Tag Archives: Leo

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.” 

2.52 King Arthur, Antonio Stradivari & KARB

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Did you know author Geoffrey of Monmouth wrote a book around 1136 called the Historia Regum Britanniae (The History of the Kings of Britain)? 

Yes? No?

Never fear if you’ve never heard of this title before – unless you’re keen on exploring the profusion of stories surrounding the legend of King Arthur – you’re unlikely to have run across it. Especially since Thomas Malory’s later work (around 349 years later), Le Morte d’Arthur eclipsed Geoffrey’s tome by several orders of magnitude. In any case, the Historia Regum Britanniae’s biggest claim to literary fame is the fact most scholars consider it to be the first narrative and (on the whole) fictional account of King Arthur’s life. 

Beatrice and I unsurprisingly, are both aware of this kernel of information. (Thus illustrating why the Fates smiled the day we met. She studied the metamorphosis of the Arthurian legend as an undergrad in college. While Librarian Extraordinaire Mrs. Schmidt introduced me to the Round Table and it’s King – after I’d polished off every Robin Hood related story the stacks of the Rye Public Library had to offer. But I digress…)

Due to Beatrice’s familiarity with said tome, her ears perked up when she heard the name Monmouth uttered on the radio. Regrettably, she tuned right back out when KARB’s newsreader failed to mention either King Arthur or Geoffrey in the story. Last night this scrap of information turned more maddening than a musical ear-worm, as Beatrice tried to recall it after catching sight of a mind-map I was constructing on her computer. (I’d created the aforementioned mind-map to tease out a coherent pattern from all of our assembled notes, deductions, and facts.)

The branch which caught Beatrice’s eye dealt with the Board of Managers, more specifically Nevermore’s Head of Legal, Nathaniel Monmouth. 

I can ascribe this brilliant bit of deduction to the six minutes and twenty-seven seconds Beatrice spent pacing the length of her office while softly repeating Nathaniel’s surname over and over again to herself. Her spot-on imitation of a broken record stopped as suddenly as it started – whereupon I found myself, and the chair I was sitting on, shoved/rolled away from the computer’s keyboard.

Tapping quickly, Beatrice soon brought up a bite-sized blurb archived on KARB’s website. 

She then did a small fist pump in triumph.

Monmouth Wins Stradivarius - KARB breaking newsjpg

I couldn’t believe it – of all the news for Nathaniel to keep mum about. 

For weeks, Nathaniel crowed about Klara’s successful promotion/challenge from eleventh to tenth chair in the second violin section, yet he stays silent about this prestigious grant? According to the article’s date, we worked together for roughly two months prior to my pink slip, and not once did he breathe the word Stradivarius around me.

Nudging Beatrice aside, I pulled up Klara Monmouth’s bio on the Rye Symphony homepage. Said bio included both a new photo of Klara sitting in full concert dress with Stradivarius resting on her knee and a link to the Goodfellow Music Conservatory. 

Clicking the helpfully provided link, I scrolled down Goodfellow’s main page until a familiar face stopped me cold. Turns out Goodfellow’s Chief Librarian is one of the sniggering sycophants who help Josie steal Summer’s brownie back in middle school – Thomi Margaziotis.

(Now back to Friday night.)

“So you think Josie bribed Nathaniel to look the other way about Little Ben’s presence on the Board, by arranging a once in a lifetime opportunity for his wife?” Stopping midway through the stack of rebranding propaganda I’d liberated from Little Ben’s office, my cousin tilted his head and goggled at me.

“Cultivating quid pro quo arrangements is something Josie learned at her father’s knee.”

Beatrice, seeing I’d just taken a healthy slug of coffee, expanded on our theory. “It’s brilliant because tracing favors between friends is troublesome at best.”

The situation doesn’t start smelling fishy until you start digging into Library’s endowment history.

The majority of instruments, unsurprisingly, go to current students studying at the Conservatory. The few instruments straying outside those hallowed halls, nine times out of ten, find themselves in the hands of alumni. The rare non-alum loans typically go to musicians completing specific projects – like the group creating a soundbank of every known Stradivari violin, viola, cello, mandolin, and harp in the world.

