Monthly Archives: April 2021

2.48.a Monday, Monday Can’t Trust That Day…

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(Technically this is the Diner on the Corner’s biscuit and gravy spread – I forgot to take a pic of the chipped beef before I ate it!)

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

Beatrice (arching an eyebrow): “Was it, though?”

Robbie (brow furrowed): “Where? It’s been clear as a bell at the house for over a week. Not that I’ve been outside much…”

Me: “I’m trying to set a mood.”

Watching them roll their eyes in unison, I hastily moved on.

Me: “Okay, it wasn’t stormy per se, but it was dark.”

“My last arranged fare of the day, Mrs. Kim, called it quits on her Christmas shopping thirty minutes early…”

Robbie: “Shirt. Have you started making your presents for the gift exchange yet?”

Me: “Yes. I’m assuming you haven’t?”

Robbie (shifting in his seat): “Do you think sticking googly-eyes on condiments counts as homemade?”

Me (suppressing a grin): “If you have to ask….”

Robbie: “Shirt.”

Beatrice (tipping her cup of earl grey my way): “Anyways…”

“Mrs. Kim’s early night meant I could eat a warm meal before my second shift started. I’d just polished off my plate of chipped beef on toast with the works when the lights flickered crazily as my FLYT ap popped.”

Beatrice (her tone dry as dust): “Warning our heroine, she should’ve stayed at home…”

Robbie: “Who has S.O.S. on their menu anymore?”

Me (responding in reverse order): “The Diner on the Corner had it as their Throwback Monday Special-of-the-Day and I take it you’re looking for less extravagant descriptions?”

Beatrice: “They do drape your story in a certain amount of distortion.”

Me: “Actually, they won’t.”

Robbie: “Really? How?”

Pulling my phone out of my back pocket, I placed it between the serving plates on the kitchen table.

Me (sheepishly): “I recorded the entire ride.”

Robbie (incredulously): “Isn’t that against FLYT regulations?”

Me: “Yes. However, in my defense, it was an accident…though when I did remember, I didn’t bother shutting it off….”

Beatrice (eyes sparkling with suppressed laughter): “You know, Ms. Hettie will have a fit if you get fired. She likes her tenants gainfully employed…”

Me (shrugging helplessly at the end): “Seriously, it was an accident. I was recording a voice memo while I was driving. When I hit the parking lot, the FLYT prompt superseded the phone screen. When I figured out who ordered the ride, the phone was the least of my worries.”

Robbie: “Don’t keep us in suspense, who was it?”

Pulling the Princess into the ill-lit lot of Hudson Brother’s Garage, I scanned for a man befitting of the name J.R. It took a moment for a silhouette to detach itself from the inky shadows and saunter towards the passenger side door. Passing through a pool of light issuing from the office window, the shade’s profile resolved itself into a dame. 

A dame who I knew was nothing but trouble.

Me (holding up my hands under their twin glares): “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.”

Without meeting either Robbie or Beatrice’s level (and unamused) looks, I wiped the soy-garlic-glaze off my fingers, picked up my phone, plugged in my password, pressed play, and set it back amongst our dinner plates.

The strains of the Greensleeves Tango played for a second before KARB’s musical selection muted, allowing both the ambient car noises and my voice to shine through. (Entertainingly, describing the dinner we were currently eating days before we actually sat down at the kitchen table in the Lavender Lady.)

“Frozen peas, yellow pepper, water chestnuts and corn sautéed in garlic and onions for the dumpling filling. Need to get a red pepper, some bean sprouts, snow peas, julienned carrots, cilantro, and rice noodles for salad. Plus, a couple of limes, ginger, Serrano chilis and chili oil for the sauces. Need to marinate the chicken wings for at least a day….”

The soft tick of the turn indicator and an increase in rustle cloth accompanied my preoccupied voice. “Okay J.R., I’m here where are you?” Silence descended in the Princess as her wheels roll to a stop, thus allowing the phone to pick up my sharp gasp.

