A Ghost of Brother Johnathan's (5 page)

At this late hour the hotel restaurant, lobby and corridor were quiet. I was thankful for that, especially so because I was nursing a blistering headache. All I wanted to do is get to my room, shower and go to bed. Imagine my alarm to find a sticky-note on my hotel room door that said:
Something weird is going to happen!

What kind of a bad joke is this? I dashed back down the stairs to the hotel desk and demanded to know who would pull such a prank.

“But, Miss Delaney, I assure you, no person from our staff put this note on your door. Our night crew is only a few employees, I know all of them and this note’s handwriting is not at all familiar. I’m so sorry this happened, it must be another guest who mistook your room number in an effort to play a joke on a friend. Please, may I offer you a courtesy nightcap?”

I snatched the note away from him. “No thank you.” I returned to my room, slammed the door shut and locked it behind me. Mistaken room number or not, I didn’t want any misunderstandings in the night. I passed on the nightcap and chose to gulp down two ibuprofen instead. I took a hot shower and it was almost midnight when I fell into bed, turned off the bedside lamp and pulled the covers up over my head, shielding me from whatever weird happenings that might go on in the hallway. Sleep came over me in a hypnotic wave. I gratefully surrendered to the dark abyss… until the covers were jerked off me.

In the wee hours of the night, chilly air sent goosebumps racing up my arms. I bolted upright and reached out for the sheet and blanket, but couldn’t find them. I reached for the nightstand lamp and switched it on. All the bed covers were on the floor. “What?” I exclaimed.

My best guess is that in the wracking pain of my headache I had kicked and tossed the covers off. I got up and tossed the covers back onto the bed. Crawling back into bed, just as I was about to get settled in, is when I heard the music.

Faint, far away, I suspected there was a celebration going on at one of the boats in the marina. I got up and looked out the window. The harbor was dark and silent. Standing there, in the chill of the night air, I heard the music again. It was louder and getting closer and I recognized the song. Every time the word “pop” sounded, needles of pain shot through my brain. I jumped back into bed and pulled the covers over me.

“Do understand your attempts are futile, my dear. I am dreaming you. You have no control in this happening.”

