The little book hooked him.
I’m buying this,
he knew, but as an author himself he flipped instinctively to the copyright page, to see who the publisher was.
Not a good sign, but I’m still buying it,
he resolved. The publisher was listed as J.G. Sute Publications.
“Let me guess what you’re thinking,” a crisp yet deep baritone Southern voice surmised. Sun from the front window reduced a wide figure to shadow. “You’re thinking that it must not be any good since it’s self-published.”
“I—”
“But I can assure you, sir, that the author has no resort since all respectable publishing houses found the subject matter too controversial.”
Collier, caught off guard, stepped aside and found himself facing a short, obese man in a tweed sports jacket with patches on the elbows. Balding, stout-faced, but with eyes that seemed serious and credible…and a white-gray mustache and Vandyke that reminded Collier of Colonel Sanders. It was the same man on the book’s back cover. “Oh, you must be J.G. Sute. I’ve actually been looking for you. I’m Justin—”
“Justin Collier,” the deep voice replied. “When a celebrity comes to town, I’m the first to know. Very pleased to meet you.” He offered a soft but large hand. “I have seen
your beer show several times but I’ll have to admit, I’m more of a wine and scotch man myself. And you say…you’ve been looking for
me?
”
“Yes, yes,” Collier returned and quickly got the Internet printout from his wallet. “It’s actually this piece you wrote that got me here.”
Sute looked at it and seemed pleased. “I do a lot of freelancing for local papers and the tourist Web sites. Oh, you mean my reference to Cusher’s?”
“Right. And I’d just like to thank you because their lager turned out to be just what I needed to finish my current book.”
Now the wide, squat man seemed to grow a few inches from the compliment. “I’m flattered my little piece could be of service. So…if you don’t mind my asking, who’s the publisher for your book?”
“Random House,” Collier said.
Mr. Sute’s extra inches dropped back down very quickly. “Well, regrettably, I’ve never been published by so lofty a house
but
”—he pointed to the fifty-dollar edition—“that one there is my pride and joy. Published by Seymour and Sons, in Nashville. It’s sold a thousand copies so far.”
Collier got the gist.
The poor sap’s just a hack and I’m rubbing Random House in his face.
He decided to bite the bullet, and he took a copy down. “I planned on buying that one, too. Would you sign it for me?”
Sute blustered. “I’d be honored.”
“I’ve only been here a day but I’ve become enthralled by all the local color. Harwood Gast and his railroad, for instance.”
“It’s quite a story, and as I was saying previously, a little too
harsh
a story for the big publishers. I’ve had to publish several on my own for the same reason—”
“Too
harsh?
”
“—and I don’t think I’m being conceited to say that I am the only
true
expert on the local color and history of
this
town. All my works are based on original letters, photos, and estate archives. This one, for instance”—his finger gestured another slim paperback, entitled
Letters of Evidence: The Epistemological Record of Gast, Tennessee
—“and it’s only five dollars.”
Collier took down a copy. “I’ll be digging into all of these soon, thanks. But I was also wondering, since you write for tourist and dining sites, are there any other brew pubs or regional taverns in the area? What I’m looking for are more places that might specialize in regional beers based on old recipes.”
Sute seemed downtrodden that he could offer no more expertise. “Not really, I’m afraid. The South is more known for whiskey and mashes. There are a few taverns in Chattanooga that brew their own beer but I think it’s more faddish than authentic.”
Well, I guess I knew it was too good to be true.
But at least Cusher’s had been a stunning success…
And I suppose I owe part of its discovery to him.
“I wish I could be more help.”
“You’ve been quite a bit of help already, Mr. Sute. If it hadn’t been for your piece, I might never have found out where Cusher’s is located.” Collier supposed buying several of the man’s books—especially the fifty-dollar job—was gratitude enough. “Let me take these to the cashier, and then you can sign them.”
Sute gushed behind Collier, and eventually signed the tomes with a confident expression. Maybe they’d be interesting, maybe not. But then something ticked in Collier’s ear.
“You said this one book was too
harsh
for a New York publisher?”
