How Many? I didn’t count…
BTW – this was the inspiration behind my unorthodox exit from the kitchen garden…
Finder of Lost Things
2.13.b Shut The Front Door
(Thank the gods above and below I didn’t need to break this lock…)
You know a wonderful way to work thru negative feelings? Visualization.
Visualize a balloon (I prefer a red one). Next, fill it with all the pessimistic, unhelpful, and unproductive thoughts, tie it off with string and release it into a limitless blue sky. Finally, watch it grow smaller and smaller until it floats entirely out of sight (and thus out of mind).
What isn’t encourage?
Smashing a very large rock against a very small lock while visualizing said stone as your fist and corroded metal as someone’s smug smile.
It’s a little too touchy beat-y.
Flipping my bangs off my sweaty forehead, I ignored the immature impulse to use my nose print on the grungy glass door as a bullseye and expedite my reunion with the charming Von Haeville sisters. I’m pretty sure they’d bill me for parts & labor to replace the inlay, despite the number of panes already missing from their frames across the derelict manor. (Plus breaking a window is impolite unless blood, fire or a zombie horde is involved.)
But a padlock is a horse of a different color altogether.
Just enough destruction to sate my ire and minor enough damage for them to pardon (and hopefully choke on).
All I needed to do, to effectively neutralize any outrage over my bargain basement bit of vandalism, is, “What was I supposed to do, trapped outside on a thirty-degree day? I couldn’t call because I forgot my phone in the car and you didn’t know the gate was locked. Did you?” So unless Miss Limburger owns to knowingly locking me out, which Beatrice and/or Mr. John Dupree would take her apart over, I don’t foresee an issue.
A wide grin/grimace stole over my lips (my aim is not flawless) while I imagined the look on their faces when I pose my “innocent” question. (Petty, I know, but she slammed a door on my nose!)
About the time I was certain getting to the center of a tootsie pop would require less licks than this lock, it gave way.
Tossing the metal bones aside, I tested the gate – as everything around here is either rusted or overgrown or both – it, of course, required more than a simple touch to open. Placing my palms against the silvered wooden boards, I pushed with all my might. The hinges hesitated for a moment, then elicited a screech worthy of a bad b-movie special effect……and opened approximately fourteen inches.
Visualizing myself as a Twiggy didn’t help a whit.
But taking off my bulky pumpkin-colored coat, fourteen-foot wool scarf, and camera backpack, I tossed them thru the opening first. Followed by some scrabbling, much shivering, and a few curses…I was finally free!
Taking a deep breath (after donning my cold weather kit again), I savored the silence for a moment. The spell broke a few moments later when a flock of kinglets fluttered past where I stood. Looking up and down the unused lane, trying to divine which way would lead me to the front door faster, left or right, I took a step forward for a better view.
My smile melted away when option number three trampled over my toes.
Gazing into the formal garden gone to seed, my eyes were unable to immediately discern the Errant’s location. Putting off the dubious but entertaining pleasure of reuniting with the group, I followed the pricking in my toes forward into the neglected formal garden.
2.13.a She’s A Full-On Monet
(This was way back in the house, straight ahead is the kitchen.)
Ever catch sight of a vintage car off in the distance motoring in your direction? Like a 1955 PV544 Volvo, all rounded curves and chrome accents (substitute any vintage vehicle here – I happen to appreciate old Volvos and pink VW Rabbits). Your mind fills in the details the distance renders indistinct, thus allowing your eyes to perceive a thing of beauty rolling closer.
But…
(There’s always a but….)
The nearer the throwback to bygone days comes, the more knackered it appears – the grill’s held in place by a length of wire, the entire body is pockmarked with shallow rust flecked dents and several visibly distinct stratum of grime augment the chipped/scratched paint.
Cinderella turns into an Ugly Stepsister in a matter of moments.
Apparently, this phenomenon can also afflict substantially sized manors – because not even the chirping bluebird of spring could put the bloom back on this sprawling heap of lichen smothered stone and peeling paint I pulled the Princess in front of.
Me (ogling): “This house looks like the Lavender Lady’s destitute cousin!”
Beatrice (looking up): “It does rather.”
Me (resisting the urge to count every missing pane of glass): “Who are the people standing with Mr. John Dupree?”
