Tag Archives: Caretaker

2.66 The Fool

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Half expecting to find Orin smirking at me, despite my reassurances that his presence here was unnecessary. It took a long second for the significance of the shock of snow-white hair above a pair of shoulders draped in a deep forest green suit coat to register.

Shirt.

Shirt. Shirt. Shirt!

What the forking hall is Abraham’s Errant doing in Sarah’s family’s front room? 

Keeping half an ear out for Sarah’s inevitable return, I eased inside, training my eyes on the Errant’s lean figure, looking for a flicker of movement indicating he knew I was drawing closer. 

He didn’t twitch. 

Skirting around the central coffee table, wary of the sprawling (mid-contest) Monopoly game laying on its surface and teetering along the edge, it only took a handful of seconds to reach the suited up Errant standing before the cold brick fireplace. Wrapping my fingers around his wrist immediately transformed his statuesque countenance into a struggling mass of elbows and knees intent on breaking my unbreakable grasp.

“Stop.”

Of course, this borderline order didn’t do much (or help in any way), as he continued yanking on his arm while backpedaling away from me.

Trying again, this time aiming for less authoritative and more unruffled, I identified myself in an even voice. “I am the Caretaker of Nevermore, who are you?” 

“Caretaker? Caretaker. Caretaker. Caretaker. Caretaker. Caretaker.” Crooning my title like his favorite song, he immediately stilled.

You know the protracted discordant noise a piano makes when someone depresses the pedal and hits a whole bunch of random keys at the same time? The lingering dissonance of that note is the best way to describe the Vita presently resonating under my grip. 

And if you haven’t guessed – it isn’t a good sign. 

“Yes, I am the Caretaker. Who are you?”

“The Fool. The Fool. The Fool. The Fool.” He sang softly at me.

Fantastic. 

There’s a possibility I could bring him back from the brink. However, if Abraham’s correct and The Fool’s (I’m going with it) the root cause of Rye’s missing Errants – this might be bad – as it might allow him to muster enough Vita to attack someone stronger – and win. On the other hand, it could keep him from syphoning off another Errant’s Vita to stave off Fading and/or stay sane (well saner). Thus allowing me time to find his Origin Point. And technically speaking, I haven’t uncovered anything corroborating Abraham’s claims…

Weaving a delicate thread of my own Vita into The Fool’s, I strove to balance his.

“Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

“Help…” The singsong sound cadence belied the naked desperation painting his face.

Not wanting to overwhelm him, I braided a slightly sturdier fiber of Vita in with The Fool’s, bringing it closer to equipoise. “How can I help? What’s your name? Where’s your Origin Point?..” Unfortunately, a series of thumps, bumps, and thuds interrupted my litany of the Six Ws (the foundations of problem-solving). 

“Morticia?”

The Fool, finally able to form full sentences, and sandwiched his desperation into them – did so. “Please, let me go. If I don’t see you with her, I won’t have to tell them about you.” 

Listening to the swish of Sarah’s nylon coat grow closer, waves of panic started rolling off him. Just as he opened his mouth to renew his plea, I released his wrist and watched him sprint from Sarah’s living room.

“Morticia, where did you go?”

“In here.” 

Stepping towards the table, I stared down at the thimble straddling the line between jail and the just visiting square, wondering if I could figure out if The Fool was friend or foe on my own. I still needed to visit Eliza, and Abraham might’ve found out something new since I saw him last…

In the throes of woolgathering, I tuned out Sarah’s entrance into the living room. 

Every Errand and Resident have their geographical limits…It’s possible if I use Eliza’s spot and Sarah’s house as starting points…I’ve done it before…but it sounds like he needs help sooner…Shifting my gaze off the thimble, I slid it up to the apple crate filled with four binders now sitting on the davenport. Or I could keep the only tangible connection I’d found to The Fool, forego my fantasy of firing Sarah and see if I could shrug off enough hurt from the knife she buried in my back to stand her company…

Some days being an adult really sucks.

