Exit/Entrances
This is the exit I used to leave the Rare Records Room – you’d never guess to look at it would you? (I’m not sure if the pallets are there for effect or by accident…)
Tag Archives: blog fiction
2.20.b Cheesy Strategies
(Apparently my mac’n’cheese flavor, is a twist on Haitian Spaghetti! And it’s great!)
Me (trying to keep hope in check): “Help you…”
Leo: “…fix Nevermore?”
With a bemused expression, Ira explained.
Shortly after his unnecessary promotion and upon discovering his copy of the Conventions missing, Ira placed a call to Big Ben. Only to find both Big Ben’s landline and cell were no longer in service. Discussing his unease with his Missus, she asked him one particularly salient question; “Who in Nevermore do you and Big Ben both trust?”
Her words were still rolling around in the back of Ira’s brain when he and Leo got to talking after the latter approached the former about trying to persuade Little Ben from ejecting the Naturalists from Nevermore.
Their mutual troubles lead to their first “summit” in the Rare Records Room.
Over a few beers and bowls of mac’n’cheese, they rewound, reviewed, and rehashed every episode, major or minor, occurring in Nevermore over the past year. My unexpected termination quickly made their list of nebulously linked hinky feeling events. So did Big Ben’s radio silence and unprecedented extended absence from Nevermore. At about this point, Leo, in a fit of frustration, wondered where their guesswork was getting them – that’s when Ira repeated his Missus’s question.
Needless to say, their answers matched.
And here we are.
Taking a measured sip of my second drink, I slowly rolled it across my tongue, feeling oddly relieved that I wasn’t the only one who’d felt an ill wind blowing through Nevermore.
Me (taking a deep breath): “I’m pretty sure I know what Little Ben and the Board of Managers have been working on.”
Leo (cut in utterly astonished): “How? Even I couldn’t finagle that….”
Me (drily): “How did you find out about the NDA’s?”
Leo (wiggling his eyebrows): “Touché.”
With timing, only servers can muster our bowls of bespoke mac’n’cheese arrived. Since the eighth wonder of the world required our complete concentration to properly appreciate, our conversation stuttered to a stop until Leo, and I licked our bowls clean (Ira restrained himself from following suit, but then he can eat here whenever he chooses).
Once we recalled our place, which took a moment due to the sheer quantity of cheese hurtling through our arteries, I filled them in on Little Ben’s rebranding plans.
Leo (bleakly): “So there’s no hope of the Naturalists staying in Nevermore.”
Not wanting to mouth platitudes, I stayed silent.
Ira (slowly): “I agree, the financial questions need answering.”
Leo: “What do the missing Conventions and Ira’s promotion have to do with rebranding Nevermore?”
Me: “No clue. But the timing seems curious.”
We gnashed our teeth on our list nebulously linked hinky affairs over two more rounds of drinks, without a single bolt of lightning striking our table. Bereft of inspiration, we created a to-do list and ordered dessert.
First and foremost, since Big Ben hasn’t set foot in Nevermore for nearly a year and none of us know what he knows about current events inside Nevermore – we’re going to make sure he knows.
(On reflection, the extra cocktails might have been a mistake.)
In other words, we’re going to track Big Ben down.
Since I’m the only one who owns a real beef with Little Ben, even if it’s a bit late in the day to take umbrage at my pink slip, I’ll raise the least suspicion should Little Ben get wind of our attempts (plus he can’t fire me again). So Ira’s going to drop a list by Uncle and Aunt Pearl’s house of every phone number, address, hotel, motel, and haunt in New Mexico Big Ben’s ever included in a memo, email, or mentioned in passing.
Hopefully, I’ll hit the jackpot with one of them.
The scheme makes me feel prickly inside, as it smacks of tattling, but I couldn’t (and still haven’t) come up with a superior alternative.
Speaking of prickly situations, since Leo’s perched at the heart of Nevermore’s grapevine and my Ms. Hettie theory fell through, I requested he ferret out the name of Little Ben’s anonymous source for me.
Without admitting to playing any part in the farce, I gave Leo every scrap of data in my possession about the mysterious tipster who alerted Little Ben the night of The Brace Affair. (Aka the night Ira’s groundskeepers chased us all over Nevermore.) Explaining my request away as another nebulously linked hinky feeling event in need of an answer – I think Ira bought it.