“Who are you?” I hissed to the British-brogue monkey.
“Whom do I appear to be?”
Okay, I thought, I can play this game. “The monkey who chased the weasel,” I answered.
“Superb! Do tell, and what did I do to the weasel?”
I recited the rhyme in my brain until I got to the part with the answer. “You chased the weasel around and around the mulberry bush, then you popped it.” I chuckled. “You might be a monkey, but I won’t let you make a monkey out of me,” I warned him.
“Ha! Your answer is so, hmm, shall I say…, droll and colonial. Not the least bit accurate.”
I decided to give the snarky primate a taste of his own arrogance. “You’re the one with the missing link, not me. Now get out of my room,” I demanded.
“Not possible.”
“Yes, it is possible. Leave now, right this moment, go chase down a banana.”
My remark obviously insulted the monkey. He was about to retort when a loud hee-haw laugh distracted him. No mistaking that the jarring ridicule came from my closet. Not missing a beat, I called, “Come out, come out, whoever you are.”
The door open with flourish, and a donkey appeared. He skipped right up to my side of the bed. He grinned. Instantly, I knew he looked identical to the donkey from the movie
Shrek. I always liked that donkey.
“Skeedaddle out of here, Monkey. You heard what the damsel said,” Donkey commanded.
Not only does this donkey look like the one from
Shrek
... but also his voice is exactly like Eddie Murphy’s. Hey, I thought, I’m beginning to like this dream.
Meanwhile, the monkey remained at the foot of my bed. He ignored us, and sat there proud and smitten with himself, picking at his fingernails.
Donkey turned to me and said, “A good kick, by this ass, is in order.” Then, with precise movement, he sauntered over to the foot of my bed, positioned himself with his hindquarters facing the monkey and heavedho a kick the likes of which I’d never seen. The monkey flew into the air and vanished.
“Where did he go?” I asked.
“To the Eagle’s Nest,” Donkey replied.
“And where is that?”
“It’s at the end,” Donkey said.
Now, I am exasperated, even though I adore this Eddie Murphy-voiced,
Shrek
movie look-alike donkey who has just the right amount of panache, he is getting on my nerves.
“Please, Mr. Donkey, I’m weary and I have a horrible headache and all I really want to do is get some sleep. Please, what is at the end?”
“Not what. Who.”
“Okay, who is at the end?”
“At the end you meet God,” Donkey answered. Then he cackled, hee-hawed three times and trotted back into my closet.
I hastened after him, only to discover that after I stepped into the closet, Donkey had disappeared. And then, I couldn’t get out of the closet. I slept there curled up in a ball.
“And, that’s where I was the next morning when the hotel maid found me. She let me out.”
Detective Luke Landry stared at me. He must of thought I was a space case. Looking back at that night and the days that followed, I am profoundly appreciative of him for staying calm. He remained quiet, jotted down notes and in awkward moments, he politely averted his attention from me. I glanced out the window. Last night was far away from this bright and sun-filled morning, sitting here in the cheerful dining room of the hotel. I cradled a cup of steaming coffee.
Luke looked up. “Okay, so I’ve taken the report about the note left on your hotel room door, and for what it’s worth, I’m not making an official report about your dream.”
“Thank you. I’m sure the Eureka police need not know about my psycho dream, it serves no purpose, whatsoever. Nevertheless, thanks for listening to me tell it. And you can keep the note, I took photos of it, for my own reference.”
He was silent as he looked out the window. I sensed there was more to Detective Luke Landry than his interest in the sticky-note prank.
Luke turned away from the window and gave me direct eye contact, and said, “Miss Delaney, I have to admit, I’m a bit familiar with your cases, uh, your work assignments. When this call came in, I happened to be standing at the sergeant’s desk and I snatched the call. I get off at five, could we talk more about this, at that time?”
His question took me by surprise. Was he suspicious of me, or a willing ally? Either way, my curiosity got the better of me.
“Yes,” I answered.
Luke smiled and I immediately thought he was sincere.
“Okay. How about dinner? I’ll pick you up at six?”
“Six it is,” I agreed.
Luke stood up. I remained seated. I was expecting Marta to walk in any moment. Luke smiled as he left, I turned to watch him leave and Marta passed right by him. They smiled at each other in passing, but did not appear to know each other.
“Woo-hoo!” Marta commented in a hushed voice. “Can I get a cop like him if I report bad dreams.”
I blushed. “It was more than a bad dream.”
Marta sat down. “Yes, I know. I don’t mean to make light of your situation. Really, a prank like that note left on your room door. No excuse.”
“Let’s hope that a prank is all that it was. And yes, Detective Luke Landry did hear about my dream, I willing told him about it. And yes, he his handsome.”
“Tall, blonde, chiseled features, great smile, about thirtyish. Yes, he is a keeper, for sure. I do hope he has follow-up questions for you. Oh, I didn’t get a good look at his eyes, what color are they?” Marta giggled.
“As a matter of fact, he does have a few more questions. After I have dinner with him, tonight, I tell you more. His eyes are dark brown. Now, let’s eat, I need a good breakfast.”
I ordered a tall stack of blueberry pancakes, while Marta kept to a slim-diet choice of melon and cottage cheese. I dug in as soon as the steaming plate of pancakes was set before me.
After breakfast, I asked Marta about the music and lyrics of
“
Pop Goes The Weasel.
”
“Marta, as I told you, in my dream the monkey was arrogant and said that I got the answer to his question wrong. Do you have any idea what he meant?”
“I thought about that on the way here. I think that the lyrics most of us learned, here in the United States, are not authentic to the song. I believe the song originated in Europe. I only hear the music. So, come to think of it, the lyrics to the song, or words to the rhyme, if there’s even a difference between the song and the rhyme, were never a concern of mine.”
“Hmm, when I have time today, I’ll research the history of ‘Pop Goes The Weasel.’ One other question, did Jonathan Rupp ever have a donkey?”
Marta laughed. “Most certainly, he did. I remember hearing about him and his donkey. Jonathan had a penchant for wild mushrooms. He’d take his donkey into the forest on his land and hunt for wild mushrooms. According to family lore, the donkey was better than a hog in locating the delicate ’shrooms. In Germany and other European nations, swine are used for rooting out mushrooms.”
A lightbulb moment, or better yet, it was another
eureka
moment for me. “Marta, does the phrase,
at the end you meet God
, mean anything to you?”
“Other than the obvious religious context, no. Maybe it meant something to Jonathan. He was a Lutheran, if that helps.”
“I’ll look into that. Anyway, it was a quirky dream and as with all dreams, I can’t take the happenings in it in a literal sense.” I smiled weakly, still wondering what Donkey had meant by
at the end you meet God
.
A waitress removed our dishes. Marta insisted on treating me. I insisted on leaving the tip. We agreed to talk later in the day. I saw Marta off and then went back to my room, determined to finish the brochure.