Breaking the unintended silence with a sigh, I looked Sarah square in the face and gave her the brutal truth. “I don’t know if we can remain friends after all this…”

Eyes shining brightly, Sarah attempted to interrupt. “I’m sorry. I was just trying to save…”

Holding up my hand, I didn’t let the rest of her explanation exit her mouth. “Look, I’m not ready to hear it, any of it, yet. In fact, I’d never really intended to allow you to explain, as I woke up today, thinking I was going to fire you….”

Tipping her head back, Sarah let lose a brittle, bitter laugh. “That’s funny, I’ve been working up the courage to quit for months now.”

Tilting my head at her candid comeback, I was unable to keep my interest out of my voice. “Why didn’t you?” 

Her hesitation before answering spoke volumes. “It’s complicated.”

“I get that.” Taking a deep breath, I stopped dancing around the alligator at my feet. “Okay, here’s the deal, if you don’t want to quit, I’m willing to see if we can function as co-workers…”

“I..I…Really? Are you sure?”

Pausing her, before she accepted and/or her bright eyes spilled over, I finished my offer. “…on two conditions. First and foremost, you’ll be demoted back to an undertaker. Second, until we find a new Chief, you might need to pitch in with some of the paperwork, so we don’t fall behind…Are these terms acceptable to you?”

2.58 The Proverbial Fork

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(I will celebrate properly later…but this is how I feel on the inside!)

I did not manage to thrust my left foot into a tangerine sneaker before Mr. John Dupree arrived at the Lavender Lady. Nor did I accomplish the aforementioned feat soon, or even soon adjacent, after his arrival.

Mr. John Dupree’s casual Saturday attire constituted a lopapeysa in shades that reminded me of the Colombia Basin in summer, soft chocolate tinted trousers, and shiny mahogany hued shoes. In other words – he looked just as dapper dressed down as he did suited up.

(In case you, like me, never heard the word ‘lopapeysa’ before – it’s apparently a traditional Icelandic sweater with a distinctive pattern knitted into it. After I compliment its craftsmanship, Mr. John Dupree happily told me the history of his wooly jumper, purchased while on vacation in Reykjavik.) 

My non-traditional twosome, of black sock and bright shoe, did not go unnoticed. In fact, it received a swift arch of Mr. John Dupree’s eyebrow, a split second conversation pause followed by rapid dive down to brass tacks. 

Which included: a set of speedy introductions, a posthaste hiring of Mr. John Dupree to represent Nevermore, a bare-bones outline of our initial needs, a match set of brisk phone calls to Ira and Leo, a teeth-gnashing wait for their arrival, another set of quick introductions, an interminable wait as Mr. John Dupree penned a clause Ira insisted on including in the contract, some signatures, a fair bit of countersigning, one stamp and then step two was finished.

I am – officially – Nevermore’s Caretaker once again.

And I’ve still failed to carve out a pair of seconds to rectify my deficiency of shoes. Which presently is least of my problems, a point Mr. John Dupree was making enormously clear over some celebratory cups of coffee.

“The language is simple. If Nevermore defaults, the collateral is forfeit, i.e., half of Nevermore’s estate.” Shaking his head, Mr. John Dupree turned to Little Ben and chucked the loan documents onto the kitchen table between them in disgust. “Why did you sign this? The terms are godawful.” 

Squirming under the scrutiny of Mr. John Dupree’s intense gaze, Little Ben shrunk slightly. “Putting up that much collateral lowered the interest rate to practically nothing, so it seemed like a good move. Sarah and Nathaniel didn’t think the small print mattered much since we were on solid financial footing…” 

“Be that as it may, their advise was poor.” 

“Should’ve listened to Lottie.” Was his only (and muttered) reply.

Watching the unbound bits of glitter spring, whirl, and glimmer across the table, I waited for Mr. John Dupree to drop the other shoe. Turning to include Ira and me in the next bit of news, he didn’t fail. 

