Brownstonelit's Blog

9/13/11 OK… you have been patient so I am going to share a few things with you today.

Who is Granger? Why is he so significant?

Roxanne confirmed for October death at the lake.

Jessica confirmed for July death at the pool.

The MOT finally speaks to R. “OMG…Do you understand remote viewing?” “Yes.” I say. “He’s showing me his room- the hotel room. He’s showing me the desk. There is a card- a business card. It is on the desk and it belongs to ____________. The card is there on the desk. He wants me to see it. __________ was there. They knew one another- they talked.” I recognize ____________ as a name on a card in Charley’s wallet. What is the connection? I know ______________ is tied to a high ranking state official, possibly tied to Jessica. I wait for further instructions before I write anything more.

“Again he is showing me the desk… the card. Who’s this? Who’s there in the room with him? It’s Grim. Grim and the pipe smoker…”

I ask for confirmation or denial over recent name confusion for the MOT.

 “It feels stronger when you say the name___________. The pull is greater to ____________. Jessica is here. She’s showing me a tattoo. Have we talked about a tattoo before?”

 “No… not a tattoo.”

 “She sees this from where she is … it is on the arm- the arm between the wrist and the elbow- a forearm. It is an anchor- not well done- cheesy looking… like a military buddy drew it there for him…poorly drawn. She can barely breathe. Like he is sitting on her chest- but not to say he is sitting on her chest. Now I can barely breathe. She is showing what it feels like- I am having trouble breathing.”

I tell her to stop- I do not want her harmed. I am worried. She says she is used to it and continues. My heart races… now I can barely catch  my breath.

“She is barely breathing. She sees a plate- a license plate. It is from Tennessee. She sees this- it is on a car… a big car…a Buick possibly- long, big gray sparkly kind of metal- the top white…two toned. White top, sparkly gray body- Tennessee plates. Somebody came down from Tennessee…”

 I suggest an Electra- Buick Electra. They were long cars- some two colors- body one color, vinyl top another.

“She is showing me before this. She is in the rear of the car- the backseat. She may have even been in the backseat with these men voluntarily. She moves to her face- she can barely breathe. Her face is messed up. Half of her face is smashed in- she is obsessed- it is caved in- half her face…”

I ask about the barbed wire about her (Jessica’s) ankles.

“She does not respond- she is focused on her face. You can smell the tobacco- the pipe smoker- the smell is so strong. The pipe smoker is the socio-path in the group. Gets off on doing the torture-…the beatings… the killing. The smell of pipe tobacco is so strong…her face… her face…”

 She reminds me about the map I sent the other day.

“There are three roads… three names… the tire half in and half out. Where is the river? Is the river by this house? The current is so swift- not a stream- a river. Is there a river nearby?”

I confirm. “Yes… there are three roads…three names. The river… the river…”

What happened on the 17th by the river, Charley? What happened on the 17th by the river?

9/11/11

First of
all, this is September 11…

May those of
you who suffered and died on this day now ten years spent, may you rest in
peace and for those of you who lost someone… may you execute the remainder of
your life in celebration of theirs. If there are any souls who cannot move on and
need to process further, I shall keep you in my prayers today. Seek a vessel
through which you may speak to your chosen loved one and take comfort that they
wish you well in your evolution.

Today’s blog
will be short, as I fear many of those who once spoke have gone silent for
reasons I have yet to divine. As for my father? Yesterday he was letting me
know that he was about and at my side. How do I know? Yesterday for the first
time since childhood, I saw a PBS ad for a rerun of the Lawrence Welk Show! Every
year that show was on, my father would call us into the TV room and force us to
watch. My personal favorite was Myron Florin who played the accordion; then
Bobby and Sissy and then a big blonde woman who played the piano… a Patty
something. It was the first show I ever saw in color! (How pathetic is that?) Anyway,
after a brief bout of nostalgia…I inadvertently clicked upon another station
that had a cooking show which showed and older chef from New Orleans… where my folks used to live
and one my mother and father used to watch. While that doesn’t seem like much,
suddenly I realized that the rerun was of their Christmas tapings. The chef
talked about the original German settlers in American and their traditional fare
for a German Christmas feast!