Beatrice (following my gaze): “For curiosity’s sake, are you going to keep referring to Dupree so formally?”
Me (chuckling): “Yes. Unless you happen to know his middle name?”
Beatrice (lips twitching): Unfortunately, I’m unaware of his middle name and those of today’s clients, the Von Haeville sisters, and their lawyer Mr. Ottoman.
Sighing in disappointment at Beatrice’s lack of information, I concentrated on wedging the Princess into a tight spot at the end of the turnaround without grazing the bumper of the stately black four-door in front of me while leaving enough room for my roommate to open her door.
Me (engaging the handbrake and shutting off the ignition): “I’ll wait here until you’re finished….”
Thinking I’d use the time to peruse the images of Little Ben’s plans on my tablet, I started to dip my hand between the console and my seat when Beatrice redirected my plans by refilling my lap with blueprints. Which she then requested my help in rerolling – the entire twenty-five pounds worth.
The steering wheel didn’t prove a hindrance at all.
Ten minutes and one paper cut later, Beatrice then “invited” me to meet her clients (in other words: double as her pack mule). While working up a sweat, hauling reams of assorted paper products, and an extensive tool kit up the weedy drive, I contemplated Beatrice and Wood’s divergent definitions of light-duty (btw my chest felt fine).
On the upside, the greeting I received from the statuesque blonde Von Haeville sister cooled me right off…
Miss Von Haeville (regarding me with the same expression I reserve for a wedge of Limburger cheese): “And you are?”
Beatrice (smoothly cutting in): “This is my girl Friday.”
Mrs. Von Haeville, the Elder (and designated spokeswoman of the three sisters apparently): “Miss…Miss…I don’t think I caught your last name.”
Beatrice (with a smile that showed all her teeth): “Just call me Ms. Beatrice.”
Mrs. Von Haeville, the Elder (face flushing): “Fine. Ms. Beatrice, the presence of an assistant here today, is entirely unacceptable…”
Huh. I’ve never heard anyone emphasize a word like that outside a costume drama because it didn’t take a linguistic anthropologist to decipher that ‘assistant’ really meant ‘The Help’.
Mr. Ottoman (placing a hand on the mature woman’s mink cuff): “Ms. Beatrice, what Mrs. Von Haeville means to say is the family is not comfortable with an additional individual outside you and Mr. Dupree aware of the details of today’s activities.”
Wordier, but not much better.
Beatrice (in a tone which wouldn’t melt butter): “If you want me to find what you’ve lost, she stays.”
When Mrs. Von Haeville, the Elder, started sputtering (and the other two murmured darkly behind her), I seized my chance to spend the day studying Little Ben’s plans. (Snuggling under matching afghans in the Princess sounded more enjoyable than succumbing to hypothermia under the sister’s frigid stares inside.)
Me (bobbling my burdens): “If you don’t want me in the house while Beatrice works, no problem. Just show me a surface I can set these down on, and I’ll wait in my car until she finishes up.”
Six sets of eyes swiveled my way.
Mrs. Von Haeville the Elder (issuing a curt nod): “That’s acceptable.”
Beatrice (saccharine smile aimed at the Elder): “Why don’t you take a stroll around the back garden instead? Get some fresh air? There’s even a fenced family plot if you’re interested. I cleared the area two weeks ago. Interestingly, the same day I requested these blueprints – that were couriered over this morning.”
Mr. Ottoman (glancing between his indignant client, my unblinking roommate, and me): “That’s a fair request. Who wants to sit in a car all day? Why don’t we head inside and get started…”
The next half-hour featured much toe-tapping and harumphing while the three of us set down and up Beatrice’s plans in the musty, cavernous foyer. When we finally finished, Miss Limburger escorted me past an assortment of empty, moldering rooms to the backdoor.
Me (pausing on the threshold): “Any idea how long this will take?”
Miss Limburger (holding the door open): “No.”
Turning back to ask where to find a ladies’ room in this rabbit warren, my nose left a print on the dusty pane of glass set into the closed door (which possibly possesses the only hinges in the entire manor that don’t protest when used). Miss. Limburger, without meeting my wide-eyed gaze (but wearing an infuriating half-smile), threw the deadbolt, turned on her heel, and walked briskly out of sight, leaving my flabbergasted self standing in the midsts of an overgrown kitchen garden, mouth hanging open.
