Frankly My Dear, I'm Dead. Livia J Washburn
their mouths to yap at me, so I pointed to the German and added, “You first, Mr. Mueller.”
“Why does he get to go first?” Riley asked before Mueller could say anything, reminding me of the argument between my nieces a few days earlier. Riley sounded just about as mature as they had.
“Because he’s a guest in our country and we’re going to be polite.”
Riley gave a surly shrug and didn’t say anything else.
“This man was sitting behind me and my wife,” Mueller said. “I felt my camera move and looked down to see his hand on the case. He was trying to steal it.”
“That’s not true and you know it,” Riley said.
The benches that formed the rows of seating in the screening room had no backs to them, so it would have been easy enough to reach forward and try to sneak something away from whoever was sitting in front of you, I supposed. But Mueller had the strap attached to his camera case looped over his shoulder, so I didn’t see how anyone, even the slickest thief in the world, could have hoped to slip it away from him without being noticed.
On the other hand, maybe Riley had intended to open the case and take the camera out of it, leaving the case where it was. That might have worked, although he would have to be pretty daring to attempt that in the middle of a crowd. Some thieves are downright brazen, though.
“Is your camera worth a lot of money, Mr. Mueller?” I asked.
“It is a fine camera. I paid”—he paused to do the math in his head—“what would amount to four hundred of your American dollars for it.”
A four-hundred-dollar camera was pretty expensive, all right, but not something that was fabulously valuable. I had no idea how much a thief could have gotten for it, but surely quite a bit less than its retail value. Steal enough stuff, though, and I supposed it would be a living, despite getting only pennies on the dollar for it.
“Did anybody else see Mr. Riley try to take your camera?” I asked.
“Of course not,” Riley said, “because I didn’t do it.”
I shushed him and turned back to Mueller. He frowned and asked, “How would I know what the others saw?”
“Nobody spoke up to say you were right,” I pointed out.
“Naturally, they would take the side of a fellow countryman over a foreigner.”
I wasn’t sure that was true; most folks were still pretty honest, or so I liked to think.
“Look, you’ve still got your camera, so no harm was done,” I said. I took a deep breath, hating to do what came next, but I didn’t see any other option. “If you want your money back, I’ll be glad to refund it.”
Now that was a bald-faced lie. I wouldn’t be glad to refund what he had paid for the tour at all. But I knew from my years working at one of Atlanta’s largest travel agencies that you’ve got to have a reputation for being honest and trustworthy if you want to succeed in business. I would give Mueller his money back if I had to—but I wouldn’t like it.
Mueller sniffed. “My wife is very fond of this Gone With the Wind book. I would not deprive her of the enjoyment she gets from this tour.”
I looked over at Riley, who had tugged his toupee back into place. “How about you?”
“I’m tempted, believe me, but…nah, I’m not going to back out. A deal is a deal, I always say. But I’m going to stay as far away from this guy as I can.”
I thought that was a good idea. The more distance between the two men, the better.
I looked at Dave the security guard. “Does that work for you?”
“They didn’t damage anything as far as I could see,” he said. “Sure, they could be arrested for disturbing the peace, I guess, but what’s the point? It’s all over, right?”
Mueller nodded, and a second later so did Riley. They had made their peace, such as it was.
“All right,” I told them. “Mr. Riley, you go on back to the tour. Mr. Mueller, give him a minute, then you can rejoin the others, too.”
“I could sue you for slander, you know,” Riley told Mueller. “Making false accusations against me that way.”
I made shooing motions at him. “Go on now.”
Riley left the office. A minute later, so did Mueller. I looked at Dave and said, “I’m sorry about all the fuss.”
“You’re going to be bringing more tours here, right?”
“All the time, I hope.”
“Maybe the next bunch won’t start fighting World War II again. They’d better not.”
All I could do was agree with him.
CHAPTER 4
The rest of the tour went smoothly enough that day, with Riley and Mueller staying well apart from each other. The best part of the ruckus was that it got Riley’s mind off of flirting with me. He didn’t bother me again about dancing with him at the plantation ball the next night.
The bus that would be taking the tour group out to the plantation the next morning would pick them up at their hotels. They were on their own, free to enjoy Atlanta, until then.
By the next morning, I was over being upset with everything that had happened the day before. When you’re trying to get a new business off the ground, you can’t afford to brood about the past. You have to just charge ahead and do your best.
So that was the plan. The girls and I were at the office early, ready to meet the bus. Luke and Melissa showed up a short time later, and right behind them, the charter bus pulled into the shopping center’s parking lot. I walked out to meet it as it rolled to a stop.
The door clattered open as the driver worked the lever. He was a grizzled black man wearing the uniform of the charter bus company. “You Mrs. Dickinson?” he asked as he leaned toward me in the seat.
I didn’t bother correcting him about the Mrs. part. “That’s right,” I said.
“Name’s Cobb,” he introduced himself. “Wilson Cobb. I’ll be your driver today.”
“I’m mighty glad to meet you, Mr. Cobb,” I told him. I held up a printout and went on, “I’ve got a list here of all the folks we’ll be picking up and where they’re stayin’.”
“You folks put your bags in the luggage compartment and climb aboard, then,” he invited, “and we’ll get started. That is, if you’re ready to go.”
“I’m ready,” I said.
The truth was I was more than ready. I was anxious to get the second day of the tour started and anxious for it to go well. I didn’t expect it to be otherwise. The folks at the plantation hosted tour groups like mine all the time, so they were experienced at this sort of thing and knew how to make everything go smoothly.
Luke stowed our overnight bags in the compartment that opened on the side of the bus. Melissa wouldn’t be going to the plantation, but the rest of us would. We climbed on board and spent the next hour riding around downtown and suburban Atlanta as Mr. Cobb picked up the members of the tour group. Then we headed north out of town. The plantation was less than an hour’s drive away.
I watched for any signs of more trouble between Mr. Riley and Mr. Mueller, but other than a sour glance exchanged between them, each pretended the other didn’t exist. They sat at opposite ends of the bus, Mueller and his wife up front, Riley in the back.
We reached the plantation at mid-morning, Mr. Cobb turning the bus from the main road onto a quarter-mile-long driveway lined with magnolia trees, some of which had hydrangea plants climbing them and blooming, in addition to the large, snowy-white magnolia blooms. The cotton plants