I was thrilled when our slices apple pie, featuring a very melty piece of cheddar cheese on top, arrived tableside at that moment, completely derailing our conversation off the topic of trespassing pirates…After our initial bite of pie, we hammered out a few other details; don’t risk your job looking for answers; don’t talk to anyone attached to Nevermore about our suspicions, and no, I will not refer to you as 006-&-a-half. Even if you knit a suitable hat.
But all too soon, the cheese, alcohol, and sugar caught up with us.
(Btw, leaving the Rare Records Room is nearly as complicated as entering – I exited two doors down behind the florist’s shop.
While listening to the peppy hoot of an owl, I picked up my phone off the nightstand, found Big Ben’s number, and hit dial. My ears were immediately assaulted by three ascending tones and an automated message, “I’m sorry, the number you have entered has been temporarily disconnected, changed, or is no longer in service. If you feel you’ve reached this recording in error…”
Giving up on my phone and sleep, I heaved myself out of bed, pulled on a pair of well-loved pants and an old t-shirt then padded down to the kitchen. I might not know what’s happening to Nevermore or how to fix it, but at least, I know what my next step is.
I need to bake a cake.
2.19.a Easily Found Speakeasies Are Called Bars
Up until about an hour ago, I’d no idea Ira, Nevermore’s Chief Groundskeeper, was a Member of the Black Eyed Dog’s Rare Records Room. Or at least I’m pretty sure he is. My suspicion is based on one tenuous fact; not once in any of the accounts, I could recall of the secret, and elaborate entrances into the speakeasy did anyone ever mention walking thru the record shop’s front doors.
Seriously, you don’t understand how huge this is.
Ferreting out a Rare Records Room Member is akin to Harry Potter finding a Horcrux. Though there are ten members of the Rare Records Room verses, seven Horcruxes and Rye is smaller than the UK. So I suppose that mathematically speaking, the odds of finding a Member are better than locating a Horcrux.
However, it’s never felt like it.
Wood and I, together and independently, have been endeavoring to sidle over the threshold to sample their legendary bespoke mac’n’cheeses & cocktails since our twenty-first birthdays without success.
Until today!
(I’ll bring Wood a doggy bag of the aforementioned mac’n’cheese, you gotta have your buddy’s back).
Unless I blow the entire operation by forgetting Ira’s instructions. My lines. The refrain. Or possibly pass out due to holding my breath waiting for the winking “Now Serving” sign above the buyback counter to blink my number!
Thankfully my ticket and their ticker matched up before my nose met my toes – but it was a close shave.
Approaching the counter with all the swagger I could muster, that of a nine-week-old kitten. I slid my driver’s license out of my back pocket and handed it, along with my crinkled number slip, to the gentleman of a certain age, sorting a substantial stack of vinyl behind the counter.
Listening to his robotic delivery of “How can I help you?” I parroted the phrase from Ira’s cryptic text told me too. “I was told you could show me a rare b-side from the single Nightswimming? I’m told it’s an acoustic version of…” My voice faltered at the end of my request when the Counterman’s sharp scrutiny pinned me like a bug to the floor (it didn’t help that he was gazing over the tops of his glasses, channeling his stern inner schoolmarm).
“Who told you this?”
Only twenty-five years of accumulated trust in Ira kept me from fleeing the Counterman’s unblinking stare (seriously this guy could give an owl lessons). Leaning across the counter, feeling ridiculous, I sang the refrain from I Heard It Through The Grapevine. Without a word, the Counterman stepped out of sight, taking my license with him (in the middle of my serenade, I might add. I know I’m no Marvin Gaye, but I’m not all-hands-abandon-ship bad).
Unable to maintain my indignation (the butterflies fluttering in my tummy demanding my full attention), I started bopping along with the shop’s current musical selection. While absently flicking the loose edge of a sticker stuck to the countertop waiting for the Counterman to deliver his verdict.
It didn’t take long.
Wearing half a smile, he reappeared, sliding my ID and a ring of keys over the counter, “Step to the left, and I’ll buzz you in.” Daydreaming of ooey-gooey cheesy goodness waiting for me, I nearly missed the small nod the Counterman gave me to step on through to the other side.
