2019-06-11 - Who Owes Who Coffee, Exactly?

Coffee Bean-o is a little coffee shop near the library - only a half-dozen tables, and a lot of overpriced local artist knick-knacks on the wall for sale. However, the coffee is actually pretty good, and the cup sizes put Starbucks to shame, making it a favorite of those who keep odd hours and like to stay awake for them. Alexander has texted Harper with a suggestion that they meet for that coffee and discussion, and he's already here. He's damp in his t-shirt and jeans, because it's Gray Harbor, and it's raining. The wet fabric makes it clear that there are bandages of some sort wrapped around his chest, but other than that he seems fine as he sits at a small table with a clear view of the front door, and waits. While he waits, he works on a crossword puzzle. He's doing it in ink, and doing it pretty well.

Harper arrives carrying an umbrella in one hand, a satchel over her shoulder, and a four pack of what looks like some sort of bottled alcohol with a big, red, satin ribbon tied around it in the other hand. She enters the coffee shop after shaking out and closing her umbrella, sets the umbrella in a stand made just for such things and spies Al and his damp self plus crossword. She makes her way over to the table and smiles a hopeful yet penitant version of that bright smile she usually wears at Al and bypasses the greeting with: "There was a snag at the store. They didn't have what I needed, so I had to go on a search." She lifts the four bottle carrier. It is 'Cock and Bull' brand Ginger Beer. And despite its name, it is non-alcoholic. For purveyors of such things it is a far less sweet, far more spicy 'real' version of what a ginger ale should be. It's high end, but not excessively expensive. ( http://cocknbull.us/cockn-bull-products/ ). She lifts it up under her chin and says, "I know there is no forgiving my lapse, but I felt the need to bring you a peace offering." That said she sets down the four pack of bottles on the table in front of Al, but not atop his inked puzzle.

That done, the librarian takes a seat at the table and pulls her satchel over her head to rest it in and empty chair beside her. She does not infringe upon Al's personal space, but she does pull out a leather bound portfolio and a file folder that simply reads 'Clayton' on the tab in her neat, concise handwriting. She doesn't yet slide the folder over. (Current clothing but not pb: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/493073859203768876/ )

Alexander stares at the ginger beer, his brow furrowed. Then at Harper. "You didn't have to do that." It's not the usual, 'awww you shouldn't have' that politeness demands; it's more of a blunt observation of what he sees as fact. His attention returns to the offering as she sets it down. He reaches out, running his finger curiously around the seals of the bottles. "Ginger beer is nice, though." A pause. "Thank you." He puts the carrier down on the floor beside his feet, out of the way of traffic. "Isolde likes you. I'm not angry any more." He studies her and the file folder. "You have a file on me?" That draws a frown where the beer and the apology did not.

"You're injured," Harper observes very quietly before addressing Al's statement and question. "Would you care to share what happened? And are you alright?" She tacks that last part of it on almost as an afterthought, though not rudely so. Then she asides, "I know I didn't have to do it, Alexander. There are other motives in the world aside from obligation." She nods, a faint dip of her chin. "It was my pleasure. I hope you have a chance to enjoy it. If, of course, you drink such things." The statement about Isolde catches Harper off guard and she stops, simply watches Al for a handful of moments, then smiles. "I liked Isolde. Very much. She felt -- deserving of good things." Harper decides not to share with Al what Izzy shared in an attempt at soothing the recent wound between them. Her smile brightens. "I'm so glad to hear that. I would hardly bear it if you remained angry with me, Alexander."

Harper slides the file folder over to Alexander. "No. This contains copies of what I found. I still have one or two more leads to follow up," She would hardly write the name of the family-line she was researching on a folder tab for Al where just anyone could catch sight of it, after all. She's usually good about such things. Hence her chagrin and self-professed mortification. "I'll walk you through it." She glances around the mostly empty coffee place and looks back to Al, keeping her voice low. "First --" She opens her own portfolio and Al will see the copies of the exact papers Harper in his folder, though his are lacking her own neat writing on post-its and in margins.

None of the seals on the crimped bottles appears to have been tampered with.