“Oh, holy forking hell. You’ve got to be kidding me…”

Beatrice (putting her chopsticks down): “What’s that thrumming noise? I forgot to ask before.”

Me: “My fist bouncing rapidly off the bottom of the steering wheel, I was debating whether or not to set the Princess’s tires on fire peeling out.”

Robbie: “Sssshhhhh…”

The vibrating stopped a moment before the squeaky passenger side door opened. “Phoebe! I’m so glad you’re finally here! Oh, and look, you’re wearing another charming hat. It’s not as eye-catching as the octopus, but the plastic holly does lend it a certain je ne sais quoi.” 

“I’m well within the pickup window, you…Josie.” I finished lamely, ignoring both her dig at Squiddy and my festoon chauffeur’s cap. (I’d found a small vintage fairy-cake topper and tucked it in the band of my hat – I rather liked the effect it created.)

Robbie (grinning): “You almost called her a Brownie Stealing Bench, didn’t you.”

Me (mouth twitching): “Maybe….”

Beatrice (her eyebrows puckered together): “Why did she use just her initials instead of her full name?”

Me (shrugging): “I’m guessing she knew I wouldn’t have accepted the fare otherwise.”

2.47 Happanstance or Design?

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One of the side benefits of visiting Samuel? Perusing the shelves Filbert’s Market for inspiration. Unfortunately, since I still had several hours left on my meter for today, I could only shop from the middle aisles. Even with this geographical limitation, my muse didn’t fail me, as the low sodium soy sauce featured on the aisle three end-cap provided the inspiration I was looking for. 

It had been an absolute age since I’d made garlic chicken wings. 

So after grabbing a bottle of soy, I snagged a bag of brown sugar, gochujang, a bulb of garlic, and the most massive cup of coffee the deli had to offer. I took my culinary cover for visiting Filbert’s to the front and stood in another line until my favorite checker (Bev don’t call me Beverly) handed me a receipt.

After depositing the shelf-stable ingredients in the Princess’s trunk and the coffee in the cupholder, I tootled towards the Diner On The Corner. In short order, I was pulling the Princess against the curb, just down the block from the restaurant, to wait for Mr. Fernandez’s call.

Settling in, I took a moment to take in the beauty of the bare-branched trees, then dove into my discordant to-do list. Pulling the reporter’s notebook (Uncle had given me from his personal stationery stash last night to help sort out my priorities) and the atypical copy of the Conventions out from under the driver’s seat, I propped the former against the latter and went to work.

Checking Samuel’s name off the list of Errants, I need to alert about a possible newcomer and/or threat (since it’s not always clear which category they fall under until Joseph & I vet them), felt nice. Adding an asterisk next to Eliza’s name, felt less so. She’d hit the panic button once when a flock of sparrow’s dust bath divots ‘gouged’ the ground near her Origin Point. So what stopped her from using the Relay when an Errant of indeterminate intentions approached? On the upside, when I visit Eliza, I can exchange notes with Abraham and keep up my end of our bargain.

Moving on to easier, though no less relevant notes, I jotted down a few thoughts on sides to accompany soy-glazed garlic wings. Then sketched out a relatively goof-proof plan to sneak a copy of My Neighbor Totoro into Filbert’s break-room tv for Samuel. About the time I was vacillating over the line item about me flying to New Mexico myself to find Big Ben, a flock of birds erupted from behind my seat.

Not literally, thank the gods above and below. 

Me (pressing the button of my handsfree headset hooked over my ear): “Hop 2863, do you need me to pull around the front for you, Mr. Fernandez?” 

Hesitant Voice: “Hey Morticia, it’s Sarah.”

That’ll teach me for not assigning individual ringtones to people, one more thing to add to the to-do list.

Me: “Oh, hey, Sarah. Sorry, I was expecting a call from a FLYT fare. What’s up?”

Sarah: “Sorry, I didn’t realize you were still working.”

