Lainey Quilholt Mysteries Collection

Chapter 2-3

“Well, Miss Lainey. How are you?” Uncle Ed said in that deep, rich voice, and slight southern accent of his. When he first began calling me “Miss Lainey” I wasn"t sure why, but was later told this was an old southern tradition to show respect for womenfolk. His hands were out to greet me. In his right was the perpetual unlit slim, black cigar. It was like seeing the famed author re-animated right there in the shop. He was dressed in white Chinos, and a pumpkin colored silk shirt, not tucked in, but worn somewhat like Hawaiian shirts were worn because the bottom was a straight cut and the embroidered design went all the way down. One time, back when I"d first met him, he"d worn a similar shirt and alarmed me by lifting it revealing his flat stomach, saying, “Look at that! I"ve a stomach of a twenty year-old!” He smacked his impressive stomach, making a loud pop. “I do fifty sit-ups every day!” My parents had only once mentioned Uncle Ed in conversation, saying he was an “odd ball”. But once I got to know him, I thought he was intelligent, witty, and entertaining—I could sit and listen to him talk on and on about anything from the weather to politics and everything in between.

I stepped over to his six foot-one frame. I let him take my hands and turned my face for the usual kiss on the cheek. He smelled of cigars and some sort of spicy aftershave, and I detected a whiff of bourbon—his preference when he did take a drink. His large, white mustache tickled my face, and a light chuckle escaped me. When I first saw him, before my aunt introduced us, he had been on stage on his riverboat, The Miss Twila. Afterwards, my aunt introduced him to me. He told me, almost at the break of tears, that I reminded him of his own daughter. I didn"t know why that had been such a bitter-sweet moment for him, until I asked my aunt later in private. His daughter had been killed in a car crash when she was about my age. I did not mind one bit that he had a special place in his heart for me, because I had a fondness for him. He had re-named his riverboat The Miss Twila after her.

The Miss TwilaThe Miss Twila“I"m fine! How are you?” I said, my smile as big as his.

He tipped his head back on his chuckle. Then he bend slightly and said, “I won"t lie. I"m creaky in places and oily in others. Life would be infinitely happier if we could only be born at the age of eighty and gradually approach eighteen.” His voice resonating, booming at times, and soft when he spoke indoors, and he would change its tone up and down. He could mesmerize anyone with it, I was certain of it. His performances were legendary.

I laughed, our hands still joined, then he let go first. One hand went to my shoulder as we moved through the store together, him leading me, almost as though we were dancing.

“How"s the writing going?” he asked, blue eyes going wide with expression. He was over-joyed to learn that I wanted to become an author. He was a retired English teacher and offered to edit anything I wrote. I had written nothing worth editing, unfortunately, at this juncture.

“Well, I haven"t really committed anything to paper, yet,” I admitted.

“It"s hard. It"s hard. But—” His finger went up, “Just remember. Writing is easy. All you have to do is cross out the wrong words.”

I laughed again. He was quoting Mark Twain. He liked to sprinkle in these gems in whenever he could.

The door chime rang again and my aunt stepped in.

“Well, hello, Uncle Ed,” she greeted.

“Miss Jessica!” Ed glided across the room and greeted her like he had me. I might be prejudice but I thought we were his favorite people in all of Montclair. He came in everyday, unless he was busy. He was refurbishing his boat, and had no shows planned until it was finished.

“How are you?” my aunt asked.

“Well, I"m down. Real down,” he said.

“Oh? Why?”

“Another kid quit on me again,” he said.

“You mean the work on the boat?” she asked.

“Yes.” He nodded, not looking at either of us. “Kids just don"t want to work hard these days.” He looked up at me and amended, “Present company excluded, of course.” I smiled. “They"re usually going to school and think they"re going to become doctors, lawyers or some big executive, why do they have to do a menial job like painting, or sweeping floors?” He huffed at the end, making his mustache flutter.

We both made sounds of empathy for him.

“You don"t know of anyone around here who needs a job do you?” he asked looking at the both of us.

“Not off hand,” my aunt said and I shook my head.

“Well, keep it in mind, if you hear of anyone.”

“We sure will,” my aunt said.

“Where"s that scoundrel, John?” Ed asked. “Seems he"s always in here slurping up free coffee or eating a free cookie.” We both laughed.

“He had to go on a call,” my aunt said, moving to deposit her purse underneath the counter.

“I hope it wasn"t about those men,” I said, moving toward the counter. Uncle Ed had moved there too, alongside me, the unlit cigar clutched between his teeth.

“Trouble under foot?” He growled.

“I don"t know,” my aunt said. “I don"t understand half the things they say over the police radio. Excuse me for a moment.” She turned away and went into the back. I supposed to fix her make-up. We had a small, but clean bathroom. We didn"t allow the public back there. My aunt had a rule about that. She told me once she"d let a woman use it and she had plugged the toilet up so badly, she"d had to call a plumber. She"d never seen that woman again, but I suspect she would have handed her the plumber"s bill if she had.

“My dear Lainey, what are you doing tonight?” Ed asked, taking my hand in his, and having removed his cigar from his mouth, he delivered a little kiss on the back of my hand. His way of showing affection, was so old fashioned and it had taken me a while to get used to this, but I was assured by my aunt he was harmless, and his affections genuine. His wife had died years ago, and he was lonely, but he seemed to have adjusted to being a widower well enough.

“I"m going to The Huddle to see a-a musician,” I said. I wasn"t sure why I found it hard to speak of it to him. Almost as though I needed his permission. He straightened, and eyed me as a father would.

The Huddle“The Huddle? You mean that wild place at the end of town? The Coffee Huddle? The one where they hoop it up every Friday and Saturday night?” His mustache fluttered and his eyes grew narrow.

The HuddleThe Coffee Huddle“That"s the one.” My face became warm. I knew I was into a full blush. Damn.

His smile lifted the white mustache. “Ah… A blush on a pretty girl.” His finger went up. “Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.” He turned away. “Take care to not stay out too late, Lainey, my dear.”

“I-uh-won"t.”

Without another word, he left. Never have I ever heard the man say goodbye. Occasionally he said “Good day” or “Have a good day” in parting. But never “Good bye”.