"I was set on fire. It's healing. I like ginger beer." Alexander's voice is his usual toneless one for those pieces of information. He continues to watch her steadily, but dips his head in acknowledgement or agreement regarding Isolde. But follows up with, "You had her ride with a man called Nicholas to your picnic, because you had...invisible books in your car?" A slight head tilt. "Who is Nicholas?" So maybe she's not entirely out of the woods, yet. But when she pushes the file folder towards him, his gaze drops to it, and he reaches for it, to open it and start to look. "I appreciate the effort you've put into it, Harper," he murmurs, as he starts looking through the materials, although clearly keeping some attention reserved for her guidance.

Harper pauses the beginning of her findings to address Al's commentary on the picnic events. "I was -- it was silly. I thought they might become friends. We were all headed to the beach together." She adds quickly, "And I would trust Nicholas with my life. He's also an EMT." She pauses. "I've known Nicholas Granholm since I was in middle school. We were library friends." She tries to reassure Al, her tone sincere and her words open. "He and I have both --" She waves her hand toward the bandages visible through Al's shirt. "--been set on fire, too. Together. Among other things."

Once Al starts flipping through, she begins to describe what she did and how she came across each piece of information. It took several evenings, but you know how much I love these projects. Initially, anyone could find the basics." The top set of sheets clipped together. (The information from: http://www.gray-harbor.com/wiki/theme:gray_harbor). "With enough effort and patience."

Alexander studies her for a long moment, then nods, slowly. "Nicholas Granholm. I will remember that." A pause. "It's not silly. People should have friends." One corner of his mouth curls upwards. "But the invisible books might have been a bit silly. Don't push her too hard, Harper. But if they end up as friends, that's good." His attention returns down to the file, and he listens carefully to her methods as he lifts each sheet and reads it. "Still. Thorough work."

The librarian listens, nods as if pleased that Alexander will remember who Nicholas is, then Harper fully enjoys the following almost-smile from the man, her brown eyes sparkling. "I did not claim to have invisible books. I just, ah, said that my front seat was full of books which was a bit of an exaggeration. But we were taking two vehicles to a picnic on the beach anyhow." Matchmaking. It's a dangerous undertaking. "I won't push her, Alexander, but when she speaks of the Shadows that hunt her, I won't pretend she's crazy, either." Brusque yet friendly. Harper is stubborn.

"I decided to spend some time in the micro-fiche cache in the basement. The farther back the articles go, the less ... assembled they are. They are thorough up through about seventy years ago, and then it's --" She waves her hands in the air demonstratively. "-- fruit-basket upset with only a handful of articles with no particular rhyme or reason for each year, at best. It's a mess that I am continuing to work to catalog thoroughly, and I will eventually succeed in organizing. Little bits each day." She just keeps telling herself that she's making progress. But it really is a mass of jumbled, half readable, flood-damaged anything-and-everything down there in that musty library basement. To Harper it's a challenge to solve, and so many interesting things to learn along the way.

She's thumbing through the initial history pages and gets to the next portion of her papers. Did Al sign up to hear her researching triumphs? Probably not. "I was beginning to give up when I came across this." She points to a copy of a single, yellowed newspaper page.

Alexander arches an eyebrow. "I see." He looks up at her. "I don't want you - or anyone - to tell her that she's crazy, Harper. If I thought you would, we'd have a different conversation. I just don't want to see her hurt. There's been enough of that." He falls silent to listen, his expression impassive, and gaze filled with a reptilian sort of focus as she explains things. "Interesting." It's not mocking, or sarcastic. It's very likely that Alexander WOULD sign up to hear about researching triumphs. He looks for the page she indicates, and starts to read it.

"I could tell," Harper murmurs, in response to Isolde having been hurt. "And you should know, Alexander. I'm the -last- person who would call anyone else crazy." The next page is a copy of a single piece of yellowed, aging newspaper copied from microfilm, the article originally torn out from the rest of the piece. Something was spilled on the article itself, but a few words can be made out.

She points these out on her copy, her voice hushed almost to a whisper, as she looks toward his copy and his reaction to the information: 'Preacher ---- Baxter, earned the confession of several witches ... Melba & Beverly Addington; Petula, Rose & Briar Whitehouse; Lari, Everly & Ebba Baxter ... consorting with demons, dark forces of shadow ... sentenced to death by burning on ---- 13, 1884.' After that page there is a photo, which Harper will get to after she gauges Al's response to the current prize she found. "Is this helpful in any way?" She's saved the piece de la resistance for last.