Me (letting out a little laugh): “Pulling extra hours. The nieces and nephews handed out their Christmas lists last week, and I’m going to buy the most obnoxious toy – my cousins will kill me for getting – off each one.”

Sarah (returning my laugh): “You know payback’s a bench, right?”

Me (grin fading): “Yeah, well, I like being cool Auntie Morticia.” 

Sarah: “Wait, I thought you always got them books.”

Me (tapping my fingers on the gilt-edged tome sitting in my lap): “Those too. That’s why I’m working extra hours until Yule.”

Sarah (clearing her throat): “Speaking of which…”

Me (closing my eyes): “Hey Sarah, I know you didn’t call to talk about the niblings, but my FLYT ap just popped, and I need to pick up my fare. Can you shoot me a text? Or can I call you after my shift? I get off at nine…”

Sarah (brightly): “I’ll text you. Stay safe in the salt mines!”

Me (forcing cheer into my words): “Back at you.”

Pressing the button on my headset, I disconnected, roughly unhooked the earpiece, and threw it onto my dash. 

Okay, I lied. 

Mr. Fernandez won’t finish for at least another twenty minutes, but I couldn’t take talking to Sarah right now……Because I’d love nothing more than to take Robbie’s advice.

Closing my eyes, I imagined clearing the air over the Brace Affair with Sarah over bowls of ramen (one of her favorites). I’d listen to her side and she mine. I’d tell her I understood the difficulty of divided loyalties and the tightrope one walked in managing them. We’d have a laugh, slurp our soup, and put it behind us.

Unfortunately, my newly minted sense of suspicion supplanted this pie-in-the-sky vision with the memory of that first forking phone call. 

Opening my eyes, I stared at the rosy oval scars on the heels of my hands, that forking phone call. It fashioned and fit a lens of mistrust over my mind’s eye, modifying the meaning of every word, gesture, and deed stored in my memory of her.

Not the least of which makes me wonder if Little Ben really did rifle thru Sarah’s desk and discombobulate her paperwork. The circumstance she claimed caused her to give me the wrong date for the Woman In White’s arrival in Nevermore. (Leading me to confront a homicidal Errant entirely underprepared.) Who exactly would’ve been waiting for me if I’d shown up on the date she gave me?

Then there’s the random happenstance of her being on hand the very last time I laid either eyes or hands on my copy of the Conventions. In point of fact, she helped box up the remaining portion of my library that day – which included the aforementioned policy manual.

Coincidence or pattern?

2.46 Idle Hands

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(Filbert’s original sign from way back in the day.)

Stepping to the front of the line, ignoring the spark singing across my toes, I craned my neck, trying to sneak a peak around the stacked blue flats filled with hotdog & hamburger buns, wheat & white loaves, and crinkly crumpet packets. Unfortunately, the fresh from the oven baked goods completely covered the faded drawing a bored hand had placed on the exposed beam, seven inched above the floor, in the backroom of Filbert’s Market across from the restrooms.

I’d been ten when an absentminded stock clerk left a marks-a-lot marker on top of an open case of peanut butter whilst Aunt Pearl stood in line to ‘spend a penny.’ Due to the unexpected urgency of her call of nature, Aunt Pearl failed to notice me swiping the pen as I passed the stack of case packs.

Sitting on the chipped cement floor in the narrow space betwixt some boxes and the wooden beam, waiting for Aunt Pearl to reopen the restroom door, I doodled a bulbous nosed man looking over a wall then wrote ‘Killroy was here!’ above it. My grandfather introduced the piece of wartime graffiti to me the weekend before on his visit, and it sparked my imagination. (The drawing, not the war in which my grandfather fought. I didn’t learn until much later about his time in France.) Envisioning the real Killroy’s broad smile in my mind’s eye, should he happen to spot my effort in keeping his chain-letter-cartoon alive, I failed to register the warning my prickly toes tried to give me.

An Errant, who was none too pleased with my unsanctioned scribbling, towered over me.

