Murder and Mayhem (22 page)

Rosie laughed. “I remember that–Abbott and Costello,
right?”

“Yes, that’s right. I’m surprised you know it. You
weren’t even born when the movie was made.”

“I watch all that good stuff on cable. ‘Who’s on
first, What’s on second, I don’t know’s on third…’ Right!”

I grinned. “Sometimes you amaze
me, my little turtle dove. Now shall we get on with the story?”

“Far be it for me to interfere with artistic genius.
Read on, McDuff,” she said with a theatrical sweep of the hand.

Nicola was confused. “… What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard that great monologue
between Bud Abbott and Lou Costello?”

Nicola shook her head. “Who are they?”

Danny laughed. “Forget it otherwise we could go on
like this all day!”

Nicola shrugged in a ‘whatever’ gesture. “You still
haven’t told me what the name of the band was.”

“They were called, The Band.”

“That’s a strange name for a band.”

“Apparently they were originally called The Hawks,
then Levon and the Hawks, and various other names. But Bob Dylan and other lead
singers always referred to them as, “The Band”, so in the end the name stuck.”

“Who were they?”

Danny looked at Nicola and shook his head in
disbelief. “Only one of the greatest bands of the sixties and seventies! They
were inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame in 1994 and Rolling Stone
ranked them No 50 on their list of 100 Greatest Artists of all time.”

“Sounds like you know a bit about them.”

“I grew up with them. Mum played their music all the
time. She had their posters plastered all over the walls.”

Nicola shrugged. “I’ve never heard of them.”

Danny let out a long exaggerated sigh and shook his
head. “I don’t know…, kids these days. I don’t suppose there’s any point in
telling you the town of Woodstock is only about seven miles south of here?”

“Woodstock? That was something to do with Bob Dylan
and a rock concert full of hippies and flower children smoking pot and taking
LSD back in the dark ages before crystal meth and ecstasy became the drugs of
choice, wasn’t it?”

“‘Turn on, tune in, drop out!’”

* * *

They pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant on
the outskirts of Albany where large trees lined the sidewalks and large homes
with manicured lawns and park-like gardens graced wide avenues.

The hostess, a smart-looking middle-aged matron, made
sure they were comfortably seated before handing them menus with a promise of
efficient service and cold water.

Nicola’s eyes scanned the room and came to rest on a
large man standing just inside the entrance. He was wearing a black T-shirt and
red braces that held up his supersize jeans, and had an enormous belly that
hung pendulously below his thighs. With his hair pulled back in a ponytail,
Nicola immediately thought of the man she had seen in the park in Philadelphia–
and her heart stopped. Suddenly, the man’s eyes found hers–and moved on, but in
that brief, fleeting moment she knew it was not the same man.

She sipped water from her glass; through the window
she watched a woman unload two small children from a blue pickup.

In a café nearby a man was drinking coffee, his
attention focused on the newspaper spread out in front of him. When he came to
the end of the report he’d been reading, his eyes flicked back the top of the
page. He started reading again–this time more carefully, wanting to absorb
every word. He heard the door open and looked up as a tall, attractive woman
walked in. Her long auburn hair was tied back with a red scarf that floated
about her shoulders like gossamer. 

“Have you been waiting long?” she asked…

*****

I was waiting for the barrage of questions that were
sure to follow–but didn’t–so I clicked the start button and shut down. The
mid-morning sun was streaming through the redwoods at the bottom of the garden,
dripping liquid gold over everything it touched.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Mmmm.”

“Can I get you anything?”

Rosie gave me a weary smile her face looked drawn and
pale. “No, I’m fine, Bubbie.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to go inside? You look a
little tired.”

“No. I’m okay. I am a little tired but I’d rather be
outside on a beautiful day like this. I was just thinking that’s all.”

“What about?”

“You and Ross have been there haven’t you?”

“Where, Albany?”

Rosie nodded. “I seem to
remember you telling me something about Albany a couple of years ago.”

“Yes, we’ve been to Albany several times, once when we
were traveling north through the Hudson Valley, and a couple of times when we
were traveling west along Interstate Twenty.”

“What’s it like?”

“What, Albany?”

Rosie nodded.

“It’s the same as any big city. Some parts are really
nice and some parts, not.” I shrugged. “We only ever passed through Albany on
the way to someplace else. It was never our destination. However, they do have
a wonderful museum and a couple of buildings that would rival New York City
skyscrapers, but aside from that I don’t think there’s anything particularly
remarkable about Albany. It held no appeal for me.”

“You mentioned Highway Twenty. I’m sure I’ve heard
Drew mention that road. Where does it go?”

“Highway Twenty is bi-coastal. It starts on the east
coast, in Boston, and ends in the little town of Newport, Oregon, on the west
coast. As it wanders from state to state it hooks up with other roads along the
way, but usually it just travels along on its own, through sleepy little towns
and villages, and out of the way places that most people have never heard of.”

“Go on,” Rosie prompted.

“Hon, you look tired, why don’t you rest?”

“I’m all right. I like listening to stories about your
travels. I promise I’ll tell you if I get too tired.”

“Okay. Now let me see… There are a couple of
well-known highways that travel coast to coast, but Highway Twenty would have
to be the most intriguing–and the most scenic. As it travels across New York
State, it passes through places with strange sounding names such as Cazenovia,
Onondaga and Oneida. Some of the most beautiful country we’ve traveled can be
found along Highway Twenty.”

Rosie sighed. “Tell me about it,” she said as she
adjusted the pillows behind her head.

