Checking the Traps, page 11
part #3 of Isabel Long Series
Dave hands me the poem. It’s called “Pay Me Up.”
You think you’re so smart
Telling me I can’t write,
That I’m not a poet.
Well, I’ve got the sun on my back
And the stars in my eyes
That says I can.
So pay me up.
I hand the paper back to Dave.
“That’s not bad.”
“The guy tried to say it wasn’t a poem cause it didn’t rhyme and it was so short. They called me over to judge. I said I liked it, and that was the end of that. You can see he signed the bottom and gave it to me.”
“That’s a good story,” I say.
I glance back at Ma who watches us from the front seat. She jiggles her head as if she wants to get going. I’m wondering how much longer Dave will keep me.
“But that ain’t all,” Dave says.
Now, I’m expecting he’s going to lure us to his place.
“Yes?”
“I forgot all about this story, but maybe it’ll help you.”
“Go ahead.”
“I remember one night Cary came in with some guy who was supposed to be some famous poet that used to be his neighbor. I can’t recall the guy’s name. He’d never been to my place before. Tall, thin man. Carried himself well.”
“His name’s Cyrus Nilsson.”
Dave squints.
“That sounds about right. Anyway, they were celebrating the guy’s new book of poetry. He brought it with him. He even showed it to me when I went over to introduce myself.” Dave pauses. “The two of them had dinner and a bit to drink. I didn’t pay much attention. But at one point, things got outta hand.”
“In what way?”
“One of the waitresses called me over. She said things were getting kinda ugly. So, I went over to their table. You won’t believe what the argument was about.”
“Go ahead.”
“Somethin’ about stealin’ what somebody wrote.”
“Plagiarizing? Was Cyrus accusing Cary of copying his work?”
Dave shakes his head.
“Nah, my understanding is that it was the other way around.”
“Wow. Cyrus Nilsson stole what Cary wrote?”
“I guess Cary got his first look at the book at dinner and found a few poems he says the guy ripped off. That Cyrus fellow claimed he didn’t. He said he paid for them. Cary was pissed off.”
“What happened?”
“Eh, the poet guy split. I think Cary got stiffed with the bill.”
“When did this happen?”
“About a month or so before he died. Maybe less.”
Crap, this is a lot better than what I expected from Dave although he did give me useful info for my last case. Paying a visit to Cyrus Nilsson is definitely high on my list.
“Dave, thank you. This is helpful.”
He gives me a pleased-with-himself smile.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he says. “How’s that collarbone of yours healin’?”
“It’s coming along.”
“Glad to hear. Don’t forget you owe me a date.”
Brother, how could I? The guy mentions it every time we meet. I think about what Jack and I talked about last night. How would I like it if he and his ex-wife went out on a date? I’ve got to find a nice way out of this.
A pickup speeds past with a friendly beep of the horn that I assume is for Dave who everybody knows in this neck of the woods.
“Yes, you keep reminding me.”
“Well, I know where to find you on Friday nights,” he says.
“Uh, Dave, that’s not a good idea.” I take a breath. “I’m going to be straight with you. I might not be able to keep that promise.” I take another. “I think it would be unfair to Jack.”
“Why? Are you two that serious?”
I rest my hand on his arm.
“Let me put it this way. If you and I were seeing each other, I wouldn’t go out with another man.”
Dave studies my face. He nods.
“Isabel, you’re an honest woman. I like that about you.” He pauses. “This is definitely not what I want to hear. But I respect it.”
“Thank you.”
“I tell you what. I’ll let you off. But if your situation ever changes, I want you to give me a shot. Fair enough?”
I smile.
“Yes, it is.”
“Good.”
Then, Dancin’ Dave surprises me when he takes my hand and gives the back a kiss.
“You’re a real gentleman,” I say.
He chuckles.
“That I am.”