He delivered a four-letter fortified dressing down on the disrespect I displayed towards him, the workers, and the owners when I chose to deface the store’s two-by-four. After concluding his comprehensive diatribe on my overall lack of regard for others, he turned to storm off – only to stop cold at my quiet apology.

“Hello, Troublemaker.” 

I’m fairly certain the only way Samuel Washington will ever fully forgive me for the drawing is to paint over it. However, since it was a job of work just reconsecrating his Origin Point, I’m not going to try and erase the decades-old doodle. No matter how much it bugs him. (Plus, at this point, I think he might actually miss it if it was gone.) 

“At least your drawing makes sense. The new shop-girls keep drawing that cat/rabbit thing.” 

Following his eyes, I glanced over at the employee bulletin board next to me. There amongst the official minimum wage posters, recall notices, and one chinchilla rehoming advert was a series of Totoro illustrations of varying quality. Wordlessly I slipped my phone out of my pocket, tipped it towards Samuel, so he could see the screen and pulled up the synopsis of the classic animated movie.

“Oh, it’s from a picture show…. Still would be nice to know if this Totoro is a rabbit or a cat.” 

Shrugging my shoulders slightly in response, I took an extra second to flip over to my FLYT ap to make sure Mr. Fernandez hadn’t finished early (he hadn’t). Canting my head towards the restroom door, who’s rattling lock signaled its’ impending opening, I waited for the produce clerk to hustle past before stepping into the vacant room. Samuel, who’s never been thrilled at our meeting arrangement (but hasn’t thought of a better way for us to speak in private), popped reluctantly in behind me. 

Starting the stopwatch on my phone, since there’s only so long you can spend in a semi-public restroom without arousing unwelcome attention, I got immediately down to business. “Has a man in a green suit come around to visit or shown interest in your genesis point?”

My question got Samual’s attention. “No, no one I don’t know has stopped by. Is there a threat?”

“I don’t know. Abraham found this unknown Errant inspecting Eliza’s spot and chased him off. I wanted to make sure you knew, in case he shows up here.” 

Samual let loose a delightful string of colorful four-letter words. 

Finally, winding up his litany of profanity (a habit of his which, as a kid, I found highly educational as he’s got some real zingers in his arsenal), he turned back towards me his face taunt. “Is there any way I can help?”

“Keep an eye out, use the Relay to get word to me if you see him or find any hint he’s been here. I’ll come right away.”

Raking his hand across his close-cropped hair, he gave a short bark of laughter that held many things, joy not being amongst them. “You think the Relay will help me if this Errant has anything but benevolent intentions? I haven’t been able to Flare for decades. Hell, you can’t even feel my genesis point unless you’re practically standing on it.”

There’s a thought.

Looking down at the ever-increasing number on the stopwatch, I sighed and shoved aside a whole new set of questions. “I know. But whoever this guy is, he ran when Abraham Flared, so perhaps his Vita is limited as well? The Relay might warn him off. It’s early days yet. Hopefully, I will know more soon.”

Shoulders slumping, threadbare bitterness supplanted his anger. “I doubt this Errant will locate me, riveted in place as I am, but I’ll let you know if he swings by.” 

Knowing any effort to cheer him would only renew his anger. I moved on as the stopwatch told me our time had nearly run out. 

“Is there anything new here I should know about?”

Samuel shook his head. “No, nothing that would cause me any problems. Though Donald Knouser, in seafood, stole a bag of frozen ahi tuna poke on Monday.”

After writing the information on my to-do list, I walked over, flushed the toilet, and then waited for a few beats before turning on the tap. “I’ll let the manager know. Anything else?”

“No.”

Turning off the tap, I pulled a paper towel out of the dispenser, tossed it away, and turned off my stopwatch just as it hit three minutes. “I swing by on Saturday as usual. Please be careful, Samuel.”

Giving me a curt nod Samuel left. Letting loose a heavy sigh, I unlocked the lock and stepped across the threshold towards the oversized stockroom doors. 