Way to keep it classy lady.
2.12 Don’t Make Me Turn This Car Around
(Yeah a case and less documents would’ve made today so much easier…)
“Beatrice, seriously, you need to either roll that up or move it onto your lap, otherwise I am stopping the Princess, and you’re going to sit in the backseat!”
Thank the gods Mr. John Dupree had taken one look at the Princess and decided to meet us there! As amusing as it would have been to watch him try to fit his frame in my tiny VW Rabbit (and listen to his overly starch suit crinkle) – I was glad I had the option of shoving Beatrice back there!
Why? I quickly discovered, without ever having once wondered, that I cannot drive with architectural plans strewn over the dash, the stick shift, and propped up against my person! I need to see thru my whole windshield, not just a narrow field – call me silly, but being able to see a granny crossing the road is a real concern at the moment (the members of the Senior Center would not be amused if I hit a fellow octiginarian….).
A variant of this conversation had been going on for the last twenty-five miles.
But in all seriousness, I now understand why Mr. John Dupree made sure I signed a legally binding contract before chauffeuring Beatrice. (Come to think of it I don’t think I’d ever ridden with her before, we usually met up someplace…..well the things you learn on micro-sized road trips.)
It also explains why he hadn’t volunteered for the duty himself and why my salary for a single day’s work was so generous.
“Beatrice, seriously, study another, smaller piece of paper I am begging you, or I am pulling over your choice.” Carefully I started steering the Princess towards the shoulder, devoutly hoping my tires weren’t heading directly at a ditch.
Somewhere from behind the castle of paper, I heard a muttered, “Fine!” This was followed immediately by copious amounts of rustling, which reminded me of squirrels running through the fallen leaves in our backyard. Eventually, Beatrice emerged from behind a plethora of documentation.
“Why don’t you load all this onto your tablet so you can study it easier?”
Capping the highlighter, “Because clients like this count on discretion. They don’t want to risk someone finding out that their dear old great grandad might have left a stash of racy love letters lying around. So they want analog – which means lots of paper.”
“This doesn’t appear more secure…” Thankfully she finally shifted the blueprints obscuring the windscreen onto her lap.
“It isn’t, but Dupree couldn’t convince them that no one was actually interested enough in their dirty laundry to hack into his servers.” Her voice dry as dust on the subject of today’s clients. Shaking her head, “If they’d drop the original plans off the first time I asked for them, we might have enjoyed the drive.”
Which, now that I could finally witness it in wide angles was rather lovely, all evergreens, frost tipped grass, farm animals and rustic houses. We’d left the outskirts of Rye about fifty minutes ago, and according to my phone, we had another ten to go before we reached our destination.
Still nosing through the documents, which in concession to my not so muffled grumblings she kept below the dash (but were still resting against my shoulder/thigh/elbow), “I thought you’d be more curious about my other job.”
“I was, right up until you smacked me in the head with a ten-pound roll of paper and then used me as an easel for over an hour.”
“Yes, that could kill one’s curiosity…” Contrition colored her words (but only a small portion of the papers changed positions).
Noticing (in my delightfully unimpeded peripheral vision) her cheeks turning pink, I threw her a bone, “So why do you need so many architectural drawings?”
Slightly bemused, Beatrice answered, “They tell me where the bones of the house are, which in turn gives me a solid starting point.”
Waiting for a beat, “Starting point? For what?”
“To find what they’ve lost.”
2.11 The Man At The Door
Do I look shifty? Really, I’d like to know.
I might occasionally harbor the odd larcenous thought about a book – but I never follow up on them – I just enjoy entertaining the fancy.
It’s mental calisthenics. Right?
Okay, okay, I am starting in the middle, so let’s go back to the beginning.
Last night Beatrice offered me a sterling opportunity to make a couple of coins while chauffeuring her around for her other job. I didn’t tell her I would have driven her for free if it meant getting out of the house and putting on real pants, but I kept that information to myself.
