Kent Conwell - Tony Boudreaux 04 - Vicksburg (3 page)

The second half-hour in town, I met the brothers and sister-WR, Stewart, and Annebelle-in the parlor of the
house.

To say the family was simply dysfunctional would not do
justice to the word. Dysfunctional with uninhibited sociopathic tendencies might be a more apt description, and not
even that portrayal would encompass the full scope of their
dysfunction.

“Tony’s interested in one of John’s cars,” said Jack.

WR Edney shook my hand, but the scowl on his fleshy
round face told me the handshake was a meaningless gesture. His coal-black hair was parted on one side and slicked
down across the other. He looked greasy. “I don’t know that we’re going to sell any of John’s cars,” he said to Jack as he
shook my hand, his voice a growl.

Confused, I glanced at Jack, who explained. “Nobody
called the old man, Dad. We all called him John”

Wearing a gray uniform of the Riverside Bread Company,
Annebelle shook her head, her frizzed hair bouncing like
jello. She pointed the half-full glass of bourbon in her hand
at her brother. “You don’t talk for all of us, WR. If Jack’s
friend, Bobby, here wants to buy a car, they’re ours to sell.”

“Tony,” I said, reminding her of my name.

She shrugged. “Oh, yeah. Okay. Sorry.”

Annebelle certainly knew how to make a newcomer feel
welcome. She set her bourbon on the coffee table. I noticed
the marble top was Italian, the coveted Carrara marble. The
only reason I recognized the elongated crystals that formed
interlocking gray formations was because my Significant
Other back in Austin had the same type of marble in every
room.

And that’s why I winced when Stewart, the other brother,
propped his feet up on the coffee table and leaned back on
the Victorian couch. “You just back out of this, Annebelle.
You aren’t even in the will.” His voice was high and thin
with effeminate nuances, almost identical in timbre to his
sister’s. His head was as bald as Annebelle’s was frizzy.

A solid fifty pounds overweight, Annebelle struck me as
an enemy to be avoided, not to be aggravated as her brother
seemed to be doing to her. She ran her fingers through her
kinky hair and jabbed a thick finger at him. “You just wait
until you hear the will, buster. I told you John put me back
in. He shouldn’t have cut me to begin with.” She leaned forward, her black eyes fixed on Stewart. “But someone told
him lies about me”

Stewart snorted again. He and WR were built much like
Jack except they had the height by several inches.

Annebelle sneered. “That’s why I asked William Goggins
to come over this afternoon, so you can hear for yourself.”

WR raised an eyebrow. “You’re getting things backward,
aren’t you, sis? The memorial service isn’t until this evening.”

She shook her head. “Forget it. I’m tired of arguing with
you two. Besides,” she added, turning her attention back to
Stewart, “if John was going to cut anybody out of the will, it
should have been you. You’re the one who put the family to
shame in New Orleans.”

With a furtive glance at me from the corner of his eyes,
Stewart stiffened and his face turned crimson. He snarled,
“You got no room to talk, you and that roommate of yours.
Everyone knows what’s going on between you two.”

“Why you-” Annebelle bared her teeth and started
around the coffee table after Stewart.

He leaped from the couch. As he did, he brushed the end
table, knocking a Tiffany lamp to the heart pine floor,
smashing it into tiny pieces.

“Hey!” WR yelled, and quickly stepped between the two,
pushing each of them backward a step. “This isn’t solving
anything. Both of you just back off.”

Annebelle slapped his hand off her chest. “You don’t go
pushing me around, big brother,” she snapped.

WR threw up his hands and stepped back. “Forget it then.
I’m just trying to calm you two down. That’s all. You want to
fight, have at it. Just leave me out of it.” He backed away
while Stewart and Annebelle glared at each other.

I glanced at the multi-hued shards of glass scattered
across the floor, wryly wondering if the lamp would come
out of Stewart’s share of the estate.

Jack shrugged at me and nodded to the door.

“Where are you two going?” Annebelle demanded as Jack
opened the door.

Without looking at her, Jack replied over his shoulder. “To
show Tony the old man’s cars while you three calm down.”

“Look all you want!” WR shouted. “We’re not selling
them !”

Annebelle yelled, “Yes, we are!”

And then the closing of the door mercifully muffled the
shouts from inside.

I glanced down at Jack. “No offense intended, but I can
see why you haven’t been back in twenty years”

Jack simply grunted.

A short distance along a red-brick walk winding through
the bougainvillea and azaleas were the remains of the old
man’s workshop and garage where he had restored his vehicles, its blackened walls still standing. A few feet beyond the
skeletal walls sat a cavernous metal building, the creamcolored side next to the burned garage blackened from the
heat generated by the fire.

Inside were thirteen Model Ts and seven Ford Thunderbirds, 1955s and ’56s.

We spent the next half-hour looking over the restored
automobiles. I shook my head in amazement as I admired a
1925 Model T Runabout with a green body and black fenders. “This was some hobby your old man had”

“Yeah. Expensive, but he could afford it.”

I circled the Runabout, imagining Janice’s surprise if I
pulled up in front of her condo in it. “How much are these
things worth?”

Jack shrugged. “Beats me. The old man used to trade with
Doc Raines down at the Vicksburg Auto Parts. Doc specialized in antique cars. He was down on Washington Street. I
don’t know where he is now, or if he’s even still alive, but I
wouldn’t mind knowing what they’re worth” He glanced
back at the house and arched an eyebrow. “I got a feeling I’m
not going to be able to trust my brothers or sister.”

With a chuckle, I said, “Well, the parts house is a starting
place, both for value of the cars and your father. Point me
towards Washington Street, and I’ll try to run this Doc
Raines down while you can get back inside and catch up on
old times with your family.”