When the single forty watt light bulb flickered to life above my head a beat after shutting the door, I discovered myself in…a utility closet.
Said closet contained black wire shelves crammed with cleaning solutions & toilet paper, a mop sink & bucket, a rack of dust mops & brooms, a dumb waiter, an employee of the month plaque, two ratty Cure album covers hung on the wall, two folding chairs and a battered card table dressed up with a wilting red carnation in a chipped bud vase.
You gotta be kidding me.
I know Ira wanted to talk in private, but eating in an actual closet to keep our conversation closeted? Absurd doesn’t come close to covering that circumstance. During my languorous and lengthy eye-roll, my orbs were arrested at their apex when they caught sight of the small dark plastic dome set in the ceiling.
A slow smile of comprehension crept across my lips. Guests are neither Members nor Joe Q. Public, so perhaps the Rare Records Room split the difference – bypassing one of the notorious two tests for ingress.
Nicknaming the test, The Case of the Hidden Door, I started searching for any mysterious cracks in the plaster, loose tiles, unexplained half-moon scuff marks marring the linoleum or racks not wholly resting on the floor. No joy. After inspecting the mop sink for any abnormalities – there weren’t any – I stood absently rubbing my neck, my eyes idly read the plaque hanging betwixt the two Cure album covers.
Wait a second.
Never mind the fact that February came and went in a fury of snowflakes and candied hearts, the plaque listed Nick Drake as the Black Eyed Dog’s Employee of the Month for 1974. Nick Drake was a tragic, talented, and influential late sixties folk singer who’s musical catalogue includes a song called Black Eyed Dog.
Serendipity, flukes, strokes of luck, or twists of fate should never be trusted when found in D&D Dungeons, magic acts, or speakeasies.
Lifting the plaque from the wall, I punched the air in victory when I discovered a keyhole hidden underneath. Working my way round the ring of keys given to me by the Doorman, I finally found the lock’s mate and gave it a twist.
“Good evening Ms. Arden. Welcome to the Rare Records Room.”
2.18.c What To Do…
Tossing and turning for over an hour after climbing into bed, Beatrice’s questions still troubling my mind, I continued to resist the urge to pick up my phone. Calling people about my suspicions at this hour would not yield any concrete answers (other than what people thought of me), but I needed to do something.
Turning on the lamp on my nightstand, pulling over the ever present notepad and pencil I started jotting down a to-do list…
Looking it over, satisfied with its completeness, I switched off the light and laid back down. Nothing left to do except wait for a decent hour to start pestering people with questions.
Feeling the thinking trap starting to snap, trying to rob me of the scant hours left before my alarm, I switched my churning brain to counting, nine-hundred-and-ninety-nine…nine-hundred-and ninety-eight….nine-hundred-and-ninety-seven…….nine-hundred-and-ninety-six………..nine-hundred-and-ninety-five……………………………………..nine-hundred-and-ninety-four………………………………………………………….
Mock-up
Little Ben’s mock up of his ideas of incorporating Nevermore as a wedding spot isn’t bad…but there’s so much other stuff around it that is.
(All these photo can be found on Unsplash, the words are mine.)
2.18.b The Sun Will Come Out, Tomorrow…
Beatrice (mumbling around the chunk of apple she finally shoved into her mouth): “Not really.”
Unsurprised by her response, I shrugged, she would tell me about it or not. I can’t force her to spill her troubles. The slightly uncomfortable bubble created by her negative answer popped when her hand changed course from the snack plate to the brochure lying next to it.
Beatrice (opening the glossy trifold paper): “I didn’t know Nevermore hosted weddings.”
Me: “It doesn’t.”
Beatrice (tilting her head and rotating the pamphlet): “Then what am I looking at?”
Me (popping a bit of smoked cheddar in my mouth): “Can we keep this between us?”
Beatrice (leaning forward, drawing more promotional materials to her): “Yes.”
Me (snagging her glass before she could object): “Remember a few days back, when I went to Nevermore to pick up the boxes Sarah saved for me?…”
Beatrice, who apparently was only partially absorbed in reading every scrap of paper I’d put on the table, waved me forward in my story. Quietly pleased she’d found something other than her phone to focus on, I continued – after finishing my impression of a fish out of water. Apparently, only one of us can drink Pappy Van Winkle bourbon like it’s water.