What Carole Says
I poke my head through the door of the Rooster’s kitchen on Sunday to give Carole a friendly “Howdy.” She’s here early, even earlier than Jack, who’s back home tending to his mutts and some chores he told me about last night. Ma and I came here for dinner because she wanted to cash in one of her freebies from Jack. I wouldn’t let her pay for me either although she tried real hard. I got up and secretly told Jack that’s not gonna happen. I paid for my meal in cash.
It was a good night to go to the Rooster because things were on the quiet side. I heard the Country Plowboys were playing at Baxter’s, so that drew their fans away. Even Lisa wasn’t here, thank God. Jack could sit down with us, beside me, of course, when we were done with our meal. I was nursing my beer and pondering a second. I didn’t relish going home to watch yet another old movie with my mother. Of course, I could read more of Cary Moore’s poetry. I finished his third book, appropriately named Thrice, and I’m onto the next, called Home for Me. It has lots more of that down-home stuff. My two favorites are about stacking firewood and killing a buck. Here is a line from the second one I like:
This quiet, noble beast
Took down with a blast of my gun
Makes my meat for winter.
After Ma got up to use the ladies’ room, Jack told me he was waking up early and hitting a Laundromat in Mayfield, so he could wash all of his clothes at once. He had quite a haul of dirty laundry, he told me without an ounce of shame. He’s just been too damn busy. He couldn’t recall the last time he did a wash, and he was down to his last clean shirt. The sheets weren’t fit to have me over.
“Maybe we should move in together, so I’d have clean laundry all the time,” he joked.
“Actually, Sam did all the laundry and ironing in our house,” I joked back. “You might be out of luck if we did that.”
Jack laughed.
“I bet there might be other advantages,” he said.
I found it amusing that was the first time he mentioned anything as momentous as moving in together. We’re nowhere near that. I didn’t hold him to it although I did reveal my conversation with Dave Baxter. How did he react? The man beamed.
“That’s my woman,” he said.
My woman, eh?
But back to Carole, she drops what she’s doing and washes her hands. She wipes them on her apron.
“Want somethin' to drink, Isabel?” she asks. “Jack won’t mind.”
“I’m all set.”
Carole pours herself a glass of Diet Coke and joins me at one of the tables. She takes a sip.
“You wanted to tell me something about your cousin, Cary.”
“You knew he wrote poems, right?” she says.
“Uh-huh, I’m going through all of his books.” I nod. “And it seems like everywhere I go, somebody has a poem he wrote about them. Even Jack’s got one.”
She smiled.
“That sounds like Cary. He gave me a poem for my birthday one year. I’ll have to show it to you.”
“I’m curious. What did you want to tell me?”
She uses a finger to rub the side of the glass.
“It might be nothin’, but I used to clean house for his old neighbor. That poet guy.”
“Cyrus Nilsson?”
“That’s the one. I still worked for him when he built that house in Titus. He moved there, let’s see, about a year before Cary died.”
“I saw some of the house from across the river. Looks like it has a lotta glass.”
“Yeah, yeah, lots of glass to clean. It was a real pain in the ass. I came in once a week to clean for Mr. Nilsson. He was fussy about things like I wasn’t supposed to go inside his office unless he was in there with me. Then, I could dust his books. You wouldn’t believe how many he’s got. I had to vacuum real careful-like cause there were papers everywhere.”
Carole winces as she touches her side.
“You alright there, Carole?”
She waves me away.
“Just a stitch. It comes and goes.” She pauses. “Anyway, one time a few papers fell on the floor. When I picked them up for Mr. Nilsson, I noticed they had Cary’s name on them.”
Naturally, I’m thinking about what Dave Baxter told me. This is getting interesting.
“Keep going.”
“I mentioned to him that Cary was my cousin, but he knew that already. Anyway, Mr. Nilsson frowned big time and told me, ‘I’ll take those.’ He acted like I stole them. Jesus, he could be such a dick some times.” She snorts. “At least he paid well.”
I wait until she takes another drink.
“It was a while ago, but do you remember the names of any of the poems?”
She grins.