“I don’t see any legal loophole in the loan or the loan call.”

Fan-forking-tastic.

Once again woebegone, Little Ben, addressed the depths of his mug in a hoarse voice. “So what you’re saying is either I forfeit half of Nevermore to the bank or sell a third to the city…..This is going to kill Pop.”

And there it is…The proverbial fork in the road. No matter which route we choose – we lose…and Josie wins.

Getting up from the table, I limped to the liquor closet.

“Good idea, I think we could all use a nip of something…” Beatrice’s initial thumbs-up morphed to horror when she spotted what I actually pulled from her cupboard dedicated to fermented grape and grain. “You stashed that, in there?”

“I’ll decontaminate the closet later, I promise.” 

“Drinking glitter-infused alcohol is not a thing.”

“I don’t know…” Leo countered, clearly succumbing to a wistful reverie. “….Goldschlager is pretty tasty.”

Head down, I bit my lip to keep them from curving upwards. Mr. John Dupree, undoubtedly sensing our sudden descent in the direction of pure whimsy, pulled us up short.

“What’s that?”

Meeting his gaze with a half-smile, I told him. 

“Door number three.” 

2.57 The Forest Standing Beyond The Trees

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My mind, needing to take five from the quagmire sitting in the front room, chose this moment to focus on fashion or the lack thereof present in my wardrobe. On the upside, the absence of couture from my closet meant I landed on a palette pretty quickly – basic black. It covers nearly every contingency…right? From date night’s little black dress to a cat burglar’s costume to Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s work uniform – the color arising from the absence of light has range. 

(Plus, it doesn’t show bloodstains…should any stabby feelings get out of hand…)

Pulling out a nearly new black scoop neck t-shirt, jet colored jeans, and matching inky accoutrements from my dresser, it didn’t take long before I was attempting a three-pointer with my balled-up pj’s (using my hamper as the basket).

Standing at the end of my bed, toeing on my tangerine tinted sneaker (because a girls gotta have some flare) without bothering to undo the laces, my eyes fell on the magnificence of Squiddy ensconced betwixt two un-cracked classics penned by Melville and Verne, respectively. Lifting him from his place of honor, I rubbed the stitches of a random arm ruminatively for an indeterminate amount of time before absentmindedly settling him on my head and exiting my room.

The fact I’d only managed to shove my right shoe on didn’t register until I was halfway down the hallway. 

Whereupon, the wintery chill radiating up from my unshod left foot finally overrode my preoccupation enough to reorient my attention onto the frostbitten slice of the back garden… Made visible by the wide yawn of the front door. Warmed by the magma surging from my heart to the surface of my skin, the heat continued to intensify in response to the string of four-letter words I used to describe Little Ben. Darting forward to (presumably) help Beatrice stop him from leaving the Lavender Lady, I nearly tripped over my own feet, skidding to a stop as the pair darkened our doorstep.

Breath bellowing around the assortment of file boxes piled up past their eyes, they huffed and puffed their way back inside – Beatrice hooking an ankle along the bottom corner of the door and pulling it closed. Neither noticed me gaping at them, thanks to their sky-high burdens and conversation.

“…she’s just like Pop. They’d both rather loose a limb than sell a square inch of Nevermore.”

“Someone wants to buy Nevermore?” Beatrice’s distaste shown clearly in her voice.

“The city, they sent over an offer yesterday. That’s why I’m here. Because selling is the only solution the Board of Managers is willing to entertain and the loan’s due on Monday…” 

This new sliver of data slipped seamlessly into the larger mosaic I’d constructed in my mind. Causing the rest of their exchange to skim over my eardrums without sending a single syllable up to my brain – because I could finally, almost, see the forest for the trees. Fiddling with Squiddy’s tentacle, I soon found myself staring at the brass borderline that separate hardwood of the hallway from the luxurious rug of the living room.

“Phoebe, are you alright?”