Which explains why at a quarter of eight, I’m in the Map Room (waiting for Beatrice) contemplating a shelf full of previously empty vases. (The ones which formerly housed her rubber ducky collection that she’d acquired while geocaching – before we lost the bulk of them during our pirate shenanigans). Those empty vases had nagged at me ever since Beatrice had donated her yellow friends to the cause. She wouldn’t accept money or sincere thanks, so instead – to show my appreciation – I filled them to the brim with homemade hard candy. The crinkly cellophane and rainbow of translucent colors really tied the rest of the kitsch of the room together!
With a happy smile decorating my face, I scrabbled under the table to retrieve a few of the free spirits which had decided that living in a vase wasn’t for them.
While on all fours amongst the dining set’s legs, a quick radda-tap-tap sounded at the door – followed by the entrance of a pair of black wingtips and charcoal grey cuffed pants. “Hello?” I called out while trying to negotiate my way out from under the furniture while gripping two handfuls of candy – who were determined to stay where I found them.
“Beatrice? Why are you under the table?”
A loud thunk punctuated the question, but before I could dispel Mr. Wingtip’s misapprehension, his lovely baritone pattered on, “When you rejoin the land of the standing, I have three possible contracts for you. Two in town, one cross country. RAM cut the check for the return of the Renoir, I have it here for you. Are you still firm on your no pets policy? You could make a mint. I had six inquiries just last week. I drew up the paperwork you requested last night….”
Finally, solving the maze of table legs, I stood up and discovered Mr. Wingtips was a lean whip of a man who, when wearing his hat, must brush the Map Room’s ceiling.
He finally looked up when I set the crinkling handfuls of candy down on the table, “You are not Beatrice.”
Trying to put him at ease, I held out my empty hand and smiled, “Nope, but she should be here any minute. My name is Phoebe, Phoebe Arden. I’m Beatrice’s roommate and driver for the day!”
Whisking the papers he’d fanned out over the table back into his briefcase, he snapped it resolutely closed, all the while ignoring my outstretched hand.
Using a tone that wasn’t precisely ill-mannered, but edging in that direction, “You should have told me you weren’t Beatrice.” He crossed his arms and watched me thru narrow eyes.
(See?! I did not do anything suspicious! He’s just bent out of shape because he made a gaffe!)
“You didn’t give me a chance to tell you. Nor did you wait for me to answer the door after you knocked.” Mirroring his stance (though he loomed much more effectively than I) but not his tone, I leaned more towards genial reasonability.
My words cut no ice with the bespoke man.
“Well, I see you two’ve met…” Beatrice’s dry comment cut thru the tension. Things turned technical at this point with the snappy man reopening his briefcase (and resumed his nattering) while Beatrice smoothed things over and provided introductions.
Turns out the natty man of the black wingtips was, in fact, John Dupree of Treuawley, Trenaman, and Dupree.
Whose demeanor visibly thawed while watching me sign a stack of papers he’d prepared. Which, when boiled down to their essence – stated that I needed to keep my trap shut about anything I see, hear or smell (?) while accompanying Beatrice on a job. (Why it took ten pages, three signatures and twelve separate initials to say, I don’t know – but he stated he wanted to “keep things formal”).
(I aim to please.)
He then handed over pounds of assorted document and blueprints for Beatrice to review (which is why she needed a driver), and we headed out to execute today’s contract (their words, not mine).
Just Desserts
Wow, Mr. Grindle’s sins were worse than I’d ever dreamt. Not only did he murder his wife and her lover – he went on two murder two more women he dated!
I wonder if the Woman In White knew what he did.
In any case he’ll never see the sky as a free man agin.
2.10 Pink? Pink? What’s Wrong With Pink?
(The Princess is not the color of medicine!)
The Alter, no matter the time of day, always features fresh-baked baked-goods, so when I barreled thru the doors looking for something sweet, they didn’t let me down. Even better? The barista behind the counter didn’t bat an eyelash at my slightly grubby outfit, which earned her a generous tip after I paid for my chalice of coffee and a raspberry bear claw the size of my face.
While I waited for the shout proclaiming my order fulfilled, I moseyed over to the altar in the corner. After all the events at Nevermore today, lighting a candle for luck and offering up a handful of Kona coffee beans up to the Fates couldn’t hurt. Some well-timed serendipity might come in handy shortly if today’s events were any indication.
Looking at my watch, I decided against eating my treat on the spot, as I still had an outside chance of beating Beatrice (Wood’s not-so-secret-secret-informant) home, thereby avoiding Wood’s wrath when she spilled the beans about my adventuring.