2.45 An Obvious Fact…

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(What was waiting for the three of us at the end of our deductions…)

Standing behind Robbie, watching the security video over his shoulder for the umpteenth time, the lump ice dwelling in the pit of my stomach started making the bologna sandwich feel like a bad idea. Uncle, who’d declined an additional screening, sat at his desk hands steepled together deep in thought. Pressing the touchpad on Beatrice’s laptop Robbie skipped backwards in the footage and watched the entire episode again.

Then again. 

When he rewound it for a third consecutive viewing, he climbed aboard the same train of thought Uncle, and I’d already taken a whirl on. Restless, I got up and started to pace around the perimeter of the room. 

Robbie (eyes glued to the screen): “You’re sure there was no one else in the building?”

Me (tracing my finger over the spines of the books): “I cross-referenced the video feeds with time punches, everyone had left for the day.”

Robbie (his leg bouncing like mad): “Someone not scheduled could have stopped by? Or a salaried employee could’ve stayed late…”

Me (looking across the room at the back of his head, I shook mine): “All accounted for, and the alarm report and entrance logs both agree that no one else was in the building by this point.”

Robbie (turning in his seat to look at me): “Would you mind if I double-checked?”

Uncle (rising from his chair): “Another set of eyes never hurt.”

Passing the laptop over to me, as I’d finished my revolution of the room, Robbie got to his feet and joined Uncle behind the desk. Listening with half an ear to Uncle’s summation of each report Ira included in his envelope, I sat down and cued up the video. 

Pressing play, I watched the empty lobby for a few seconds until the Judas, the Brutus, the veritable Peter Pettigrew of Nevermore, strode into view. 

Walking over to the alarm panel, Sarah punched in her code (according to the alarm activity report – disarming it), then unlocked the adjacent door and let Laney inside. They spoke for a few minutes before Laney handed over the books she’d borrowed after which they exchanged hugs, Laney left (to join Beatrice, Wood and I for dinner, ducks and pirate-themed fun) and Sarah relocked the door.

It’s at this point in the footage where I wish the video contained audio because after she stops waving at Laney – Sarah pulls out her cell and makes two calls.

The first, significantly longer than the second, prompted Sarah to pace in tight figure eights in front of the main entrance while jerkily gesturing to the person on the other end of the line. Following her conversation with whomsoever, Sarah stood stock still, head hanging for a few minutes before dialing the next number.

Four minutes after the second conversation ended, Sarah unlocked the doors again. Only this time, Little Ben walked in. Six minutes later, according to the night watchmen’s log, Little Ben called to request extra security for Nevermore.

Me (stopping the video and looking over at Uncle who’d swapped seats with his son): “Didn’t Sherlock Holmes warn us that there’s nothing worse than an obvious fact?”

Uncle (holding the mouth of the potato chip bag towards me): “Actually, he said there’s nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact.”

Me (declining his offer of delectable fat-soaked starch): “I like mine better.”

Uncle (nodding sagely): “I know.” 

And let me tell you how I’d kicked myself for not seeing this sooner….

Sarah had known most of the details of The Brace Affair because she was there when we’d hatched the plan. Between Sarah’s foreknowledge and her friendship, I bet that’s why Laney didn’t count her as ‘anyone’ when I asked if she’d told anyone about our plans that night. 

Robbie (massaging his temples): “Okay, I agree it looks like Sarah ratted you out. But I still don’t get why? She’s your friend.”

Me (shaking my head): “Technically, she didn’t rat us out. She only told Little Ben someone was coming. I spoke to him afterward, he had no clue who he was chasing.”

Robbie (looking relieved): “So it’s possible she was skating the line between being a good friend and a good employee.” 

Me (shrugging): “Maybe.”

Robbie (waving his hand over the papers): “Have you tried talking to her about this?” 

Me (smiling sadly): “Nope.”

Robbie (disbelief evident): “Why not?”

Uncle (heaving himself up from the chair, taking Beatrice’s laptop off my lap): “Probably for the same reason I wouldn’t.”