Jerking my eyes upward, I found Little Ben’s face wearing an odd assortment of expressions (concern amongst them). Beatrice, on the other hand, looked highly amused. 

“Um, what? I’m fine.” Giving her an absent nod, I transferred my attention to Little Ben – who took the opportunity (probably buoyed up by the distinct lack of shouting, cursing, and visible disappointment) to start stammering out an apology.

“Look, Morticia, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

Holding up my index finger, I pressed onwards past his regret onto more pertinent matters. “Ben, this loan that’s put Nevermore in harm’s way, it wouldn’t be from Western Regional Bank, would it?

“How did you know?”

Unable to stymie a sly smile from creeping across my face, it met Beatrice’s raised eyebrow and grew a bit wider still. “Do you think Mr. John Dupree would be willing to come over and work with us? ASAP?”

“You’ve got it?” 

“Not exactly, but I see our first two moves.” Beatrice returned my sly smile with a smirk of her own. 

“Good enough for me, I’ll make a call. Though you might want to lose the hat gnawing on your eyebrows and find your other shoe before Dupree arrives.….” Stepping away from the heap of boxes at her hip, she strode across the hall into her office – only this time shutting the door firmly behind her. 

Shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, Little Ben waited until after Beatrice left to start peppering me with questions. “Who is this Dupree fellow, why do we need him, and what have you got?”

Following my roommate’s advice, I slid the cephalopod, who’d quietly dipped low enough on my forehead to cover my eyebrows, off my head. Contemplating the stitches binding Squiddy’s fin to the rest of his body, I searched for the proper tone and phrase for my next set of words. 

“Here’s the deal Ben, I don’t know if we can hold Nevermore together, but we’re going to try.”

Looking more relieved than he ought to since I could only barely make out the forest, Little Ben started tripping over his words again. “I…You…Thank you, Morticia. It’s more than…I’ve got all the loan documents here, and I brought every scrap of paper from Pop’s desk and his safe. I didn’t know if they could help, but….”

“Super, we’ll start looking them over in a minute.” Giving the file boxes the barest of glances, I moved on to address the elephant in light leather shoes teetering precariously on the highwire stretching between us. 

“But first things first, Ben, you need to make me Nevermore’s Caretaker again.”

2.38 Parlor Game No.1 – The Spirit Board

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(Laney’s design for the spirit board featured Morse Code…you know to weed out the undesirable tricksy spirits…)

Hunched over and walking backward around the picnic table, l concentrated on leaving an unbroken speckled line in my wake. A bemused Wood, who I caught from the corner of my eye, filching the last bite of baked beans off my plate, looked on. 

Wood: “You know, pouring salt on the grass is going to kill it, right?”

Me (concentrating on maintaining an even pour): “Between the dogs, sprinklers, and rain showers, the salt will wash away before any permanent damage is done, don’t worry.”

Wood: “But why are you salting the earth?”

Me (delivering the last words with my very best Count Dracula voice – which is still pretty bad): “It’s a two-for-one kind of deal. It keeps you safe from all the creepy-crawlies, and it’ll keep you safe from all the Creepy-Crawlies…”

Wood: “Safety first, that’s what you’re going with.”

Me: “Yup.”

Hiding my smile, I kept my eyes trained on the grains of Himalayan pink, Hawaiian black, and fresh hand-harvested sea salt sprinkling from the slit in the bag.

After a spot of investigation on the internet and a lengthy conversation with Joseph, I think we sussed out how The Woman In White was able to cross the spilled salt and attack me. The contents of the bag I’d grabbed from the supply closet that night in Nevermore weren’t precisely what I thought. Instead of pure rock salt Sam ordinarily ordered, this year, he bought a blend – equal parts gravel, urea crystals, and rock salt (of highly dubious quality). So between this less than stellar mixture and strength born of insanity – The Woman In White muscled her way across. 

We’re pretty sure.