“That and a number of others. Not even the local college presses would touch them, even though these are the only books ever written on this aspect of town history. And it’s an important history, too—there are dozens of books on the railroads of Chattanooga during the
war, yet the most
unusual
railroad of the same period was the one that Harwood Gast built. My book details, among other things, Gast’s actual
use
of the railroad, which was…atypical.”
The comment seemed bizarre. “I presume that any railroad during a war is used chiefly to transport troops and supplies.”
“Um-hmm, but not
this
railroad, Mr. Collier—and my sources are firsthand evidence. No supplies, and not one single soldier was ever transported on Gast’s railroad.” Sute nodded sternly, and indicated the books under Collier’s arm. “The railroad’s actual use is touched upon in those books, however. I hope you find them interesting.”
What is it with people in the South?
Collier wondered, aggravated.
They deliberately evade the point.
The best storytelling ploy, keep the listener in suspense. “Come on, Mr. Sute. What was the railroad used to transport?”
“Captives,” the obese man said.
“Oh, you mean they used it to take Union prisoners to detention camps? Andersonville and all that?”
“Not…Andersonville. That was on the other side of Georgia, and, yes, that’s where most of the captured Union
troops
were sent. But I’m afraid
Gast’s
railroad had an exclusive utility: to transport captive
civilians.
Women, children, old men. The innocent. It’s unfortunate that the
complete
story was never published.”
“Yes,” Collier added, “because it was too harsh. You told me. But you’ve got my curiosity going. So…Gast transported captured Northern
civilians
on the railway—do I have that right?”
Sute nodded.
“And I guess they were transported to a separate detention camp…”
“In a sense, you could say that. It’s a harrowing story, Mr. Collier, and probably not one you’d like to hear in detail on a beautiful day such as this. You’re a celebrity,
after all, and it’s wonderful to have you in our humble town. I’d hate for such a story to spoil your stay.”
Collier smiled. “It’s some ’ghost train’ or something, then, right?”
A curt “No.”
This guy is ticking me off now,
Collier thought.
Sute shed some of the grim cast, and raised a finger. “But if you like ghost stories, I’ll admit, a few of those are touched on, too. Some nifty little stories about the house.”
The house,
Collier stalled.
The Gast House.
“I knew it all along! So the inn’s a haunted house. I
knew
Mrs. Butler was bluffing…”
J.G. Sute’s broad face turned up in a grin. “Well, I’m on my way to lunch now, Mr. Collier, but if you stop by tomorrow I’ll tell you some of the tales.”
Collier wanted to bang the books over his head. “Come on, Mr. Sute. Tell me one story about the house. Right now.”
Sute drew on a pause—of course, for effect. “Well, without sounding too uncouth, I can tell you that many, many guests of the Gast House—dating back quite a spell—have reported a curious…influence. A, shall we say, libidinous one.”
Collier squinted at the thick mustachioed face. “Libidinous—you mean,
sexual?
”
The schoolmarmish cashier frowned over her glasses. “Please, J.G.! Don’t start getting into all that now. We want Mr. Collier to come
back,
not stay away forever!”
Mr. Sute ignored the crotchety woman. “I’ll only say that the house seems to have a sexual effect on certain people who happen to stay there. One of whom was my grandfather.”
The cashier was fuming, but Collier couldn’t let it go. “A sexual effect in what way?”
Sute’s shoulder hitched up once. “Some people have experienced an inexplicable…amplification of their…sexual awareness.”
Amplification. Sexual awareness.
Collier’s mind ticked like a clock. “You’re saying that the house makes people h—”
Before Collier could say “horny,” Sute polished up the inference by interrupting: “The house will incite the desires of certain people. Especially persons who are otherwise experiencing a decline in such desires. My grandfather, for instance, was in his eighties when he stayed there.” Sute smiled again, and whispered, “He said the place gave him the sex drive of a twenty-year-old.”
Collier had to make a conscious effort to prevent his jaw from dropping.
Just like me, from the second I set foot in the place…
“Mr. Sute? I’d be honored if you’d allow me to treat you to lunch,” Collier said.
But why was Collier so fascinated? He didn’t even try to discern it. Sute’s strange comment about “amplified” sexual desire, and the fact that Collier had experienced exactly that, could have just been timeliness and coincidence—in fact, he felt sure it was.