Robbie (looking towards Uncle, confused): “But this whole thing could be just a huge misunderstanding.”

Uncle (waving for Robbie to stay put, he set down the electronic device on the desk): “Your right it could. However, neither your cousin or I believe Little Ben was the first person Sarah told about the impeding pirate landing. That’s what was bothering you about the video, isn’t it Phoebe?”

Me: “That’s part of it.”

Robbie: “Wait, how did you guys get there?”

Uncle (tapping the trackpad): “Watch the video again……..See how Sarah stares out the glass doors after the second call, and she unlocks the doors a good minute before Little Ben walks thru them.”

Robbie (squinting at the screen): “She was waiting for him.”

Uncle (using his teacher tone): “Correct. Now, watch the first phone call again.”

Robbie (leaning forward): “She’s arguing with someone?”

Uncle (pointing at the screen): “She loses an argument with someone, watch her deflate, she’s staring at the floor, not out the door.”

Robbie (glancing between us): “Okay, I admit it looks bad. But, playing devil’s advocate here, all you really have is evidence she made a call.”

Unfortunately, due to Aunt Pearl deciding she could no longer countenance our absence from the kitchen burst in to retrieve us. I didn’t get a chance to tell Robbie my suspicions were based on more than just one call.

2.44 Oh Baloney…

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Rubbing my face, my fingers hardly felt the divots the wire spiral of my notebook dug into my face. Realizing my eyes were no longer open, and hadn’t been so for some time, I eased my eyelids apart. They found Uncle, still sitting at his desk, grinding thru the pile of primary source materials Ira included in his envelope.

Wow, there’s two words my mind hadn’t united in years, primary and source. 

I could practically taste the baloney and mustard sandwiches we used to snack on whenever Uncle proofread and fact-checked my school reports. Other than a few extra lines on both our faces, not much in the office has changed since those days. 

Man, now I really want baloney and yellow mustard on white with a side of sweet pickles and potato chips.

Too bad, there’s absolutely no way I’m setting foot in Aunt Pearl’s kitchen until we finish. She nearly pitched a fit and fell in it upon realizing she was losing her fastest cupcake froster for a few hours. Only my solemn promise to wield a pastry bag on her behalf once we wound things up in here diverted her wrath. Though the timely arrival of my cousins, their spouses, and the niblings with an awe-inspiring supply of vanilla beans, butter, powdered sugar, and heavy-cream might have done more to accomplish that deed than my word.

I wonder if one of my cousins would be willing to fetch me sandwich fixing…

Cheered at the prospect of fulfilling my baloney flavored dreams, I picked up my phone and discovered two texts waiting. (I’d put my phone on silent to help Uncle stay in the zone.) 

Shoving my seasoned sausage craving aside for a second, I opened the message from my Silver City Operative Tavi. Not only did she enthusiastically agree to tackle the pithy list of places Big Ben mentioned in his correspondence with Ira. She also sent me a snapshot of her wearing her investigator’s outfit – greatcoat, fedora, wingtips, and all. After returning the wide grin of the woman in the picture, I flipped over to my FLYT ap and added extra credits to her ride account. Then arranged for her to receive a munificent quantity of thank-you-hanging-up-my-desperately-seeking-Big-Ben-signs-all-over-town tacos the next time she visited her favorite family-owned taqueria. (Which to the untrained eye might resemble a gift certificate.)

Switching back to my texts, I read the other pending message from Mrs. Lebondowsky. The Naturalist and Historical Society have enlisted the help of several regional environmental groups to help populate their picket lines at Nevermore’s entrances – freeing them up to start the sit-in. If tonight’s emergency vote goes the way Mrs. Lebondowsky thinks it will – she’ll let me know.

Staring sightlessly at my phone, pondering, my tummy let loose a deep rumble reminding me of the craving I’d yet to satisfy. Picking up my phone, I texted the cousin that ticked off the boxes of: (a) someone willing to swipe sandwich supplies, (b) who’s cake decorating skills are poor enough that Aunt Pearl wouldn’t immediately miss them, and (c) who is honing his professionally nosiness.