Hint: It’s not me.
Me (still wheezing a bit): “I heard some rumors about Little Ben and Nevermore. When I went looking for answers, I found all this.”
Beatrice (arching an eyebrow): “Found?”
Me (squirming): “Not the point of the story.”
Beatrice, once again laughing at me without uttering a sound, motioned for me to continue.
Me (cheeks still hot): “As I was saying, what I found doesn’t make sense.”
Beatrice (glancing up): “Why?”
Me: “Because Little Ben’s only the Provisional Proprietor of Nevermore.”
Beatrice: “Meaning….”
Me (sliding the enlarged pictures of Little Ben’s Pipe-dream-dream-boards and Big Ben’s letter to the top of the pile): “Basically, it’s a fancy name for an acting manager/heir. It allows the Proprietor to take a step back from day-to-day operations while giving his replacement a safety net to work over. Which doesn’t work if Big Ben is gone for two years! Provided Little Ben’s timeline is accurate.”
Beatrice (interrupting my rant, squinting at the pictures): “Are all the buildings and services outlined here new?”
Me (throwing my hands up in the air): “Yes! That’s what I don’t get. If Big Ben is going to be gone for two years and give his son the latitude to rebrand Nevermore – why name him Provisional Proprietor?”
Beatrice (setting aside the photos for another brochure): “Perhaps Senior’s keeping a veto in his back pocket in case Junior goes off the rails.”
Me: “Maybe, but once again, that only works if Big Ben’s here keeping an eye on things.”
Beatrice: “What do you think of these new amenities?”
Me (picking up Beatrice’s glass again, only to find it empty): “The ideas are mostly solid, but the details undoubtedly need tweaking. They always do.”
Beatrice (starting to sort the papers into neat piles, tossing Little Ben’s new business card to the side): “So Junior dreams big but stumbles over the nitty-gritty, correct? So what happens if the Sunny Valley Farm and Cemetery’s renovations and business plan go off without a huge hitch. Thanks in no small part to your efforts?”
Me (trying to figure out my roommate’s method of sorting): “He’ll gain confidence.”
Beatrice (still shuffling): “Is two years enough time for his grand plan to come to fruition?”
Me: “Yes.”
Beatrice: “Do you think Junior wants his rebranding complete before Senior comes back?”
Leaning my head back, I squeezed my eyes closed, ignoring the squelchy feeling in my stomach. Recalling Wood’s ambitious plans for Doctor Hansen’s practice, after the elder statesman retires.
Me (opening my eyes): “I think he wants to put his own stamp on Nevermore, make it his own. So yes, I think he does.”
Pushing away from the table, her sorting finished, Beatrice, fetched a new glass and the remnants of the good bottle of bourbon from the cupboard. Setting the second glass in front of me, she splashed a reasonable amount of the amber-colored liquid into each before speaking.
Beatrice (Mona Lisa smile in place): “Drink this, it’ll help.”
Me: “Why?”
Beatrice: “You’re missing the bigger picture.”
Me: “Bigger picture?”
Beatrice (tapping the nearest of the thirteen uneven piles of paper): “How is Junior going to get all of these improvements, three of which are pretty significant, built? Given that it’s unlikely Senior’s absence will extend the full two years?”
Looking, really looking at the thirteen unequal piles, the acid in my stomach started churning – the gulp of Kentucky’s finest didn’t help a whit.
Beatrice (taking my swig as confirmation of her summation): “Simultaneously construction. It’s the only way I can see Junior finishing his “rebranding” before Senior returns.”
Lowering my head onto the cool tabletop (after downing a less reasonable amount of bluegrass hooch), I let the ideas wash over me; How on earth am I going to explain this to the Residents? Or Joseph? And keep everyone calm, cool, and collected? Even worse, what if he moves some graves? Dear Gods above and below, what if Mazy’s squirrel buddy gets hurt…
Beatrice (grimly turning a photo of a budget page towards me): “That’s only a small part of the bigger picture…”
Me (raising my head): “That’s the small part?”
Beatrice: “How is he going to pay for it?”