Still not convinced?
Sure my father was German, but that’s not the point. Even more than being
German and crazy about most of the dishes being cooked… in this Christmas
show they talked about an old German custom my father shared with us at
Christmas! The hiding of the Christmas pickle!

Now I can
hear many of you snickering from afar… and that’s ok. Laugh if you want- I did
too! According to German tradition, a beautiful pickle ornament would be hung
somewhere on the tree- hidden amongst the evergreen boughs on Christmas Eve
after the children have all gone to bed. The first child to discover it the
following Christmas morning would receive an extra present!  Every year that my father was alive from the
day he gifted me with my own pickle ornament- I would put up our tree, but save
the hiding of the pickle for his visit. When he and mother would make the trek
out to the farm from Birmingham,
the children would be scattered to other areas of the house while “Papa” would
hide the pickle!

It was a
silly tradition… but then most traditions are! My children loved it when they
were young, but since my father and mother have passed… no one seems much
interested in hiding it anymore, let alone searching for it. Still, out of
tradition and affinity for my father… the pickle goes into the tree every
year. I hide it in hopes that someone will feel prompted to search.

So you see? After
feeling alone and disconnected for several days, yesterday my father went out
of his way to let me know I had not been forgotten and hopefully mom was with
him.

Thank you
daddy…

Thank youLawrenceWelk…

Thank you New Orleanschef and thank
you German pickle!

Now if
Charley would only make his presence known… maybe I could feel whole again.
Where are you dear friend? I have missed you.

9/9/11

I have spent
the better part of three days thinking; asking why my world seems to be in such
a holding pattern. Yesterday I received a bit of an answer for my troubles, in
an article that I read that posed the question, ‘Do you have enough faith in
the universe or yourself to allow it to work for you?’

I could
answer part of it with absolute conviction: Yes…I have faith in the universe.
But is that enough?  Have I been sending it mixed messages, thereby
nullifying any effectiveness it might have been able to achieve? Have I been
clear in what I am asking for? Have I allowed enough time for the universe to
deliver what I ask for? Am I cooperating with the universe… or frustrating
it?

These are
all very important and personal questions that must be answered if I am to be
an effective element in my own evolution. In my insecurities about the
immediate future in regards to job issues, my writing and potential academic
overload…I realized that the odds were greater that I have been frustrating
it more than allowing it to bring to me what it is I have asked for.  And in this frustration, I have beaten up on
Charley a bit of late for not coming to the plate with more information and
confirmations- so that I might be at greater ease and trust my instincts about
larger issues in his case.

You see, I
cannot share with you some of the weightier issues of this case. Why? Because
the stakes in this case are so very high dear readers…so very high. It wasn’t
about the moonshine or the illegal gambling- it was about the porn and you have
no idea how many people were involved in this. High rollers you cannot imagine
and in order to do this right and be able to call those out who so willingly
participated in Charley’s murder and the murder’s of three other victims… I
must be able to name names.

To write the
book as historical fiction reduces Charley’s life and his death to mere short
term Barnes and Noble shelf fodder. I do not want that for Charley, or Jessica
or Roxanne or the MOT. These were real people and not some cracked out
fictitious crime scenario I concocted to see my name in print. My name has
already been in print for years…

What I want
is to tell the truth… what I need is hard core confirmation to do so. I  need the farmer to come to the plate, confess what he was part of and tell
the truth to release his soul from eternal damnation and to give Charley and his children the gift of dignity and the chance to exercise the act of forgiveness.

So dearest
Charley and the universe… you know the question.

“Was
the former judge, the previous ____________________, and the subsequent Lt.
______________ of the state of _____________the father of Jessica’s baby in
1966 and is that why _____________flew from Atlanta to Valdosta the night of
Charley’s murder? Is that why all the paperwork got shoved through local law,
ATF, GBI and FBI without question… why 46+ years and a hundred million
requests later… not a single soul, including Charley’s wife and/or either of
his children were able to receive any answers?”

Yes
or no? I’ll be waiting… maybe not quite as patiently as I should… but I
will be waiting.

9/6/11

In writing the book I am forced to
retrace my steps and to go over information already received… While I recall
most of it, there are times when I read something and hindsight plugs the holes
left originally by innocent ignorance.