My plan, such as it was, worked for about one-hundred and twenty seconds after I turned into the Lavender Lady’s alley. Just long enough for me to let out a victorious whoop when I discovered Beatrice’s spot holding nothing but dead leaves, pull the Princess into her slot, shut off the engine and start casting about for my stuff.
Fortunately, the approaching bright twin beams of a silver Audi illuminated the Princess’s interior nicely, allowing me to figure out where I’d set my phone.
Fan-forking-tastic.
Abandoning my half-eaten bear claw and coffee dredges, Beatrice and I alighted from our respective rides at the same time, her face split by a grin (knowing she’d busted me). Pulling some chutzpah up from somewhere around my left knee, I attempted to hoodwink my her anyways.
“Would you believe I came out here to think?”
With a sideways glance at the Princess, then at me, she let loose a laugh, “That explanation might hold water if; your backseat wasn’t filled with boxes, your coat not covered in crumbs and one shoe wasn’t crusted with what is hopefully mud.”
Still in stitches, she leaned back into her car and grabbed some tied off plastic bags, all which sported the logo of my favorite comfort food joint, off the passenger seat.
“It was an exciting day in the alley?”
Chuckling, Beatrice landed the final blow, “I gathered. Ms. Hettie called this afternoon to warn me about some mentally unbalanced car thieves who stole the back alley eyesore, the Pepto-mobile, but left her Impala untouched.”
Sputtering for a split second, “Eyesore? Pepto-mobile? The Princess is a cotton candy classic!” Stroking her pink hood soothingly, “Don’t let that delusional old bag of bones get you down. She thinks sweatshirts with embroidered geese are stylish.”
Highly amused over our indirect verbal skirmish, Beatrice moved on, “Come on, let’s get out of the dark and damp. I bought dinner from The Diner On The Corner.”
Honing in once again in on the takeout bags, my mouth started watering, “Pie?”
(You can never have too many sweets on a day filled with disconcerting information.)
Throwing her own PULP tote over her shoulder, “Only if you can honestly tell me those boxes aren’t heavy.”
Hand over heart, “Sarah did all the hefting. The most substantial thing I heaved was this tote, and it’s mostly scarf now.”
“Sarah?”
“Yeah…” Giving Beatrice an abbreviated version of today’s events, we walked up the path towards the back of the Lavender Lady. She laughed at my description of Leo’s hat in all its snaky glory and my plan to shock my cousins.
When the curtain above our door twitched, I shot a toothy grin at it, Pepto-mobile my ass.
Once inside, Beatrice headed straight back to the kitchen while I removed my grimy shoes, sodden socks and sticky coat in the hallway (the raspberry jam of my bear claw nailed it). When I finally finished (and tossed the PULP tote with its pilfered promotional folders into my room), I joined her in the kitchen.
Beatrice, having shed her own outerwear, stood at the counter, dishing up our dinner. After she declined my help, I walked over to the old radio. Turning it on, I fiddled with the dials until the static resolved itself into the classic strains of Sinatra’s Glad To Be Unhappy. Apparently, KARB’s DJ agrees with my theory, that sorrowful Sinatra songs sound best on rainy days.
The clink of porcelain on Formica pulled me from my reverie, turning from the tuner, I joined Beatrice at the table.
After leaning over to smell the bowl of goodness in front of me, I made my opening gambit, “So, is PULP sending you any place interesting soon?”
Beatrice gave me a wry smile and put her spoon down, “Nope. So why did you split hairs with the doctor’s orders?”
Waffling for a moment, I finally cast my (metaphorical) cards onto the table, “I’ve been going stir-crazy, and Little Ben emailed about some boxes, and it seemed like the perfect reason to leave the house. Plus, I got to take off my slippers. It was just an errand, not a FLYT fare so…”
A shrug finished my sentence, and a bite of my stew filled the conversational void while I waited for Wood’s not-so-secret-secret-informant to declare my fate.
Nodding thoughtfully in time with the radio (Diana Krall’s version of In The Wee Small Hours of The Morning), Beatrice sipped her red wine (btw I got a glass of two-percent milk, per Wood’s instructions) then spoke, “I have a proposition for you.”
With a mouth full of stew soaked biscuit, I could only nod.