Me (staggering out of my chair): “I have to make some calls….”
Beatrice: “It’s after midnight, no one in the know will be happy to take your call.”
Me (dropping back into my chair): “Well crap.”
Beatrice (picking up our glasses and putting them into the sink): “Sleep on it. You’ll ask better ones tomorrow.”
Me (rubbing my eyes): “You’re right. You’re right.”
Unaccustomed to ingesting that much bourbon in one sitting (and feeling weary/fuzzy for it), I left Little Ben’s rebranding plans on the table and shuffled out of the kitchen after Beatrice, shutting off the radio and lights as I went.
Covey or Bevy?
Ms. Hettie and I were indeed bickering about Quail when Beatrice found us. Or more specifically we were passionately discussing if a group of quail are called a Covey or a Bevy and of course we couldn’t agree….though we did both think the word flock to ordinary for such quirky birds!
2.17.b The Next Miss Marple I’m Not
Choking on my pull of pumpkin milkshake, I wrestled with the Princess’s steering wheel trying to keep her from swerving into the oncoming lane (there wasn’t anyone else in sight, but keeping up good habits is always recommended). Not once, in our months of sharing rooms in the Lavender Lady, did I suspect Ms. Hettie and Beatrice were related.
My Miss Marple skills need some work. Perhaps I should ask Leo for some knitting lessons….
“Your Great Aunt? That piece of sour candy is your Great Aunt?”
Holy mother forking shirt balls, I should probably not refer to Ms. Hettie like that to her niece.
“You should hear what she calls you.” Beatrice said in her mildest voice. “What made you think she snitched on us to Little Ben?”
Distracted from panicking over my gaffe (which also successfully lowered my volume dial from a nine to a five), “She was the only one I could think of, outside of the four of us, who might have known where we were going.”
“How? Oh, right, the sea shanty…”
Glad she glommed onto my train of reasoning so quickly, “She keeps pretty close tabs on us, and Little Ben was tipped off…So I thought she might have made the call.”
Silently nodding her head in time with Moonlight Serenade (KARB was paying tribute to Glenn Miller today), she took a moment to respond, “It makes sense I grant you, but no, she would never do something like that. She can’t stand tattling. Plus, I’m her favorite niece.”
Back to square one.
Bummed at the conviction Beatrice spoke with, I moved on. “Why didn’t you tell me you two were related?”
Clearly laughing at me without actually uttering a sound, Beatrice made an effort to smooth my jangled nerves. “Because you two clearly enjoy your skirmishes, and I didn’t want to ruin it.”
“I don’t know if I’d use the word enjoy…”
My statement generated a stare; I could physically feel boring into the right side of my skull. “Really? So you didn’t bake several batches of Earl Grey cookies, filling the entire house with their aroma last week, in order to lure Ms. Hettie into the back garden? Where I found you both enjoying them, drinking London fogs and bickering about quail when I got home?”
Hunching over the steering wheel, “Those were extenuating circumstances, I was going stir crazy, and she brought the tea…” The words sounded petulant, even to my ears. “Fine, I did. But when you say I lured her with cookies, it sounds unsavory.”
Actually laughing now, Beatrice grabbed her lemonade at took a long draw.
“So why don’t you call her Great Aunt Hettie or just Aunt Hettie?”
Fidgeting with the straw, “During a visit, when I was younger, I overheard her telling my mother that being called great by us kids made her feel old, so I started calling Ms. Hettie instead. It stuck.”
Curiosity creeping into my voice, “I’ve never asked, but how did you end up living downstairs from Ms. Hettie?”
Putting down her drink, she ran her thumb up and down the seatbelt a couple of times before answering, “Ms. Hettie took me in and told my family off after we had a falling out. We respect each other’s space, so the arrangement worked well for both of us, now I keep them from pestering her about moving to someplace smaller.
Sensing her reluctance to canvas the topic further, I moved on to something much funner. “Do you think Wood suspects?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watched a smile slowly chase away her frown, “No. I spoke to Laney yesterday, and he thinks he’s coming over to give you one last check-up and a celebratory dinner. He’s clueless about the evening’s entertainment.”
Grinning, “You’ve tested the VCR?”
“Of course.”
Finder Of Lost Things 
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