PW01 - Died On The Vine (9 page)

He seemed suspicious. “Why?”

“We saw his picture in the paper, and he looks like someone I once knew, though surely he isn’t – “ I was getting confused.

“Why don’t you just come back to the office and tell me about it?” he suggested in that incredibly soothing voice. Then he shouted toward the back. “Hey, Charlie! Watch the desk for me.”

“Sure, Doc.” A skinny fellow with glasses came in with a Diet Coke.

As the large man escorted us back to the office, I asked hesitantly, “Are you a doctor?”

“No, ma’am,” he laughed at the thought, and then introduced himself. “James Grayson. Former Corpsman, Navy. Also former addict, former lot of things. Now I’m a vet counselor.”

“I think that’s quite admirable,” I told him. “I’m Cecilia Rayburn, and this is Mary Nguyen.” We all shook hands.

Grayson produced soft drinks and an ash tray for Mary. She took a sip and lit up and looked as if life could offer nothing better.

“Now, you think you know Craig?” Grayson asked.

“No, actually, I think I don’t. But his picture was presented to me as being that of my first husband, who was killed in the war.”

I could see that Grayson must be a whiz as a counselor, I had fallen complete under his gentle spell. I guess it was the concerned look and the soft eyes. I told him all about Jimmy and the crash, and life as a young widow and Jack. I noticed that Mary was quietly taking notes.

I did manage to withhold the name of the person who claimed the man in the photograph was Jimmy. When I finished my story, Grayson shook his head in disgust.

“Ma’am, I sure don’t know why someone would want to scam you like that, but Craig Southern has always been Craig Southern. I’ve seen his complete service and health records. He’s ex-Army, enlisted. The idea of Craig flying a plane is downright scary.”

“What precisely is wrong with him?” Mary asked.

“Not a whole lot, compared to some of the others,” he answered. “His knees were racked up pretty bad, so he gets a small disability check. The thing is, I don’t think Craig was any kind of mental giant even before the war. I get fed up with all these horror stories about lives destroyed by the war. Plenty of lives were destroyed, but a lot of these guys were screwed up before they ever joined.”

“So why is he here? And why was he living in that wildlife area?” I wondered.

“Craig can’t hold a job,” Grayson admitted. “He basically just wants to be left alone. He doesn’t like having much to do with people. Can’t small-talk, acts surly. Perfectly harmless, but no people skills at all. Poor guy, people think he’s spooky. When he’s left alone, he just reads his books and roams around.”

“Can we see him?” I asked. “Just to make sure?”

“I don’t see why not. He’s in the lounge. Just don’t come on too strong.”

“You’re talking to a woman who tames feral cats,” I informed him as we rose from our chairs.

“That’s good. Take the same approach with Craig,” Doc said with that wonderful smile.

He led us into the lounge, which was filled with mismatched and worn-out furniture. Sitting in a hideous floral print chair by the window was Craig Southern. He was reading a Louis L’Amour, moving his lips silently as he read.

“Craig,” Doc said, “these two ladies would like to talk to you for a moment.”

Craig looked up from his book. I found myself being studied by the bluest eyes I have ever seen.

My reaction was a disorienting mixture of disappointment and relief. Jimmy’s eyes had been gray.

EIGHT

I was just standing there like a stump, so Mary took charge. She approached Southern with a friendly smile and extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Mary Nguyen. Can we ask you a few questions?”

Southern stood awkwardly and shook hands. “You Vietnamese?”

“Amerasian, actually, my father was American.”

Southern nodded wisely. “Plenty of them.”

“Mister Southern, have you ever met a man named Colonel Obadiah Winslow?”

Doc looked startled at the question and turned to me. “Was that the guy - ?”

I nodded.

“Met a lot of colonels,” Southern admitted. “But I can’t remember all their names.”

Mary produced a photograph of Winslow from her bag. I recognized it as the publicity shot from the back of Winslow’s book. Southern studied it thoughtfully. Then he handed it back to her and shook his head.

“No, ma’am, I’ve never met this man.”

“He hasn’t been to see you recently?” I asked.

Southern shook his head again.

Doc chimed in. “I’ve heard of this Colonel Winslow. Seen him on TV, too. He’s never been here.”

“Maybe before you came here,” Mary persisted. “When you were living in the wildlife preserve.”

“Nobody came to see me but those rangers, and they just came to kick me out. I wasn’t bothering nothing,” Southern added sullenly. “No need to kick me out.”

Doc gestured to one side. When we joined him on the other side of the room, he said in a low voice, “I sure wish you ladies had some connection to Craig. We don’t know what to do with him. He can’t stay here much longer; there’s really not much wrong with him.”

Southern evidently had good hearing. “Got no place to go,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” Mary whispered to Doc, “but this really isn’t our problem.”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “We have an old mobile home on our property. It’s not the best accommodations in the world, but it’s got water and electricity – “

“Cissy, are you crazy?” Mary hissed.

I went back over to Southern. “Look, Mister Southern, my husband and I have a vacant trailer on our property if you need a place to stay. It’s out in the country, with woods on one side and a vineyard on the other.”

I took an old envelope out of my purse and began writing directions to Passatonnack County. “This is really away from everything,” I went on. “A lot of people think it’s too isolated, more owls and eagles than people. My husband could use some occasional help in the vineyard, and I think you’d like Jack. He doesn’t talk much.”

Southern was beginning to look interested. I handed him the piece of paper and told him, “The bus stops at the courthouse, but if you tell the driver you’re going to the Rayburns, she’ll drop you off at the turnoff to River Road. We’re two miles down, the second house. If you need a place to stay.”

He took the paper and nodded awkwardly. “Thank you, ma’am, I’ll think about it.”

We shook hands and took our departure. As we left, Doc urged us to “come back any time.”