“I can’t wait,” Jack replied, his words oozing sarcasm. He pointed west. “Washington is by the river. It runs along the
levee. Can’t miss it.”

As we left the garage, a Lincoln pulled up in the drive. A
dignified man in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase
stepped out.

“Uh oh,” Jack muttered.

“What?”

“Dollars to doughnuts, that’s John’s lawyer. The one
Annebelle sent for.”

“How can you tell?”

“He looks like a hungry shark.”

I studied the attorney as he strode briskly along the sidewalk. Lifting an eyebrow in appreciation of Jack’s perception of the man, I noted the protruding nose beneath a receding forehead and above a receding chin. I couldn’t have
labeled him any better.

As Jack hurried after the attorney, I climbed in my
Silverado and headed for the auto parts store, and the first
attempt on my life.

Washington Street was one of the main thoroughfares
back in 1860s Vicksburg. Down through the decades, the
narrow dirt street had been paved with red bricks, and while
the Civil War facades of most of the buildings were maintained, the interiors had been modernized into bright and
airy facilities replete with central air and heat.

Janice would be dazzled by the restoration.

I scowled when I realized I had unconsciously thought of
her. I’d wanted to put her out of my mind. Truthfully, she
was a fine woman, but she had the disconcerting tendency to
be domineering, a trait she inherited from her only living
relative, her Aunt Beatrice Morrison, the CEO of one of the
largest distilleries in Texas. However, one accolade I had to
hand to both the ladies-one they certainly deserved-was
that neither of them could, by any stretch of the imagination,
be labeled clinging violets.

And while I’m bogged down in the throes of truth, I
admit I had no one to blame but myself for I knew just how
independent Janice was when our relationship began. In
fact, that was one of the several qualities that drew me to
her.

But now, after a few off-and-on years, I felt as if I needed a break from her. Maybe each of us needed a break from the
other.

Yet, here I was, still thinking about her. What was it the
curmudgeon said about love, `a temporary insanity cured by
marriage?’ That was one cure that could wait.

After half an hour, I found the parts house on Washington
Street.

The nearest parking along the curb was a few doors down.
The fine drizzle continued. About half of the buildings on
either side of the street had porches extending over the sidewalk. One of the exceptions was the red-brick building next
to the parts house, a future museum according to the red-onwhite banner in the window.

As I emerged from under the porch next to the museumto-be, a muffled cry sounded from above, and an eightypound bag of cement slammed to the concrete sidewalk four
or five feet to my right, exploding into a billowing gray
cloud that covered me from head to toe.

With a shout of alarm, I leaped back under the porch.
After my heart slowed from the heart attack range, I tentatively stuck my head out from under the portico and looked
up. A construction worker wearing a hard hat was peering
over the parapet of the building, a worried look on his face.
He waved at me. “Hey, sorry, pal. You all right?”

Pausing a moment, I gathered my shaken senses. “Yeah.
Yeah, I guess so”

The man shook his head. “Jeez. Scared me to death”

I arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t do me any good either.”

A wry grin curled his lips. He waved and disappeared.

A hand touched my arm. “You okay, mister?”

Still half-dazed, I looked around into the concerned face
of a black man about my age. I nodded. “Huh? Oh, yeah, I
suppose so. That was close.”

He cut his eyes to the parapet and gave his head a shake
of disgust. “Them construction workers. Seems like they never pays no attention to what they’re doing. They always
causing problems. Sometimes I wish we never done started
redoing all them old buildings. I was sure glad when they
finished with our block.”

I glanced up and down Washington Street, noting the
reconstruction under way in the next block.

“You sure you all right, mister?”

I drew a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah” I extended my hand.
“Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re mighty welcome. Sure don’t like to see you
tourists hurt. Bad on our pocketbook,” he added with a broad
smile. He nodded to a small restaurant on the corner beyond
the parts house. “I own that place. The Daily Grind, I calls
it. Name’s Isaac Wilson. You feel like a coffee or something
stronger to perk you up, it’s my treat”

Brushing the gray powder from my windbreaker and
washed-out jeans, I declined. “Thanks.” I nodded to the parts
house. “But, I’ve got to see a man about a Model T.”

I paused before entering the parts house. Emblazoned
across the glass door in a semi-circle was VICKSBURG AUTO
PARTS. Beneath it was the slogan, “We Do Antiques Before
They Do Us” I arched an eyebrow, having absolutely no
idea what the comment meant.

On the outside, the building appeared as it must have in
the days of the Civil War, but inside, it was pure twenty-first
century and bustling with activity.

An older man who looked to be in his late sixties or early
seventies with a round head, a round nose, a round belly, and
wearing a green uniform with the name “Doc” on the pocket, greeted me with an affable smile and an amiable manner.
“How can I help you, friend?”

I nodded to the nametag. “You must be Doc Raines.”

“You found him, you lucky devil,” he said, laughing.
“What can I do for you? I have a completely restored Model
A roadster on sale this week. Only sixteen thousand. Perfect for a Sunday afternoon drive with the little lady. You can see
it right out back.”

I introduced myself. “I’m not a customer. I’m really just
doing some legwork for a friend, Jack Edney. Maybe you
know him?”

Doc’s grin faded. “Yeah. I know Jack. Or I should say I
remember him. Haven’t seen him in years, but I know
his … I mean, I knew his father. Shame what happened. His
father was a good friend. A real craftsman when it came to
Model T and Thunderbird restorations.”

“That’s why I’m here. The family asked me to see if you
could line up customers for the cars” It was a white lie, but
I had to start somewhere.

A frown wrinkled Doc’s shiny forehead. “That’s right.
They’re probably going to want to sell them, aren’t they?”

“That’s what I figure. I would.”

The store owner frowned and shook his head. “Sure hate
to see that collection broken up. JW did a fine job with them”