By four that afternoon I had the brochure finished and sent e-mail attachments of it to all of the historical society’s board members, including Marta, who was the recording secretary and Ozzy, who was the publicity director. I hoped to get Marta’s opinion of the brochure a little later this evening, she said she’d call me before bedtime, but I didn’t stop to ask if she meant my bedtime, or hers. Anyway, I had some time to spare before getting ready to meet Luke Landry for dinner, so I delved into cyberspace. I wanted to know more about “Pop Goes The Weasel.”

Turns out the song does go back to the mid-1800s and it originated in England as a dance song. One of the earliest publications of the lyrics is credited to the London newspaper,
The Times
, in 1853. In reading the lyrics, it struck me that the annoying monkey in my dreams had been correct in saying my knowledge of the lines was colonial, because in the United States, the lyrics were different. This being the case, I copied the original lyrics, as they were printed in London in 1853:

Half a pound of tupenny rice,
Half a pound of treacle.
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel.
Up and down the City road,
In and out the Eagle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel.
Every night when I go out
The monkey’s on the table.
Take a stick and knock it off,
Pop goes the weasel.
All around the cobblers bench
The monkey chased the people;
The donkey thought ‘twas all in fun,
Pop goes the weasel.

“Pop Goes The Weasel” did appear to have originated in England. British, huh? That could explain the monkey’s snooty attitude and his wisecrack slur about my American version of the song lyrics being
colonial
. My research dug up a few more intriguing bits of trivia. For instance, the “pop” and “popping” is reference to pawning. As for “weasel” the word is slang for a person’s coat or suit. Evidently, there was a pub in London, near City Road, called The Eagle that was a popular watering hole. So much so that if a man ran up a tab for which he didn’t have the money to pay, the only way he was allowed to leave without paying, was to pawn his coat. The Eagle’s owner was a pawnbroker as well as a tavern keeper. And the monkey? Turns out that was slang for money on the table, meaning pay up. Pay up, now…
or else
? Hmm, maybe that is where a donkey comes into play. Was a donkey a type of bouncer?

I pondered these odd discoveries and wondered how in the world what the donkey said about
at the end you meet God
figured into the scheme of things. Could the donkey be a type of hard-core enforcer, willing to kick the brains out of a customer who could not pay his tab and had nothing to pawn in place of money? But wait…, Donkey said
Eagle’s Nest
, not The Eagle. Argh!

I closed my computer and set aside my notes about “Pop Goes The Wease
l
.” I changed clothes for my dinner date with Luke.