“Actually, one I do. The poem on top was called “Moonbeam.” I remember it cause that’s what Cary used to call me when we were kids.” She shakes her head. “I didn’t get a chance to read it cause Mr. Nilsson had his hand out. I don’t think it was about me though. The name just stuck inside my head.”
“Did Cary ever come over to the house when you were there?”
She winces again.
“Don’t mind me,” she says. “But to answer your question, yeah, he did. Cary sometimes did handyman stuff for Mr. Nilsson. After he was done, they’d talk about writin’ poems and stuff. That’s what Cary told me. But there’s one time I really remember. I answered the door and let him in like any other visitor Mr. Nilsson had. But I could tell he wasn’t happy to see Cary. He gave me a real stern look like I did somethin’ wrong.”
“This is good, Carole.”
“Mr. Nilsson said to leave the door open. I was headin’ for the kitchen, but I stopped in the hall when I heard them argue. Cary called Mr. Nilsson a liar and a thief. He said he was gonna get a lawyer.” Carole touches her side again. “They weren’t yellin’, but I could tell there was somethin’ going on. I dunno what got in me, but I went back inside the room. I asked Mr. Nilsson if he needed anythin’.”
“What did he say?”
“He said to call the police.”
“Did you?”
“Nah. Cary left. But before he did, he told Mr. Nilsson, ‘You’ll see what happens when people find out you stole my stuff.’ He called him ‘the great Cyrus Nilsson’ before he left.”
“What happened next?”
“Mr. Nilsson shut the door to his office. He was talkin’ on the phone, but I couldn’t hear what he was sayin’.”
“When did this all happen?”
“Not long before Cary died.”
She takes a drink. I sit back. When I was a reporter, I loved those moments when all the pieces of a story began to fall into place, except now the pieces were for a cold case I was trying to solve.
“You said you used to work for Cyrus. When did you stop?”
“He said something real funny a couple of months after Cary died. He asked if I could get him Cary’s poems. He said one of his brothers had them.” Her head rolls back and forth. “I wasn’t gonna get in the middle of that, so I said no way. A coupla days later, he called to tell me he was gettin’ himself another housekeeper, that I didn’t keep the house, oh, what did he say, up to his standards. That was a crock of shit.”
“How did he take it when word got out that Cary died?”
“Did you hear Mr. Nilsson spoke at Cary’s funeral? Thought so. That’s a funny thing, too. When Mr. Nilsson spoke at his funeral, he said he was sad to lose him cause he was a talented poet. He said he’d miss him. All I could think of was that time he got real mad at Cary.”
I let this all sink in for a moment.
“Do you mind if I ask you a question about his brothers?”
“Gary and Larry? Go ahead.”
“I’m not interested in their, er, business, if that’s what you’re thinking. I’m curious that Gary asked me to look into his brother’s death. Larry doesn’t seem all that crazy about it.”
She gives me a half-smile.
“I’m not surprised there. Larry took it hard when Cary died. I think his brother hirin’ you brings up too many bad memories.” She lifts her glass. “You might’ve noticed Gary is always the one who decides things.”
I think about my dealings with the brothers, and Gary definitely leads the way.
“Yeah, I can see that. Hey, do you happen to have a phone number for Cyrus?”
“I might.” She pulls her phone from the back pocket of her jeans and scrolls through the contacts. “Here you go. I’ve got two numbers. They’re for his home and cell phone. I wasn’t supposed to give ’em out to nobody. I don’t give a shit anymore.”
“This is great.” I load the numbers into my phone. “I’ll give them a try.”
The side door opens. Jack whistles as he makes his way toward us.
“Was I helpful at all?” Carole asks.
“You sure were, especially if those numbers work.” I lower my voice. “If you don’t mind my saying, you look like you’re in some pain. Have you seen a doctor?”
She stands and waves at Jack.
“I’m goin’ tomorrow.”
“Good.”
Whistling, Jack drops some bags on the counter before he takes Carole’s place. She’s back in the kitchen banging things around.
“What’s up with you two?” he says with a chuckle. “Did I interrupt some girl talk?”