Our lack of certainty on this particular point prompted me to use a salt blend Nevermore’s Residents helped me perfect but rarely use. 

The imperfect circle I’m drawing might be overkill, as Orin’s unknown Errant isn’t unknown to me. However, not knowing why Abraham Flared kept my hands steady and steps even while I finished my final revolution around the picnic table where Wood sat. 

Wood (sounding perplexed): “So what parlor game requires we sit within a ring of salt for safety?”

Me (walking back to the table and cramming the empty bag into my pack): “A spirit board.”

Wood (stupefied): “Ouija? Really? I can’t think of a single person I’m interested in contacting on the otherside.”

Me: “I know, but we’re not going to communicate with anyone there…”

With a flourish I placed the archival box, Aarti from the Historical Society lent me, in the middle of the table.

Wood (raising an eyebrow): “Okay…”

Me: “We’re going to try contacting the Grey Man.”

Wood: “Who?”

Opening the box, doing my best Vanna White impression, I flipped over formal photos, snapshots, snippets, and facsimiles. All the while explaining who Edmund Wynter was, his racket, the mystery surrounding his murder, and his notoriously active afterlife.

Me: “So what do you think? Want to give it a try?”

Wood (rolling his eyes): “I’m reconsidering my position on tiddlywinks.”

Wood loves all things weird and wacky but stands firmly in Houdini’s camp in regards to spiritualism. 

His wife, Laney, on the other hand, loves this kind of thing. In fact, she stitched me the spirit board I’d unfurled on the table years ago after I gave her first full tour of Nevermore. She wasn’t clear on exactly how it would help me with my duties as Caretaker, but she figured it was better to have it and not need it than need it and not have it.

(I didn’t have the heart to tell her spirit boards don’t actually attract their intended demographic.)

Me (trying for a reasonable tone while swallowing a laugh): “It might be our only chance to solve his murder…”

Wood: “Last chance?”

Me: “Sightings of him have dropped dramatically over the past twenty-five years.”

Wood (dryly): “Right. I’m sure the drop in sightings has nothing to do with the fact Wynter was murdered in nineteen-thirty-eight.”

Me: “We could ask him where he stashed his blackmail materials. If his wife or murderer didn’t already turn them to ash.”

Wood (momentarily forgetting he thought spirit boards were pure hokum): “You want to find Pandora’s Box? Think of all the trouble his blackmail ledger could cause, Wynter had access to every government record in Rye.”

Me (shrugging): “I wouldn’t read it, I hand it over to the police, they’d read it.”

Wood: “And Pandora only meant to sneak a peek inside that damned box. What if your great grandparents had something hushed up by Wynter? Wouldn’t you want to protect their memory? Or how about my Gran?”

A ripple of electricity arcing across my toes jolted me out of the hypothetical ethical pickle Wood’s question placed me in. Glancing around, I spotted a scowling Abraham standing in the entrance of the gazebo staring at me. Turning back to my Moon Bathing companion, I found the solution to two out of three of my burning dilemmas in the buzzing of his phone.

Me (snapping my fingers in inspiration): “Tell Laney you’ll call her back on video chat. She can help us break in the spirit board – you’ll get a boatload of husband points.” 

Wood, while muttering something about wishing Laney and I weren’t so close, answered his phone.

Wood: “Hey Twinkie, can you call me back on Facetime, please? Thanks…. Hey, where are you going?”

Me (getting up from the table): “The gazebo, my guy, just arrived.”

Wood (face lit by the glow of his phone): “Shout if you need me?”

Me (over my shoulder): “Of course! This shouldn’t take long.”

Stepping carefully over the ring of salt, I left Wood to catch Laney up with tonight’s entertainment. Walking past a glowering Abraham into the dim interior of the gazebo, he waited until I turned around and faced him before speaking.

Abraham: “I don’t care to be summoned, Caretaker.”