If he was going to say anything further on Isolde, Alexander clearly forgets what it was as he reads the article she's found. His entire posture changes, from slumped to alert, with animation and warmth flooding into his face as his interest sharpens. "Fascinating. Eighteen eighty-four. And," he frowns, "the preacher turned on his own family? Interesting." He taps the last names of those identified, expression thoughtful. "Yes. Certainly yes, Harper. Could give some context to the issue, at the very least." He lifts the page to see what lays under it.

Harper watches Al's body language shift with perceptive, thoughtful brown eyes. "If you'll turn to the last page." And then there's the photograph. Perhaps the most telling and evocative of it all. Black and white and stained all over, it's outside of what is now Saint Mary's Church. The Preacher stands in his robes, looking solemn, beside eight pyres built tall. The women mentioned in the article all stand in front of the pyres, heads down, wearing nothing more than potato sacks. The more Alexander looks at this photograph, (should his mental Glimmer not fail him) the more he can see the tendrils of shadow coming off the preacher's shoulders. Harper moves her finger from her own copy and traces the tendrils on Al's copy, watching him for signs that he sees what she's pointing to. "Tell me what I can do," she eventually thrums in a murmur. "How I can help?"

Alexander stares at the photograph, riveted. Admittedly, this is a man who collects crime scene and autopsy photos, so it's hard to tell if it's the tendrils that are getting him going or not. At least, until he breathes, "What the /fuck/ is that?" He flinches a bit, startled, when she reaches over to trace that unnatural bit. "I see it. I see it. I am not...entirely certain what the hell I am seeing, but I see it." The file is dropped, and he rubs at his face with both hands. "I don't know, Harper." It's mumbled into his hands. But, after a moment, he uncovers his face. "No. Not true. The accused. We should know more about them. Were they just poor bastards like us who happened to run afoul of an asshole who was serving the Shadows? Or was it something else? Maybe there are diaries. Something donated to a special collection in the library, perhaps?"

Al's riveted demeanor draws a sharp, anticipatory smile from Harper. He does see it. "Mmm, I suspected you'd see that, too. I don't know -what- it is except perhaps proof of Darker Figures' involvement. I don't /think/ there's much more to find at the library, I've exhausted nearly all my sources, but I'll keep an eye out as I continue through the older boxes and micro-fiched articles. I'll text you if I find anything further."

"If only we could locate the original of this photograph. A read off of this would be...illuminating." Or it would explode Alexander's brain like a firecracker stuck in his ear. But he seems pretty happy regardless. "Perhaps it still exists, somewhere in the town." He looks up, studying her. "Other people don't see this? And...I would appreciate that, Harper." A slight frown. "I found out a little more, myself. In 1969, a mortuary was set aflame, for reasons unknown. The mortician's wife was blamed for the crime - but was never proven to have committed it. She was still committed, then forcibly lobotomized before being released. She was a Baxter. I think," and here his voice drops very low, "I believe that the mortuary might have been torched to hide records about Baxters."

Harper slowly closes her portfolio, folding her hands neatly atop it as she listens to Al's all-over-the-place thinking with some affection. "I don't find people every day who see that sort of thing, no. But then, people don't tend to broadcast what they do and don't see in this town, do they Alexander?" She listens to the story about the mortuary. "What set you on the Baxter trail to begin with?" Her voice remains quite hushed, hardly audible at their table, much less to the rest of the coffee-shop.

Alexander closes the file folder in an unconscious echo of her own motion, his expression livelier than it is ninety percent of the time. "No. They don't." Is there a bit of bitterness there? Maybe a smidge. But most of his attention is clearly on the revelations she has revealed. "A book. I got a book on Gray Harbor history and began noticing some troubling coincidences that weren't. Coincidences." Suddenly he grins at her, wide and open - it takes easily ten years off his face. "This is very exciting, Harper." The smile shuts off as quickly as it came. "And dangerous. Please be careful. And let me know if anything else is found. Or if anything happens." With that, he abruptly rises, gathers his things (and the file and the ginger beer), and just leaves. No 'goodbye' or anything.