“Carole was giving me some tips for that case I’m working on.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yeah, that. Did you get all your laundry done?”
He chuckles.
“It took four of those jumbo machines.”
“That’s a lot of dirty clothes, Jack,” I say.
“Don’t rub it in.” He chuckles. “Now’s the time for you to come visit me, Isabel, cause I have clean sheets on the bed.”
“Hmm, that’s quite the invitation.”
Jack’s got that slaphappy grin all over his face.
“When are you comin’ over?”
I lean forward, trying not to hit my left arm in the process.
“How about I show up bright and early tomorrow morning?”
“Bright and early?”
“Uh-huh, you’d better be ready for me.”
“Isabel, you naughty girl.”
Poetry Night
Instead of drinking beer at the Rooster on a Sunday night, I drink beer at home and read poetry, specifically Cyrus Nilsson’s Deep Blue. Ma, of course, is stationed on her chair in the living room with the cat and dog. She’s got the Red Sox on the tube.
Over dinner we talked about my conversation with Carole. What was Ma’s comment about Cyrus Nilsson? “Ah, the plot thickens.”
Yes, indeed.
I find a poem called “Moonbeam” in Cyrus’s book. It’s about the moon’s reflection on a lake’s calm water and how it artfully ties into the poet’s life. I especially like this line: Amid the darkness one long beam shines hope again.
I check the date of the publication and try to time it with the dates on Cary’s last three books, Red Tail and Others, Country Boy and The Hired Hand. I flip through the pages of Cyrus’s Deep Blue.
“Oh, my God,” I say out loud when I find one called “Moonbeam” in Red Tail and Others.
“What’s going on in there?” my mother calls out.
“I’ll let you know in a sec, Ma.”
I read Cary’s version of “Moonbeam.” I shake my head. Except for a word here and there, a line moved elsewhere, Cyrus’s poem is really Cary’s poem. I have to show Ma.
She turns her attention away from the television set.
“What do you have there, Isabel?”
“Check these out. Tell me if you think they’re the same.”
She reads one then the other.
“It’s clear to me Cary wrote this poem. That other poet was clearly a thief.” She hands the books back to me. “You find any more?”
“That’s just what I’m about to do.”
It takes several minutes, but I find two others in Red Tail and Others. Cyrus changed the titles on two. “Lost in the Woods” in Cary’s book became “The Wanderer” in Cyrus’s. “Scaling,” a poem about spiders, is called “The Climb.” The last two poems, “Song of the Wind” and “Black Ice,” are in Country Boy. Here’s a line from “Song of the Wind”: The wind tells me things my mother never did.
This time Cyrus doesn’t bother changing the titles. But like “Moonbeam,” words were shuffled around.
I take notes on my laptop, which has replaced those yellow legal pads I used as a reporter. It’s much easier to read than my handwriting, and I’ve become a pretty decent one-handed typist. I’ll print them out later for my crime wall.
I take a sip of beer. I had been so immersed in this research I forgot I had one open. I go back to the book’s foreword. Cyrus wrote about evolving as a poet, how his new works are a change for him. What bullshit.
“What are you up to now?” Ma calls.
“I’m Googling that poet and the reviews for this book.”
“Oh, that Google thing.”
That Google thing shows Cyrus Nilsson has only written one book of poetry since Deep Blue. That one is called The River. I keep searching. There’s a lot online about Deep Blue, which got him some prestigious awards in the poetry world. The poem, “Moonbeam,” is quoted. In one interview, Cyrus talks about the experience of finding a new direction in his poetry. Sure, like stealing somebody else’s stuff. I bet anything it would cause a stink if it were found out, and he’d have to give back those awards. I recall the Daily Star made a big to-do when Cyrus got them. There was even talk he could be named the U.S. Poet Laureate.
I study the headshot of Cyrus on the back of Deep Blue. His chin is up. He has the slightest smile as if he’s keeping a secret. Well, he was. But how did Cyrus Nilsson think he could get away with it? So far, he has.
