbing at his little mustache and gave the waitress the high sign. I drank the last of my coffee and was pulling out my wallet to pay my bill.

“No, no,” he said. “All expenditures are billed to Mrs. Win
chus
ter's account. They know me here.”

“How about the tip?”

“Believe me, madam, a very generous tip is included in the bill. Put away your wallet.”

We walked outside, and he left to take the dogs for a stroll. I watched a boatload of tourists floating around a bend in the river and was thinking how I'd love to be on that boat. But I needed to get back upstairs in case Mrs. Winchester needed me.

Mary let me in the door and then went back to arranging a new bouquet of fresh flowers. Mrs. Winchester was still sleeping.

After brushing my teeth, I went in my room to read my Bible and sat down wondering what the day would bring. Suddenly, I remembered that waitress and got an idea. I jumped up, told Mary I'd be back in a few minutes, and left to get back downstairs as fast as I could.

9

I spent most of the morning trying to find what I was looking for. The waitress told me where I could buy an apron like hers, but the store was some distance from the hotel. After I bought the apron, I looked all over for Velcro. I found it, then saw a Christian bookstore and bought more Gospels of John.