Serial Saturday: The Figurine, Part 5

The previous time Jefferson had been at the old house up on the hill, the butler had been a military man, but since his last service had been in the war between the states it had been a bit of a struggle for the man to maintain a martial bearing. The new butler who opened the door for Jefferson looked like someone who knew a thing or two about scrapping too, and was a lot more ready to set to it at a moment’s notice, since he was a much younger man. He wasn’t built to fit in the suit he’d been crammed into, in Jefferson’s judgment.

“Yes?”

Jefferson had a feeling the butler was a bit put out by his inability to loom over his guest. “Here to see Miss Tacy.”

“Are you expected?”

Jefferson rubbed his chin. “Well, she ain’t often surprised. But we didn’t set up an appointment, if that’s what you mean.”

“Come in. I’ll see if Miss Tacy is available.” The butler spoke in a buzzsaw of a Boston accent–it seemed Miss Tacy was importing talent from the coast. Jefferson nodded and followed the man into a parlor off the main entrance. He’d just begun to examine the furnishings when he realized the butler was still in the room.

“Something else?” he asked, turning.

“Just need to check you for weapons.”

Jefferson raised an eyebrow and opened his jacket. The butler lifted out the pistols and set them on a side table, then gave Jefferson a efficient pat down. Finally, he nodded and left, taking the pistols with him.

Jefferson returned to looking over the parlor. It had changed, since last he’d been in it. It had what he supposed was more of a feminine touch, a few doilies here and there, and the crossed sabres that had hung incongruously over the mantle were gone. Many of the vaguely disturbing painting were gone, as well, though not all.

One of these, a picture of a moss-covered tower, showed several figures here and there, ones not immediately obvious and difficult to keep track of. Jefferson was on his third time through trying to count the shadowy things when he heard a throat cleared behind him. He jumped and spun, reaching for his gun before remembering it wasn’t there.

Both pistols were in the hands of Miss Tacy, in fact, as she stood in the door smirking at him. She was dressed, as always, at the height of fashion, even on a day she’d been staying in. Her black hair was cut short in waves that clung to the sides of her head, a little bit different than it had been a month back.

“It’s just a painting,” she said.

“Damned creepy one, Chipper,” he muttered. Jefferson assumed that there were a few people walking the earth who knew Miss Tacy’s real name, but he wasn’t one of them. She seemed to tolerate the nickname she’d picked up years ago well enough, though.

Chipper shrugged and approached, holding out the pistols. “Sorry about Jimmy. He’s new. Some sort of distant cousin from the Boston branch of the family.”

“Seems like an eager fella,” Jefferson replied, holstering his guns.

Chipper inclined her head and smiled slightly. Smiles always looked a bit odd on her, since she only seemed to use them to make a point or frighten people. Or perhaps it was just him, since as near as he could tell she’d never been happy to see him. At any rate, she never smiled with her eyes, which seemed to have seen far more than they could have in the twenty years or so she’d been around. “He’s enthusiastic,” she agreed. “Hasn’t been through the kinds of things you have.” She turned and started for the doorway. “Come.”

He followed her down the hallway and into a small study. Jefferson thought he could still see some of the Colonel in the décor of the dark-paneled room, and smell it in the ghosts of long ago-smoked cigars.

There was an old book, bound in wood or bone, sitting open on one of a pair of leather-upholstered chairs, and Chipper took a slip of paper from the old oak desk to mark her place before setting it aside.

“Something to drink?” she asked, gesturing to the other chair.

“No, thank you,” Jefferson said. Chipper sat, folding on leg under her, and picked up her own glass from the side table. Jefferson might have thought it was water, except for the way the liquid beaded on the sides of the glass. That and the fact that the fumes coming off it were like to burn though his nose hair.

Chipper took a healthy sip of the white lightning. “So, what brings you out here?”

“You know I was out to Boston looking in on that Sullivan fella?”

Chipper nodded.

“I run into a few Badgers looking in on him too.”

Chipper raised one thin eyebrow. “So we are on the right track with him. I don’t suppose you have the names of these Badgers?”

“A Mrs. Glass was in charge, she had some help from some fellas by the name of Farthing and Gantry.”

Chipper’s brow furrowed. “That woman is insane-”

“Oh for Chrissake, Chipper, name one a them that isn’t a half-bubble off plumb. Or one of us, for that matter.”

Chipper glared at him for a moment. “Properly insane, in this case, and given some of the things she’s done she’s not the sort the Badgers would send out on an investigation of a someone looking into dangerous things.”

“Huh,” Jefferson said after a moment. “You sure?”

Chipper shrugged elegantly. “Not sure. But it seems likely she may be acting independently.”

“Huh,” Jefferson said again. “I don’t know if that’s good or bad.” He stood. “Hell, maybe I do need a drink. You got anything around here that’s spent some time in a barrel after it left the still?”

Chipper waved a hand toward a cabinet behind her desk, and Jefferson crossed the room to it. It held a bottle of bourbon, among other things, as well as glasses.

“So where is Mr. Sullivan now?” Chipper asked.

Jefferson sighed as he poured himself a few fingers of bourbon. “Dead, I think. Gantry was fixing to shoot him last I saw, and I heard a shot.” He looked up to see Chipper giving him a quizzical look. “They had both of us in some abandoned house outside the city. Seemed like a good time to run, when they decided to kill him.” He crossed the room and sat down again. “I checked the place out the next day, and it was like they’d never been there. No blood stains or anything.”

“So not a rousing success.”

Jefferson glared over at Chipper for a moment. “No, but I can see that you’re at least happy I survived.”

“Is that why you came here? To get a hug and a kiss on the forehead? ‘You may have failed, but thank heavens you’re safe’, and all that?”

Jefferson took a healthy slug of his bourbon, glaring off at the wall for a moment. “No, I wouldn’t expect that,” he said.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t complain,” Chipper said. “After all, you were most likely going to have to kill the man anyway. And this way, your hands are clean. I know that’s important to you.”

“Gosh, it’s nice to visit this place.”

Chipper sipped from her glass. “I’m sorry my welcome disappoints you, but you did come to me.”

Jefferson looked down into his glass for a time. “Sullivan had a figurine,” he said at last. “Put me in mind of one of those things you got out in the swamp, there.” He looked up to see Chipper giving him a narrow-eyed look.

“Is that so?”

“That’s so.”

“But you don’t have it?”

“Nope. Badgers have it now.”

“Well, that is delightful, Jefferson. Just wonderful. Can I hope to have Badgers come calling now?”

Jefferson shrugged. “Mrs. Glass didn’t recognize it. And like you say, maybe she’s acting alone.”

“If you knew the figurine was significant, so will they. They’re not going to just let it go.” She took a healthy sip of her own drink, and continued, her voice a bit ragged from the raw alcohol. “It is not easy, keeping a lid on that swamp. I don’t need Badgers putting their oar in. Are you certain it had something to do with the A’kar’kchurk?

“No, I ain’t. I didn’t get but a glimpse of it before Gantry took it off me. I figured maybe your granddaddy might know a thing or two that’d be useful, if you didn’t.”

Chipper regarded him for a few seconds, then tossed back the last of her drink and stood. “Very well. Let’s talk to the Colonel.”

 

Copyright © 2012 SM Williams

~ by smwilliams on May 5, 2012.