I am talking about Charley’s wedding
ring. Suffice it to say that most of the blood on Charley’s hands that night- especially
the exterior of his hands -was not there by his personal manipulation. Two things
happened that caused two other people to place blood there.

One thing-
the firing of the second gun that night to establish nitrate. The shot that went through the
underside of Charley’s chin… the magic bullet that was identified in the GBI
report through ballistics on page two as not matching the other bullet from his skull.

The problem with that? Hmmmm… two bullets pulled from the victim, one gun… but only
page one of the report was ever made public! Page two was somehow mysteriously  removed from the file. Wonder how
much that cost them? Hmmmm…

Then there was the other reason why
there was gratuitous blood on Charley’s fingers. Now let me think…

Oh come on, Grim. You
can help me with this one. You and ______________ couldn’t get Charley’s
wedding ring off his hand. G wanted it off his finger.  You tried, but Charley just wouldn’t cooperate! Boy that must have pissed you all off something fierce! After
all, how the hell were you supposed to support your theory about Charley and G
having a love affair if the guy wouldn’t give up his wedding ring… even in
death?

So…you and the two others moved the body, placed the flashlight and the hat, moved the car, took the photos…

Is that why the two of you had
to go home and take a bath? You and good ole_______________. Yeah… I know
about the two of you, ‘first responders’ and what you did. Who wears a hat to
his own funeral? Silly boys! You just watched too many cop and robber films when you were growing up. You
really screwed this one up big time though, Grim. And then of course there was the farmer? If you don’t want people
to know you’re involved… then why call his house that night and leave your
own name?

You know…

A diary is a wonderful thing and
most folks always assume that only little girls with teenage crushes and Barbie
Doll dreams keep them. But Hazel was no Barbie Doll dreamer… she was a full grown
woman who had her life ripped out of her hands and she did a damn fine job of
recording every detail and nuance about how it happened and who she thought was involved. She did real good for a rookie, but she didn’t have what I have. She had details and background from the entire year of 1966… but I have Charley and R and M and R and B and H and a whole lot of other dead folks just dying… again… to tell me things they regret they didn’t have the guts, to tell folks in life. Karma’s a bitch!

Boy you better
start figuring out how you’re gonna answer some of these questions when they come knockin on your door! You say you
wiped his face with toilet paper, Grim? Charley says it was with your sleeve. Guess
that’s why you had to go home and change! And, _________________? Well, he had
to go home and change too. Didn’t look good showing up to a crime scene with
the victims blood already on your clothes. Besides… rumor has it he vomited all
over hisself anyway, because he couldn’t believe you and H really went through
with it. Not enough moonshine in the world to cover that guilt, is there?

So Grim… feeling a little froggy?
You better jump boy and jump fast. Time is a wastin, and I have lost my
patience! Confess soon or this will be all over the newspapers and it won’t
matter what your story was anymore. Your counselor is dead and gone. He cannot
protect you from this anymore than he will be able to save his own name from
shame. All those pretty pictures and all those pretty words about how he helped
the little people… what a pity.

Over 46 years ago you all rewrote
the history of southern Georgia and murdered my dear friend Charley.
Not long from now, I will rewrite your history and those who were with you that night.
Wanna know how?

Let’s play a little game. Heads you loose… tails, you loose! Hah! I’m just kidding… but serioously Grim. Either way… I win.

So let’s flip a coin, shall we?! You know, just
the way you did over Roxanne’s beaten body to figure out  which one of the four in flannel got to finish her
off. Who goes first, Grim? C’mon, let’s play…

Either
way…

Heads… or
tails…

I will always win! I gotcha boy… gotcha by the short hairs!

9/5/11

Bitterness
and frustrations sometime get the better of me and while I do not often court
disappointment and anger for anger’s sake… I do confess that yesterday I felt
caught within the turbulence of my own life. Shifting winds that do not bank
enough to get you to the safety of another shoreline sometimes blow just hard
enough to set you out to sea and then depart… leaving you stranded amongst
the anarchy of your own thoughts with no segue back to harbor.