He replied with a thumbs-up in five-seconds flat.

Uncle, who was still zeroed in on the data, didn’t even look up when I set aside Joseph’s purported copy of the Conventions so I could heave myself off the couch. Pressing my ear against the door, I waited until the squeaky floorboard in the hall augmented the hurly-burly sounds bouncing down the corridor before easing it open for my cousin to dart thru. (Seems neither of us is keen on getting caught should Aunt Pearl investigate the familiar creak.)

Robbie, arms ladened with sandwich fixings, chips, and soda, gave me a wide grin.

Robbie: “Hey cuz! You’re timing is marvelous!”

Putting my finger against my lips, I tipped my head towards the side-table. Following my lead, he set down the sandwich components onto the narrow surface once I’d moved Uncle’s awards out of the splash zone. You never know when the mustard bottle might get feisty.

Me (starting to assemble the sandwiches): “Did I save you from dishpan hands?”

Robbie (matching my low tone): “Yeah, and the drama. Mom started ‘touching up’ the cookies Ruby frosted, and she’s fit to be tied.”

I wonder if Aunt Pearl’s really that invested in the success of the school district’s Carnival or if her confections are competing with someone else’s. 

I’d place good money on the latter.

Robbie (casting an eye towards the desk): “…So what are you guys doing in here? Mom never said.”

That didn’t take long. Glancing over at Uncle, who apparently wasn’t as tuned out to the room as I’d thought, as he was coming over to grab a sandwich. 

Uncle (reading my mind): “It’s up to you. Though I think he could help.”

Holding up a finger at Robbie, forestalling the bevy of probing queries his quivering countenance promised, I took a contemplative bite of the yen satisfying sandwich. (BTW – They’re just as scrumptious as I remembered.) 

Me (after taking a swig of soda to wash everything down): “I need your promise not to repeat a word of what’s said in this room to anyone.”

Robbie (lowering his unsullied sandwich): “You have it.”

Me (receiving a nod from Uncle): “Remember the time Uncle and Aunt Pearl rescued Wood, Laney, Beatrice, and I up from Nevermore in the middle of the night?”

Robbie (laughing): “The night Wood dressed you guys like the cast from Pirates of Penzance? What about it?”

Me (exchanging looks with Uncle): “Well, you see, there was more to that night than us settling a bet….”

2.43.b Carnivals & Cakes

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Rewind eight hours. 

Before, KARB aired Berlioz’s, Béatrice et Bénédict. Before, I baked several breakfast treats. Before, I ingested several gallons of coffee. 

I sat alone in the kitchen of the Lavender Lady, listening to Wood tootle off in the direction of the living-room couch, finishing off the last swig of my beer…….When my eyes slowly slid towards the corner of Ira’s envelope peeking out of my pack. 

Firming up my upper lip, I told myself the contents would be exactly the same tomorrow morning. 

Emphatically nodding my head, my mind made up, I happened to notice a ring of condensation the bottom of my beer bottle left on the table. Getting up, I grab a rag from the sink and wipe down the table, then the counters. Because if you’re going to do one, you may as well do the other. However, whilst taking care of the counters, I knocked over the stack of empty containers I’d packed the Moon Bathing nibbles in. Deciding I couldn’t leave dirty dishes for Beatrice to find in the morning, I unloaded, reloaded, and ran the dishwasher. Because that’s what good roommates do. Similarly, I couldn’t leave the stack of soiled blankets sitting on the kitchen chair, so I washed them as well.

Scanning the kitchen, cleanup complete, my eyes once again strayed towards the manila covered temptation……and caved. One quick peek, to give my subconscious something other than Toby to chew on, what could it hurt?

Famous. Last. Words. 

Fast forward eight hours and twenty-seven minutes.  