Brushing my hair back into a high ponytail, I used an old trick of wearing an emerald green blouse to bring out the highlights of my auburn hair and brighten the hue of my green eyes. I stood back from the mirror to scrutinize my appearance. The color green did brighten my eyes, some, and the hue hid my tiredness. I can’t say I looked older for my twenty-five years, but I sure wasn’t looking my youngest. I changed into dressy jeans and low-heeled pumps. A glance out the window reminded me to take a jacket. I slipped on a dark burnt orange corduroy blazer. Checking myself in the mirror, I was, as Rosario would say, donning the colors of the season. Autumn was my favorite season, and I wore it well. I locked my room and went down to the hotel lobby to wait for Luke. He was already there.

“You’re early. I was going to give you a ring in a few minutes,” Luke commented.
Luke smiled and gently placed his hand on my right shoulder, as if to gesture me along. It worked, I followed his lead. We walked out to the curb where he had parked. Luke stood there for a moment, then said, “I’ve made reservations at a favorite place of mine not far from here, about three blocks, would you like to ride or walk?”
“Walk, definitely. I’ve been cooped up inside all day and I need the fresh air and a chance to stretch my legs,” I answered.
“Sounds good to me.”
We walked close to each other. I was itching to ask if he had any leads about the sticky-note prank, but decided to let it go, for now. Luke took me on a miniversion of the route I had taken before. In fact, we walked right by the antique store where I purchased the photo of Jonathan Rupp. We strolled the rest of the way with me relating to him how I came to purchase the photo. I finished my story just as we approached the front of Hurricane Kate’s. We entered and were immediately shown to our table.
“I love the fashion of the dining room, it has a casual jazzy vibe of Art Deco meets French bistro,” I commented as we followed the restaurant’s hostess to our table.
After sitting down, Luke replied, “And the food is good to. Yeah, I like the interior, it’s different from other restaurants and eateries in Eureka. Too many of them play-up the historic, nostalgia theme, all antique-ish and such. Don’t get me wrong, I love anything to do with Eureka’s history, but I like variety, too.”
A waiter brought menus and then slipped away. I asked Luke if he had favorites on the menu.
“Yes. I do. My two favorites are the Seared Wild Salmon with Bacon and Parmesan Crust and then there’s the Fresh Linguini with Creole Spiced Bechamel. I love wild mushrooms, and both of these dishes have them.”
Wild mushrooms? I thought, what a coincidence? “Sounds good to me. I’ll try the Linguini dish.”
Our waiter reappeared and took our orders. I couldn’t get it out of my mind that this restaurant, so far north on the California coast offered Creoleinspired cuisine and the dishes had wild mushrooms. The questions that were tickling my brain were now begging me to query Luke. And so, I did.
“Luke, I was wondering, have you ever had an interest in the history of Jonathan Rupp, also known as Brother Jonathan, the circus clown, and his tavern, Edgewild?”
I think my query hit a nerve. Luke readjusted his position in his chair in a manner that he turned toward me and was closer. He leaned in a little and said, “Do you know of the theories surrounding Rupp and his involvement with an underground Confederate sympathizer organization called the Knights of the Golden Circle?”
I was stunned speechless. Thoughts raced through my brain matrixing into a composition of pure and definitive logic.
“Shannon, did I upset you?”
I leaned into Luke and whispered, “There’s a descendant of Jonathan Rupp here in Eureka. Her name is Marta Keller. Well, Marta told me that a voice told her, and I quote, ‘She’s cagey, see.’”
I had confused Luke. I grabbed my napkin and grabbed a pen from my purse. I wrote out the phrase:
She’s cagey, see.
“Luke, now I understand the message Marta received. It meant she, and who
she
is, I do not know, but evidently,
she
is a member of the KGC. The initials for Knights of the Golden Circle.”
The expression on Luke’s face was priceless. He sat stone stiff, but I could feel the wheels turning.
Luke whispered, “Shannon, there has always been suspicion that the wreck of the
Brother Jonathan
was a deliberate sinking, executed by the KGC. Personally, I never bought the story of how Jonathan Rupp died. The shoot-out seemed bogus to me, but of course, that far back in time, and the only witnesses to give testimony were unquestionably two of Eureka’s most upstanding citizens, so no person would ever doubt their eyewitness account. Plus, that incident happened decades after the American Civil War, still…,”