I do not do well in those times between the
rush of information and the calm seas of stagnation. Too much uncertainty fills
this small vessel and I am wont of solid and quantifiable chaos. Shall I
apologize for such ripples of discontent as was displayed so publicly just a
few hours ago? I think naught… I am but human too and though I desperately
need the help of those who have passed, I cannot place them on higher pedestal than
myself as we strive to achieve the same when all is said and done.

But here is
another curiosity that may play out to defend or deny me and you shall be privy
to both its inception and its final declaration.

Rain is
sacred for me and this season even more so. With heady schedules of recent
past, I was in dire need of solitude and sequestering these three short days,
but as yesterday was the eve of summer’s last holiday…company was the order
of the day. While I enjoy camaraderie, I am much better suited to myself while
under such dark clouds as rolled above and within me and so joy felt more like
intrusion.  Writing is always the remedy-
no matter the joy or pain, no matter the season– but with opportunity for such
removed by proximity of people…I did the next best thing. I escaped to the
out of doors, built a fire on the beach and enjoyed the burled edges of
charcoaled skies as they hid my angst under the guise of their own rumblings.

When
conversation turned to hearth and home, I uncharacteristically announced we had
entertained purchasing another place not far from where we sat. Intrigued my
company asked to review and without hesitation we unmoored the boat and took
leave of the beach. Minutes later we pulled along side the dock, latched onto
the rusted cleats and chugged our way up the long set of stairs to the deck in
the drizzling rain. Peering like small children into the caverness insides of
the structure, I tried to secure unfettered view of my potential space from any
angle possible.

In the back
of my mind I shuffled chairs and tables, sofas and love seats—hung paintings
and adjusted lighting to enhance. I marked firewood caches and imagined how the
unfiltered light would hit my private treasures. What hues and shadows might be
cast by their choreography through every season? The rain picked up and a stout
wind nipped at my bare neck and then without ceremony, I turned abruptly upon
my heels to catch the view from where I would place my writing desk. Small
whitecaps rimmed the edges of a swell and my heart sailed out to sea with the
open expanse of water that churned beneath.
I saw it all… tender summer sunsets, spring and autumn storms and magical
flurries of snow capped tears… all captured frame by frame by lovely frame of
a room that housed nothing but air and glass. In that instant I remembered the
feather and ran to the front of the house where it still lay tucked inside its
metal cocoon and I smiled.

I had not
been forgotten.

Yesterday
before company had arrived and I had blasted the cyber airwaves with my
mounting frustrations, I had rewritten an area of the book which dealt with the
death of my mother, her past and a play once outlined- but never written. It was
a piece about my mother; conceived just prior to her death and meant for
therapy in the days and weeks just after. It is apiece I have yet the courage
to write and while I must continue with Charley and finish this journey as
designed… I will write it. One day when the moment is right… when the heart
is stronger and the confusion over my true loss is capable of being defined.
This is an excerpt from the book, The Coffee Pot Conspiracy by TAP (Copyright 2009)

*******

“What
the Hell? I had gotten everything else so far, why couldn’t I get this?
Mentally I rummaged through every family photo I could recall in my head and
got nothing for my troubles. “Why don’t I know what this means? I should know
what this means…” I answered flatly. “If I had only known this was going to
be on the test,” I joked “I would have studied harder last night.”

Rachael
laughed and immediately my mind went to an outline of a play I never finished
called “Final Exam.” It was about a long line of newly dead people standing
before the pearly gates and as they reached Saint Peter, he would ask them a
bizarre question and they would all have to respond- no matter what the
question was… “But…nobody told me that was going to be on the test!” Then
each person would have to go back to the end of the line and start all over
again to study for the test. The entire play would be nothing but the
conversations between the eager souls trying to cram for their final entrance
exam, which was pointless because Saint Peter never asked the same question
twice!

“T.A.?”
she prompted. “You ok?”

“Yes.
Sorry, no. I mean, I don’t know. I don’t recognize a purple shirt. I’m sorry. I
was just remembering something else… about a play I once thought to write.”

“Does
that have something to do with the purple shirt?” she innocently asked.

“No…”
I whispered.

“She
is proud of your accomplishments… she’s asking about another play. Something
about a house? Do you understand?’

I
winced. “I know exactly what she is talking about. I have not written it yet,”
I humbly confessed.