Back in the car, Mary said, “I’ve been given to understand that you adopt strays, but this must be a personal best.”

“Tell me about it! We’d better go by the wine festival and warn Jack that we might be acquiring a tenant.”

“I haven’t met him yet. I hope he doesn’t have a temper.”

“He’s actually a very even-tempered man,” I admitted as we drove away from VietCare. “I try his patience sorely sometimes and he hasn’t booted me out yet.”

“Must be nice,” Mary said. “I guess I’m still looking for someone patient enough to put up with me.”

“Don’t give up, there are still a few out there.”

Mary was studying the photographs now, the Winslow publicity still and the newspaper photo of poor Craig Southern.

“The more we learn, the weirder this becomes,” she said. “Now it seems Winslow found a photograph that bore a superficial resemblance to your late husband, and deliberately tried to sell you a bill of goods.”

“Not in character?”

“This is the first phony that I can tag as deliberate fraud on his part. In every other instance, while there might have been fraud, Winslow could never be implicated. The most I could say for sure is that he seemed overly eager to fall for flimsy evidence of live sightings.”

“He sure sounded sincere.”

“He’s good at that,” Mary answered darkly.

“But as for what he was up to, I’m totally in the dark.”

“Where is this we’re going now?”

“The Bull Run Wine Festival. Jack’s got a booth there.”

“Yes, but what is it?”

I was scandalized. “You mean you’ve never been to a wine festival?”

“No. I guess my education is incomplete.”

“I’ll say! But we’ll remedy that; this will be fun.”

As we approached the fairgrounds, traffic backed up. Not everyone is as ignorant as poor Mary on the topic of wine festivals. We parked the car and paid our admission fees to a young man dressed as a Confederate soldier. He gave us each a wine glass.

“Hold on to that,” I told Mary. “That serves as your ticket stub. Of course, it serves as a wine glass too.”

“How much is the wine?”

“If you’re buying bottles, the price varies, but the tasting is covered by the admission.”

“Ooh, I like this already.”

The fairground was dotted with tent canopies. Not all the tents were for wineries. The crafters and food vendors were out in force. The Yankee army had an encampment as well, with Civil War re-enactors describing Army life to eager youngsters.

Jack had told me he was set up on the far side of the field. Of course, we didn’t go straight there. Too many temptations lured us into a zigzag path across the ground.

Before too long, we had sampled wine at three different wineries. Mary took notes and helped herself to brochures. “This is a little outside my field,” she told me, “but I think there’s an article in it.”

“I guess articles are everywhere if you’re a freelancer.”

“You said it.”

We also stood in a long line to get some funnel cake, watching as the dough was squeezed from the funnel into a lacy pattern, fried, dusted with powdered sugar and served on a paper plate. I love funnel cake, but always wind up liberally streaked with powdered sugar. But so what? It’s a festival.

“Do you like it?” I asked Mary as she took a large bite of the funnel cake.

“Mm-hmm!” She nodded enthusiastically.

Before we reached Jack’s booth, Mary had fallen in love with a handmade pottery teapot with a goofy face, and flashed a credit card and made it her own. I was similarly smitten by a tapestry that would be perfect for the great room, but the price gave me second thoughts. I did take the woman’s card though. Who knows, maybe after the Qu’aot VIII manual is turned in - . I’m not usually psychic, but I could read the crafter’s mind. She was thinking, “She’ll be back.”

And finally, there was Jack’s booth, drawing a great deal more attention than our tiny winery usually rates. I murmured to Mary, “It’s probably not a good idea to tell Jack about Craig until things die down here a bit.”

“Gotcha.” Mary nodded.

“Hi, Honey,” I greeted Jack. “Look, I’ve brought Mary Nguyen. Can we help?”

“Cissy, are you crazy?” Jack asked. “Here come the curious.”

Now that he mentioned it, I did notice that people with familiar faces from the wine festival circuit seemed to be moseying artlessly in our direction in a vaguely purposeful way.

“Pleased to meet you,” Jack belated greeted Mary. He turned back to me. “Why don’t you girls go on to the restaurant? I’ll be closing here in a bit and I’ll buy you dinner.”

We nodded meekly and made our getaway. Mary muttered to me,” I normally don’t let men get away with calling me a ‘girl’, but if he’s buying dinner – “ She sighed. “I guess I’m just a food slut.”

“If you’d been in the workforce in the seventies, you’d know there are a lot worse things you could be called,” I told her.

We regained the car and drove to Jackson’s Tavern, my favorite eatery in Manassas, maybe in the known universe. Splendidly politically incorrect, Jackson’s specialized in hefty mixed drinks and huge slabs of meat.

At my recommendation, we ordered the Special Margaritas, boatloads of tequila and lime and crushed ice and salt. Thus fortified, I responded readily to Mary’s questions about my early life with Jimmy. Through the tequila fumes, I wondered if I was about to become immortalized in an article. But then Mary asked, “How do you know whether or not a man is going to stay a little boy all his life? So many of them do, but when they’re younger, it’s harder to tell which ones have the capacity to turn into grownups.”

“I don’t know. Jimmy was only twenty-five when he died. I’ve often wondered what he would have turned out to be. I remember some of the silly things he did – but I was silly too. The night we stayed at the Club late and drank all the admiral’s champagne. We both had hangovers the next day, but I was the one who went to all the package stores to find the right brand and replace the champagne before the admiral found out.”

“That’s what I mean,” Mary declared with tipsy wisdom. “Why does the woman always have to fix things and clean up the mess? Just for a change, why can’t I make a mess and have some man fix it for me?”

“I’m guessing you’re not thinking in abstract here.”

“Not at all.”

And she proceeded to tell me all about Mark, with whom she had recently broken up. I patted her hand and made soothing noises.