I picked up on his thoughts. “Still, many people in the nation believe that the KGC went deep underground and in fact, remain active today. When I was little, growing up in Mississippi, my grandfather always cautioned me about going too far into the woods. He said there were scripture trees and that the trees were ciphers to where Confederate gold was buried. He also said the trees are watched and that intruders, or innocent bystanders, can meet with serious mishaps if they go snooping around the scripture trees.”
“Do you think that’s true?” Luke asked.
“I know there are scripture trees and scripture rocks, some people might call them by other names, like bible trees, but they serve the same purpose. Once, when I was out in the bayou with my cousin Corlah, we came across a scripture tree. She said she knew it was one because her father told her so and he knew the family who were the sentinels of it.”
“What did it look like?”
“It was a huge cypress, probably had been there long before the Civil War. The carved signs were up high on the tree, near the fork of two large limbs. Corlah and I took turns boosting each other up in order to see the markings. They were carved deep into the trunk. I recall that most of the markings looked like line-drawn pictures of arrows and triangles, that sort of thing. Except for one, it looked like a stout horse, or maybe a donkey.”
Luke whistled low and then sat back. The waiter was approaching with our dinners.
Luke barley noticed his meal. He looked at me and said, “Jonathan Rupp had a donkey. Supposedly he used him to go into the forest and hunt for wild mushrooms.”
I replied, “Could it be that Rupp was really using his donkey to pack Confederate gold in and out of hiding places in the forest, and that wild mushroom hunting was no more than an excuse for him to go off alone into the woods?”
“Could be. But maybe Rupp is not the Confederate spy, maybe it was that lady and her boyfriend, uh, whatever was her name, the one that was involved in the shoot-out?” Luke said.
I answered, “Bonnie Parting, and her boyfriend was Gunter Kraemer. I wonder if Parting is the
she
, referred to in the message Marta was given. In other words, Bonnie Parting is KGC. Luke, can you access police records that far back?”
“That far back, all the really old records, or what is left of them, are in storage down in the basement of police headquarters. I can look into it. But I doubt if I can get you access to see them.”
“Could you copy them, or take a digital camera and shoot them?” I suggested.
Luke was about to take a bite of salmon when he set his fork down. He chuckled and then said, “I’ve only known you for half a day, and already you are attempting to corrupt me?”
“No. Not true. I would never ask you to act illegally. Good grief, Luke, some of my favorite people are in law enforcement.”
Luke laughed outright. “Shannon, all I need do is ask the police captain for permission to work on the file in my spare time. That case is so cold, it’s frozen and way beyond any legal jurisdictions. I’ll even ask if I can copy the file and share it with you.”
Argh! I wanted to stab him with his own fork, but I put aside my irritation in favor of getting my hands on the case files regarding Rupp’s death. I chose a different angle.
“I’ll talk with Marta Keller later tonight. I was going to ask her about Rupp’s donkey. Just out of curiosity, do you know anything about it?” I asked Luke.
“Hmm, yeah. Well, sort of. I remember reading that Rupp was crazy about his donkey, gave him a real fancy name.” Luke paused and I did not want to interrupt his thinking. He smiled. “Yeah, I think the name was Geoffrey Ozwald Dresden, Rupp called the donkey
God
, for short.”
“Are you sure about that name?” I asked.
“Not one hundred percent certain, in fact, it could be lore. There has always been numerous stories circulated about Jonathan Rupp. In that era, he was an oddity. For one, he was probably the only midget anyone in these parts had ever seen, let alone got to know firsthand. He was one of the few survivors of the shipwreck of the
Brother Jonathan
. Then there’s the novelty that he was a circus clown with the same name of the ship that wrecked, from which he survived. Jonathan Rupp was a person of mystery and novelty. Stories, true and fantastic, were circulated about him. Honestly, I do not remember where that information came to me. So, let’s not accept the donkey’s name as fact, okay?”