“She
tells me you should… it will be cathartic.”

I
wipe a tear and tell her the outline. “The play was going to be called, ‘For Sale by Owner’ and it was
going to be about my mother’s life. My therapy piece, to get over the loss” I
added and sighed. “Not over it yet… not written yet.” I vomit without shame.

She
by-passed the therapy comment and plowed through. “And the house? How did that
figure into it?”

“It
was about a woman writer who had lost her mother…me, I guess. Anyway… the
house is the one her mother grew up in. I mean the character’s house… my
mother’s character. You see, the writer goes back to her mother’s childhood
home wanting to learn everything she could about her mother’s past, because she
died and never got to know the truth about her youth- she’s seeking closure.
When she arrives, she finds it has become a boarding house that is slated to be
torn down in a few months to make way for a new office building. Depressed that
she has lost a tangible connection to her mother, she explains to the old lady
who owns it why she has traveled so far. The woman offers to rent her a room
for a few weeks so she can explore the town and other landmarks mentioned in
her mother’s teenage diary.”

“Was
this diary real?” She left the question hanging in the air for me as bait to
follow her lead.

“Yes”
I answer.  “Well, it’s more of a photo
album, but it had entries and photos of her favorite hangouts. Including a menu
from the little diner she used to meet my father at- pictures of the lake where
she vacationed… childhood stuff.” I volunteered.

“Go
on…” she prompted.

“Anyway…
the writer spends each day going to local haunts and interviewing people,
trying to get to know what her mother was like as a child- a young woman, what
her family was really like, how she lived… At night she would come back to her room and
write about what she’d learned.”

How
does the house figure into the story?”

“In
each of the other apartments, there is a female character at various ages. As
she begins to interact with the other tenants in the building, she begins to
build relationships with them. The first is a young teenage girl who is the
victim of abuse by an alcoholic parent. The writer finds her crying under the
stairwell one night while on her way to do laundry in the basement. The second
is a young married woman who is pregnant with her first child and frightened of
becoming a mother. The third an older woman who has raised several children and
is renting while her retirement home is being constructed. The last is the
elderly woman who owns the home and has offered her retreat while discovering
her mother’s past.”

“I
can feel the build… what’s the catch here?” she queries.

“The
catch? Each of the female characters she meets is her mother at different
stages in her life. When all is said and done, the writer has inadvertently learned
everything about her mother she needed to learn, but does not realize it until
the final moment of the play when the rumbling of a train provides the
fulfillment of a promise they made to one another before she died.”

“Can
I ask what that promise was?” she asked gingerly, sensing the weight of the
moment.

“I
asked her…” and began to sniffle. “I asked if when she… when she got to the
other side.” I struggled openly. “I asked her to knock over my favorite picture
of her- a high school photo- so I would know she had not…” The last two words
lodged in my throat and I could not breathe.

“So
you would know…what?” she prompted.

“Forgotten
me.” I whimpered.

The title of
the play is, “For Sale by Owner” (Copyright 2006)
and it wasn’t until this morning that I realized that my mother, with gentle
hand and consummate compassion had not only not forgotten me… indeed she had
graciously led me to my potential new hearth and home. As I stood yesterday staring out
across the water towards the bridge and beyond, she must have stood quietly beside me as
I appraised from outside the yellow clapboard the life I might live within it.

The decking ran the entire length of the house, just above a huge yellow sign that read:

FOR SALE BY OWNER

Today I
wrote a letter of proposal and to my surprise found my mother holding the pen.

Dear Sir,

First
and foremost, thank you for the kindness of consideration and your generous
offer to preview the home this past Saturday, September 3, 2011. The following
is a letter of proposal on the property located at
________________________________currently listed as “For Sale by Owner.”

What you do
not know is…

I have
always wanted to live in a yellow house with a huge stone fireplace. I wanted
to be able to see a lighthouse somewhere within my view…and it needed to have
lots of book shelves for my books. I wanted a wide expanse of windows to look
out over deep green waters that lap against a rocky shoreline that can be seen
from my writing desk. This house is yellow and has every requirement desired…
including the lighthouse which sounds extravagant; except the lighthouse is
within the view on the wallpaper inside! I can live with that. But
wait…there’s more to this than just paint and wishing.