Summing up my conundrum, “Our friendly doctor wants to make sure you don’t overdo it. But your well enough to chafe over sitting at home, correct?” At the end of her question, she started playing with her wine glass.
Unwilling to spit my food at her, I nodded again.
Watching the swirling liquid, she continued, “Did you know I have a second job?” Not waiting for an answer, she went on, “And it requires a driver. Since you’re the pro, what do you say? I can make sure you don’t over-do it, you can wear shoes again, and we’ll both stay in Wood’s good graces.”
Gulping down my mouthful, “How do you feel about pink?”
2.09.b Slip Sliding Away…
(Okay, so it wasn’t quite this wet…but it felt like it!)
Problem solved, Little Ben promptly expelled me from the Proprietor’s Office. Which initially, I found vexing as I still had several more questions to ask him. But his haste did provide one advantage – he never gave my bulging PULP tote a second glance. Allowing me to stroll out the main doors to the Princess (after retrieving my keys from Sam in Reception) with a bevy of snaffled documents without anyone being the wiser.
Stowing the aforementioned tote in the passenger side footwell, as the Princess’s backseat/trunk was filled with moist cardboard boxes, I gave a flummoxed looking Lottie a little wave and drove further into Nevermore. It didn’t take long for the Big Cedar to come into view, but it did take a few minutes to wend my way to the parking spot beneath it’s dripping boughs.
Wishing that the weather would let up for a few minutes (it didn’t), I pulled on my hat & gloves and exited the Princess. My prickling toes leading me over some seriously squelchy turf directly to the knot of waiting Residents Orin asked me to meet.
When I stepped into the thicket, they erupted in unison: How are you feeling? / Orin & Joseph said you were fine, but we wanted to make sure. / What made you mad earlier? Little Ben? / We missed you. / Did you really stop the Woman In White by yourself? / Everyone’s okay. / You should see my squirrel, he’s so cute now!
After assuring them, I was on the mend (visibly reducing their anxiety). Let them know Orin had relayed their get-well wishes (making him beam). Expressed relief the Woman In White hadn’t harmed them (wreathing the group in smiles) and let them know Joseph was the one who’d really saved the day (a clarification none accepted, which was weird). They caught me up on all the latest gossip in Nevermore (mainly encompassing the work ethic of the two new groundskeepers & Mazy’s squirrel buddy).
Only after I let loose a bone-rattling shiver did Orin call the congress to a halt (wool, a wondrous fiber, can only absorb so much water).
After many goodbyes and a bit more squirrel gossip, Orin accompanied back to the Princess, ostensibly to keep me from slipping on the swampy grass. However, my spidey sense was tingling (which was about the only sensation I could feel – since everything between and including my fingers and toes felt numb). He waited until we were well away from the others before he spoke.
Orin (quietly): “I happened upon an Errant, Caretaker.”
Well, this day just keeps getting better and better.
Me (sinking laces deep into the mud): “What happened?”
Orin: “Took a stroll through the old neighborhood to see what’s new when I caught a glimpse of him in Remembrance Park. Before I could decide what to do, he saw me and Flared.”
Me (sliding): “Did he pursue you?”
Orin (steadying me): “Nope.”
Me (back under the Big Cedar I used a rock to scrape some of the mud off my shoe): “Well, that’s something. I take it you’ve not bumped into him before?”
Orin: “Nope, never, and I visit pretty regularly.”
Me (studying my slightly cleaner sneaker): “Did you tell Joseph?”
Orin (nodding): “Yes, he’s prohibited anyone from venturing within a six-block radius until you investigate.”
Me (sighing): “Anything else?”
Orin (thoughtfully): “The Flare felt more like a warning, don’t come closer, rather than belligerent.”
Me (nodding while unlocking the driver’s side door): “Thanks Orin, I’ll check it out.”
Squeezing my shoulder once in sympathy, Orin turned on his heel and strode away. Ensconced in the Princess, I cranked up the heat then rested my head against the steering wheel. Waiting for the feeling to return to my extremities, acknowledging what the weather tried to tell me earlier – I should’ve stayed at home (if nothing else today proves the old adage when it rains it pours).
Seems my recovery/break/staycation is over.
I need something sweet.
Finder Of Lost Things 
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