1.23 Is It Tresspasing If You Have Keys?

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The upside about driving for FLYT? My black uniform doubles as ninja gear or perhaps cat burglar attire, either way, I am tough to see at night (I prefer ninja btw). When Ben gave me my walking papers, he was so intent on wresting my cottage keys from my fingers he forgot about my ring of skeleton keys to Nevermore. Since old habits die hard, I never leave home without them, fortuitous in this case since I need to make one more stop tonight.

The Princess’s tires rolled quietly over the pavement away from Mr. Grindle’s house towards Ash and Second – unofficially known as the Nevermore Crossroads. 

The bane of my professional existence. 

Well, when my professional title included the word caretaker in it. Why? High schoolers insist on scaling the walls for the thrill (and bragging rites) of drinking atop the moldering bones of notorious criminals sent to the gallows and the poor souls who died by their own hand (when they started defacing the graves, I actively started discouraged them). Fortunately for me, the next foray by these teenage hooligans would be soon – the streetlight on the crossroads was out – thickening the shadows on both sides of the wall by a factor of ten. Which, at this moment, suited me just fine. 

After parking the Princess two streets down, I hugged the shadows (which was ridiculously easy) until I reached the Crossroads’ gates, where I used my master key to open the West one (the South one tended to squeak) and slipped thru. The moon, obscured by clouds, didn’t illuminate much tonight. So I pulled a small flashlight out of my purse and turned it on then started following the perimeter wall north. 

I felt the probability of my discovery pretty low. Little Ben loathed this corner of the property, even during the day, claiming it unsettled him, meaning he would not step foot here at night on patrol. Since the high school hooligans found another spot for their shenanigans this evening, they wouldn’t rat me out either. So unless some weird cult decided to take up residence in the past week, my trusty flashlight and I were fine. Plus I needed it to navigate, graveyards at night and obstacle courses share many painful similarities – only one has more atmosphere.

Pretty soon the cheap concrete markers of the condemned gave way to the more conventional marble ones of Rye’s working class. Just on the other side of this invisible border, I spied Joseph leaning against a headstone, the brim of his fedora giving him away (no statue in the entirety of Nevermore wore more than garland on their heads). And because my focus wavered from the ground level obstacles for a split second too long, my toe found the edge of one of the aforementioned marble headstones. On the upside, my foot forgot where Mr. Grindle had stepped on it repeatedly a half hour earlier. By the time I’d finished whisper yelling ‘Ow!’ and clutching my poor toes Joseph stood next to me.

Joseph (amusement coloring his voice): “You rang?”

Me (trying hard not to put too much weight on my injured foot): “Hardy har har.”

Joseph (his hands hovering near my elbow): “You should sit, give your foot a rest.”

Me: “No, I can’t stay that long.”

Joseph (sensing the tone): “Alright. What’s the news?”

Me (gingerly standing upright again): “Stalker.” 

Joseph, his full attention on me, waited for more words.

Me: I happened on her tonight while driving a fare. She claimed to have injured Mr. Grindle and was able to shift her gaze for a moment. 

Joseph (looking up at the stars): “You questioned her.”

Me: Yes, circuitously. I needed more information than just my fare’s name and address.

Joseph shook his head and started on a rant I knew would not paint me with flattering colors. I cut him off.

Me: “Look, I needed information, and I got what I needed. She is so focused on him she’ll forget me by tomorrow.” 

Joseph (obviously not happy): “What’s next?”

Me (wishing I could’ve burned that pink slip): “Spread the word among the Residents, no one wanders east of my new apartment or into downtown proper until I get this fixed.” 

Joseph: “No problem.”

He turned and started walking away. I knew his unhappiness stemmed from the risk I took engaging Miss 80’s glam. Drat.

Me (trying for levity): “Thanks, Joseph. Oh, and tell the Residents I am also looking into this Farm nonsense Ben is starting.”

Joseph touched the brim of his hat and disappeared from the circle of light from my flashlight. 

Sigh.

Home again, home again jiggety jig.