The address? I will not tell you all for personal
reasons, but stop for just a moment and think aloud with me. You read the
portion of the book I was working on yesterday; now remember what yesterday’s
blog was about? Why was I so frustrated?

Because I wanted more information!

The house
numbers on this cottage?

411

The numbers
411 stand for information!

9/4/11

Part of my
personal dilemma is job related and theo other- home related. As in, whether to commit to this cottage or another at the end of
this lease. We were saved by the opportunity to find peace amongst the pines on
this lake after my husband’s heart attack and though I am very grateful and have both loved and relished
the memories made here… leasing and buying are two different things and once the papers are signed…

These past
two weekends we have somewhat scouted the surrounding areas in search of an alternative. One
would think, why so restless as you have just relinquished the final remanants of cardboard from your life, but maybe it’s because I am so unsettled in my
heart about life and where my job and this case is going that I am reaching for
something even I cannot even put into words as of yet. All I know is that when we
walked into a house we have stared at for months from the boat… considered from afar and question in my heart.. an internal
light glowed while standing on its deck facing the water. The owner agreed to most everything we proposed and I suddenly saw myself infront of a wall of windows at my desk writing… winter , summer fall and forever. Sunsets and storms- I watched as they raced acrossed a swollen waterway.

A fireplace than went floor to ceiling housed a woddburner that made my heart sing with its ancient embers. A hearth worthy of a seaman on shore. Dark and stoned I imagined winter in all its glory chasing waves across the cove.

When we
walked outside and finally closed the door to lock the door… there was a
feather shoved into the left hand side of the mailbox! And not just a small feather… a large gray
goose feather that told me I may have finally found my home!

To be
continued…

9/4/11

I poured myself a small glass of Amaretto on the rocks- took a heavy pull and made the
call…

9/4/11

Storms will
be rolling in throughout the day and with the house cozy and cleaned, I am want
to nest, more than to entertain or ascertain. The information train has either
slowed of late, or I am so used to the rushing onslaught of information greasing
the hard iron rails of intuition that any lull in its delivery sends me into a
depressed state thinking I have somehow failed the cosmos as antenna. With R on
holiday and my uncertainty about a few personal matters, I am caught in the
quiet.

I have not
made the call and it is eating at my insides. If I do- will I alienate my
source? If I don’t… I may delay or deny the fates.

I need your
counsel. The sign said make the call; but what if I am wrong about which call
it meant to divine?

What do I
do?

Can you not speak
to me, Charley and tell me what direction I must take? Have you said everything
you need to… or perhaps want to? Hazel, no guidance from you either?  Is there nothing to add… to ease your pain
or increase my understanding? Should I be looking for another envelope?

And what of you Jessica and Roxanne? Are we
too far from one and too close to another anniversary that you both wish not to
relive the horror one more time and help me fill in the holes? And you, the MOT?
You have never stepped to the plate and I am angry with you for your silence
and lack of participation in securing justice for those two girls. I have asked
time and again for your help and you deny. I wait for your answers and you
disappoint at every turn. Who are you really? Why were you whisked from one
place to another so quickly? And what of the road? Who is Robert? A brother? A
father… an Uncle? Why should you merit such public accolades?

Why are you
all so silent?

Perhaps
today the storm that really rages is not one on the outside of these office
walls… but the one within!

9/2/11

A week ago
while wandering through Kroger late at night with a teacher friend to buy
pickles for an elementary school project, I chanced upon a cart that had
reduced “summer” items for sale in it. Most items were of the garden theme, a
few solar deck lamps and plastic cups and bowls dressed in a variety of primary
colors that were meant to symbolize the festivity of the season… but as I
rummaged, I saw at the bottom sat a box that piqued my curiosity.

Disheveled
and taped, it sported the images of a fairy and a frog with a crown on its
head; aka the frog prince.  The fairy was
adorable with thin wings that sprouted from her slender shoulders and bent in
compassion, she gingerly held the webbed hand of her friend just above a globe which
was supposed to glow as she granted him his wish to become human again.  All this I absorbed in the matter of a second
or two and without hesitation I reached into the cart and pulled the fairy and
her beleaguered friend as my own.