“You sure you’re all right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“All right. Let me see, now.” I drummed my fingers on
my bottom lip and thought for a moment.

“I’ll start with Cooperstown on Lake Otsego. It’s
about seventy miles west of Albany, and is one of the prettiest places you
would ever see. It’s home to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and has a
fabulous resort called The Otesaga Resort Hotel, a magnificent Georgian structure
built on the shores of the lake that adjoins a championship golf course in what
would have to be one of the most spectacular settings in the world–for a golf
course,” I said.

“One of the fairways goes out into the lake. It’s
mind-blowing to see. When the golfers tee off it looks like they’re standing on
top of the water. The first time I saw it, it gave me quite a turn.”

Rosie grinned. “That old walking on water gig, I’m
sure I read about it before.”

I laughed, and continued, “Cooperstown is a lovely town,
not at all what you’d expect. It’s full of picturesque cottages with white
picket fences and dainty gardens. The town has even got a couple of museums.

“It sounds wonderful.”

“It is. Then there’s the Finger Lakes District further
west: Otisco, Skaneateles, Owasco, Cayuga, Seneca and Canandaigua. Lake
Skaneateles would have to be my favorite. It has a delightful township in a
picture-book setting.

While we were there, Ross and I took a boat trip
around the lake. It has some spectacular homes built along the bank, including
one that used to belong to the Roosevelt family that’s now a monastic retreat.”

A
slight breeze
riffled through the garden. “Are you warm enough, Hon? Do you want to go
inside?”

“No. Just throw that rug over my legs.”

I slipped the rug out from under her feet, spread it
over her legs and tucked it in. “How’s that?”

Rosie gave me one of her
beautiful smiles,
scrunched down on the
chaise and pulled the rug up around her.

“Bubbie, why don’t you work on your story while I have
a quick snooze, and when I wake up you can read me what you’ve written. But
don’t go away,” she added.

“Don’t worry, Hon, I’m not going anywhere,” I said as
I tucked the rug around her and kissed the top of her head.

*****

Cotton-wool clouds drifted on a warm breeze in a
Wedgewood-blue sky. It was hard to imagine the summer months had passed and the
cold days of winter not far away.

 Nicola watched unruly blond curls dance around
Danny’s head from the breeze that came in through the small opening at the top
of the driver’s-side window.

“Have you ever bought a Harley here?” she asked. “I
mean a fully assembled bike–not just parts.”

“Oh, sure. A couple of years ago I was visiting an old
friend in Albuquerque. Nice old guy. Bit of a character. He’d been around
Harleys most of his life. Went by the name of Buzz.”

“Is that Buzz as in Buzz-saw, or Buzz as in Buzzard?”

Danny laughed. “Buzz as in Buzzard.”

“Why is that?”

“Because he used to pick the eyes out of any parts on
offer,” Danny said, grinning.

Nicola smiled. “Tell me about it,” she said.

“The last time I saw Buzz he was getting on in years
and planning to move north to live with his daughter in Taos, New Mexico. Sadly
she’d told Buzz he couldn’t take his ‘junk’ with him, because she didn’t have
anywhere to store it.

“I must say I could sympathize with his daughter. You
have no idea how much stuff Buzz had. It took him the best part of sixty years
to collect it. Broke his heart to have to give it all up,” Danny said.

“Anyway, we were going through the hundreds of boxes
and crates he had stored in the barn behind the rambling clapboard farmhouse
where he’d lived most of his life, when I noticed two wheels peeking out from
beneath a dusty old tarp covered in dirt and cobwebs, and odd bits of junk.

“When I asked him what was under the tarp, he looked
around to see what I was talking about. He scratched his head and rubbed the
gray stubble on his face, and said, “I’d forgotten all about that old thing.”

“So, we removed all the junk that was piled on top of
it, and pulled off the tarp. When the dust had settled I found myself looking
at a 1975 Shovelhead–in mint condition. Well, you should have seen Buzz’s face
light up. “Well, lookee here,” he said. “That’s an ex-police bike I bought in
Tucson about fifteen years ago. I’d completely forgotten I had it. At the time
I was busy with so many things what with my wife dying and helping Sally and
her family move to New Mexico, it got pushed to one side and somehow time
seemed to get away from me.”  Buzz just stood there looking at this magnificent
piece of machinery, scratching his head. 

“Well, I got down on my knees and had a good look, and
liked what I saw. “How much do you want for it?” I asked him, not even thinking
about how I was going to get it back to Australia. But, we agreed on a price
and I knew I had myself a rare find and a real bargain to boot, and Buzz was
pleased it was going to someone he knew would appreciate it.

“Then I started to think about the logistics of
shipping the bike back to Australia and I knew it would be a nightmare. If I
shipped it back as a complete bike I’d have to pay a fortune in duty. So we
decided to dismantle the bike and ship it back–as parts.

“At Buzz’s insistence, I moved into the spare room and
we worked on it together every day for several weeks until we had it completely
dismantled. We labeled every nut and bolt and packed each part separately, and
then we crated it up in a special crate I got from the local Harley Davidson
dealer and organized with a shipping agent to have it picked up.

“I really enjoyed my time with the old man. He had
some great stories to tell. Every night after dinner we’d sit around the fire
and exchange tales about places we’d been and people we’d met.

“Sadly, Buzz’s daughter, Sally, contacted me about six
months later to tell me her father had died. She said he spoke of me fondly,
reminiscing about those weeks we spent together. She thanked me for making his
last days memorable.” Danny nodded nostalgically as he thought about the old
man.