Past the anatomizing of Ira’s information down to the subatomic level. Past the flabbergasting discovery of double-dealings. Past my forty-five-minute catnap hunched over the table, on top of my spiral-bound notebook. (I’m lucky to only have a wire imprint on my face. I’d missed dozing on my uncapped hot pink highlighter by mere inches.) Past Wood and Beatrice looks of incredulity when I’d begged off from their afternoon plan to partake of barbecue and sniff old books in favor of completing a chore.

Stepping out of the Princess and onto the drive, I leaned my seat forward and pulled my hulking pack from the backseat. Trudging around the side of the house, I slowly climbed the back stairs and pushed open the door. 

Stunned by the spectacle hitting my retinas, it took me a moment to recall the last time I beheld such a sight. (I do believe it occurred the year Robbie’s school hosted the regional Spelling Bee finals and the PTA pounced on the opportunity to fund their after school programs.) Every surface, plus a few extras brought in especially, were covered in unfrosted cakes, cupcakes, cookies, the odd pie, a half dozen loaves of bread, and one sad-looking pan of sausage rolls. 

My early morning efforts paled in comparison.

Amid this unadulterated homage to flour, eggs, and butter stood Aunt Pearl operating my great-grandmother’s stand mixer. Next to her stood my niece Ruby. Who, for reasons outside my ken, was responding to my Aunt’s instructions with expressive meows.

Aunt Pearl (over her shoulder): “Jesse, if you forgot the whole vanilla beans again, you can turn right back around.”

Me: “It’s not Jesse Aunt Pearl.”

Ruby (at the sound of my voice, she started scrabbling off her stool): “Ppuurrrrr? Meow!!!”

Aunt Pearl: “Hello Dear! Give us a minute. We’re almost done.”

Drifting towards the two-foot square of open space at the kitchen table, where Uncle sat sipping his coffee and reading his stack of newspapers, I looked around for another seat. Deciding the chances of finding a chair free of thumbprint cookie trays slim to none, I dropped both my pack and backside onto the floor. 

Uncle (setting aside his paper): “So what brings you by? Besides the floorshow.”

Me (leaning against the cabinet, my legs stretched out in front of me): “Did Aunt Pearl lose a bet?”

Uncle (chuckling): “No, one of the vendors for the district’s Carnival pulled out at the last minute. So your Aunt’s helping bridge the gap. She roped the whole neighborhood, plus Jesse, Tad, Dylan, and Dwight, into helping.”

Heart sinking, I reconsidered asking Beatrice and Wood for help, then rejected the idea immediately. There’s no way I could ask without being an awful friend. Ira and Leo were similarly off-limits. Maybe Mrs. Schmit? I trust her….but do I trust her that far?

Uncle (forehead crinkling in concern): “Phoebe?”

Me (pulling my heavy pack towards me): “Sorry, I didn’t realize you guys were so busy. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have bothered you with this…”

Uncle (tilting his head): “With?”

Me (sighing): “I was hoping you could double-check my work.”

Uncle’s gaze sharpened. However, before either of us could say anything else, Ruby scampered onto my lap purring madly, and Aunt Pearl thunked a bowl of frosting at my Uncle’s elbow. 

Ruby (four inches from the end of my nose): “Auntie Morticia! Come see! Come See! Grandma’s saving the Carnival’s cakewalk! And she’s going to let me decorate the cookies! I get to use ALL the frosting I want!… What’s wrong with your face?”

Aunt Pearl (bustling over): “Ruby’s right, what’s wrong with your face? You look tired. Did you not sleep well? Do you want some coffee? Can you stay and frost some cupcakes?”

It didn’t take the intuition of Nancy Drew to figure out Aunt Pearl let Ruby sample some frosting, her blue-tinged teeth told the story. The dark tint to Aunt Pearl’s lips told a similar sugar-filled tale. As did the fact neither waited for or required a response to their series of rapid-fire questions.

Me (sliding Ruby off my lap): “No, Aunt Pearl. I’m fine. I should be going….”

Uncle (finishing my sentence): “…back to my office. Mind if I take the coffee pot back with us, Pearl?”

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