Still…
The house
was
having some effect on him—probably due to his boredom and angst. They walked around a busy corner, Sute still ego-stroked that this “celebrity” was interested in his stories enough to actually buy him lunch.
Two birds with one stone,
Collier thought; J.G. Sute was all too happy to lunch at his favorite local restaurant: Cusher’s.
“Would you mind if we sat at the bar?” Collier asked when he noticed two empty stools. Better yet, Dominique was tending the taps, cuter than ever in her dark, shiny hair and bosom-hugging brewer’s apron. Collier looked up hopefully, and when she smiled and waved, he could’ve melted.
Oh, man. The perfect woman…
“The bar’s fine with me,” Sute said, but just then—
You fuckers!
Collier’s thought screamed.
Get the fuck away from those stools!
A middle-aged couple beat them to the stools.
Collier walked to the end of the bar. “Hi,” he said to Dominique.
“I’m glad you came,” she said. Caramel irises sparkled. “No room at the bar right now, but there’s plenty of seats in the dining room.”
Collier stammered, “I was really hoping to get to talk to you—oh, and I have that release form.”
“Great. When you’re done eating, just come by.” Dominique glanced at Collier’s unlikely lunch guest. “Getting an earful, huh?”
“Well…”
“Good old J.G. will keep you enthralled,” she said. “Last night you did seem pretty interested in some of the town’s folklore. Mr. Sute’s the one to talk to about that.”
“So I gather. But—”
Shit!
“I really wanted a seat at the bar.”
Her eyes thinned, and she smiled. “I won’t fly away.”
Christ, I really dig her,
Collier thought. A hostess seated them in the dining room.
I’m the one who invited this big dolt to lunch, so live with it. I’ll have plenty of time to talk to Dominique later.
“I’d recommend the pan-fried trout cakes in whiskey cream,” Sute mentioned. “It’s state-of-the-art here, and a Southern delicacy.”
“I’ll try it. Last night Jiff and I just had regular old burgers and they were great.”
Sute’s jowly face seemed to seize up. He looked at Collier in a way that was almost fearful. “You—you know…
Jiff?
Jiff
Butler,
Helen’s son?”
More to gauge reaction, Collier said, “Oh, sure, Jiff and I are friends. He helped me check in.” Collier remembered Jiff’s similarly odd reaction last night, to
Sute’s
name. “We had a few beers here last night. He was the one who told me I could find you at the bookstore.”
The reference seemed to knock Sute off center, from
which he struggled to recover. “He’s a…friend of mine as well, and a fine, fine young man. What, uh, what else did Jiff say?”
Yes sir, this place and these people are a hoot. What is going on here?
Sute was obviously bothered, so Collier acted as though he didn’t notice. “He had a few stories himself, though I’ll be honest in saying that he was even more reluctant than you telling me them. The most interesting one was something about Harwood Gast hanging himself shortly after his prized railroad was finished.”
“Yes, the tree out front,” Sute acknowledged.
“And how several years later, just when the war was ending, several Union troops hung themselves from the same tree.”
“Quite true, quite true…”
Collier leaned forward on his elbows. “Sure, Mr. Sute. But how does anyone really know that?”
Sute grabbed one of the books Collier had purchased, thumbed to a page, and passed it to him.
Another tintype in the xeroxed photo-plate section. The heading:
UNION SOLDIERS SENT TO BURN THE GAST HOUSE HANGED THEMSELVES FROM THIS TREE INSTEAD, ON OCTOBER
31, 1864.
HARWOOD GAST HANGED HIMSELF FROM THE SAME TREE TWO YEARS EARLIER
.
The stark, tinny image showed several federal troops hanging crook-necked from a stout branch.
“That’s…remarkable,” Collier said. “Every picture really
does
tell a story.”
“There are quite a few such stories, I’m afraid.” Sute’s forehead was breaking out with an uncomfortable sweat. “Did, uh, did Jiff say anything else? Anything about
me?
”
This guy is really sweating bullets,
Collier saw. Sute’s reaction to Jiff’s name was as curious as the ghost stories. “Just that he did yard work for you sometimes, and that you were the local expert on the town’s history.” Collier decided to stretch some truth, to see what happened. “And, of course, he mentioned that you were a
successful author and quite respected in the community. A local legend, he called you.”