When I got
to the register with my purchase, I remarked that the price had been reduced
and even though I did not have the liquidity to do so- committed o to the
purchase. When the cashier began to ring it up, she noticed the legs of the
fairy were broken and that she had on remained in place with the aid of a clear
twist tie.

She advised
me of such and was ready to cancel out the sale, but I reached out- touched the
wings and then smiled.

“That will
be fine.” I said.  “I think I can fix her”
and I rolled the box in my hands to look at the break and assess the
feasibility.  Suddenly I thought of my
mother and Oswald and knew I could do it.
The frog prince seemed grateful and the cashier thought I was insane.

“Why would
you want to buy a broken statue?” she asked as she took the key from the
register, still waiting to ring it up.

“Because no
one else will.” I replied and the fairy and frog prince smiled brighter in
their cardboard kingdom. “It will be fine,” I assured her. “Just go ahead and
ring them up, please. My daughter will be getting off work in a few minutes and
I need to pick her up.”

My friend
loaded her pickles onto the belt and laughed. “You’re crazy. It’s broken! Just
get a new one, silly.”

“No…. I’m
good.” I whispered, knowing that every orphan deserves a home.

“Ok then…
I’ll take 75% off this sale price.” The cashier muttered. “We’re not supposed
to sell damaged merchandise- just sale and discontinued items. Somebody didn’t
see the legs. Or, it got broken being in the bottom.” And with that she
replaced her key, punched a few buttons and for $3.69 the box and my heart went
inside a bag.

When I got
home, I took the box apart one flap at a time- careful not to disturb any other
broken pieces. I propped her up on my desk and commenced with the delicate surgery
to the twist ties and broken appendages. Once that was completed, I noticed the
globe had been separated from its pedestal too. Twenty minutes and a few
squirts of Gorilla Glue later, I placed the duet and their accoutrements on a
table opposite my dear Charley. The silhouette broke the moonbeams coming in from
the window of my office that faced the lake.

Pleased with
myself I turned and walked the four feet back to my desk. “I bought you a
present tonight, Charley” I said and then crossed the room again and pushed the
button at the back of the piece, hoping the solar panel still worked. “They can
keep you company at night.”

I crossed my
fingers and slowly the bulb began to glow. Soft and pinkish the blush bloomed
on the face of fairy and frog prince alike. “See? It’s you and me” I mused. “You’re
the one in the green, by the way!” I joked!

The 8 x10
held court for a moment deliberating his new companions and then with traditional
Mona Lisa smile, granted his approval.

“They were
orphans, Charley… just like you and me. I had to give them a home.”

The globe glowed and the effect in the
moonlight was ethereal.  “It’s a night
light… to keep you safe in the dark.”

And with
that, I smiled… thought of my mother and wished them all a good night.

9/2/11

Some days
are meant for the plow and some for the harvest… today is a plow day. I
continue to turn over the fields of clues from the past two and a half years
and while most have garnered some sort of fruit; there are a few which still
hang in the air unconnected.

Yesterday
while working on the book and a more recent clue, I was required to Google Earth
a particular area south of Valdosta.
I had received information a month or
two ago that involved Jessica and somebody else who was peripheral at best to
the story.

The
infamous, ‘they’ had talked about a tire, half buried in the dirt- half still
sticking out. As I began to close in through satellite on this area, I had only
local landmarks to go by and so mile by mile I zoomed in…

The satellite
lens crept closer and closer… click by click the greenery began to distinguish
itself and roads began to appear. A few more taps and I was hovering above
the area in question. Having been given the parameters of several key highways in
the area I began to maneuver the line of sight and what do you think I saw?

I saw three
roads that triangulated the specific zone in question.

What is so
special about these three roads, you wonder?

Why their names
of course, silly!

And why is
that, you might ask. Well… because their names are the exact same as the last
names of three very different people involved in this case:

The first
female victim.

The real
MOT.

And the
snitch that lured Charley to the Redland
Church Road that night!

What are the
odds of that? Hmmmm…yes, what are the odds of that? In a town like Valdosta where a man’s
ego was larger than his cranium in 1966… I’d say, pretty damn good!

Grim- Wow! Who
knew?

I had no
idea you were a cartographer too! What a talented fellow you are!