“I’m guessing Klara doesn’t fall within any of those groups?” 

“Nope.” 

Sensing Robbie had a few follow-up questions to Beatrice’s one-word reply – I cut in. “Between her Linked-in profile, symphony bio, and wealth of social media posts – we couldn’t find anything approaching the Conservatory’s customary lending profile.” 

Ira, having finished his third colorful tiny cake, rested his forearms on the table and laced his fingers together. “Phoebe, I agree there’s a lot of coincidence at play here, but do you really believe Sarah and Nathaniel are working to the detriment of Nevermore with Josie Reville? I just can’t see Sarah being that calculating.”

Resisting the urge to close my eyes and take a deep breath, to try and dissipate the lead encrusting my stomach, I met Ira’s gaze instead. “If you’re willing, we might even be able to confirm my theory.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“What did you have in mind?”

2.49.a Taco Tuesday

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Tuesday night, after my second shift for FLYT, I was starving. 

Due to a series of unfortunate events (my last Senior Center fare running late, hitting every single red light in Rye and a peewee soccer team taking over the preponderance of tables at The Diner On The Corner), I failed to secure myself some supper in-between shifts.

(BTW – A leftover handful of plantain chips and pumpkin seeds does not a dinner make.)

Exacerbating the hollowness of my midsection, I ferried about a gentleman who would not stop waxing poetic about either his takeout or the new food truck at THE HUB. (Which apparently serves the ‘world’s best biscuits and gravy’ – according to their propaganda and the guy’s ravings. Which of course, I took silent umbrage with – because no food truck in the history of ever can beat a woman who’s been making them from scratch once a week for well over seventy-five years. But I digress.) 

Rather than committing petty theft and sampling the second-best biscuits in Rye – I knocked off a half-hour early instead. 

Fortunately for everyone on the road, my tummy waited until after I pulled the Princess into the alley before hijacking every iota of processing power my brain possessed in order to recall the proper way to make a roux. Once I was completely free from worrying about silly things like crashing into a tree or creaming Ms. Hettie’s guard gnome (the Lavender Lady may be too stately to sport cute lawn ornaments, but it seems her garage is not). My tummy commandeered the remainder of my cognitive abilities to conduct a mental inventory of the contents of the fridge, freezer, and pantry. 

Indeed, so enthralled was I in recalling Wood’s Gran’s instruction on the proper way of making a roux…I not only missed the actual aromas emanating from the kitchen, but the raised voices reverberating through its door. Until both the chagrin of walking into the middle of the personal conversation and the heady bouquet of chicken, cumin, cilantro, tomatoes, spicy peppers, and rice – hit me simultaneously. 

Successfully jarring my mind and tummy from their culinary fixation. 

Ms. Hettie (sitting at the table sipping some amber liquid out of a mason jar):”…regrets disowning you.”

Beatrice (using a paring knife to emphasize her point): “She only regrets it because she wants my help…evening Phoebe, dinner’s nearly done.”

Ms. Hettie (turning towards me rasped out): “If you would kindly give us a moment, we are discussing a family matter.”

Me (stammering and backing out the door): “I’ll just…”

Beatrice (stabbing an avocado): “Ms. Hettie and I are done with our discussion if you could grab some plates that would be great.”

Ms. Hettie (smacking the bottom of the jam jar against the tabletop): “We most certainly are not.” 

Without a word, I dumped my pack, cap, and coat onto the nearest chair and scurried over to Beatrice’s side. Sighing with relief as I managed to save her fingers and the avocado from the colossal sized cleaver she’d swapped the paring knife for in a fit of frustration over her trouble deseeding the large berry.

Me (surveying the bevy of brightly colored veggies lined up next to the cutting board): “I’ll finish up?”

Beatrice (shaking her head while surrendering the massive knife): “The garnish.”

Nodding, I switched from her knife of choice to one slightly less Brobdingnagian, then went to work opening up the Avocado while trying to fade into the foreground.

Beatrice (pulling some placemats out of a drawer): “How can you ask me to go back there?”

Ms. Hettie (wheezing after a large sip of scotch): “You find things for strangers all the time.”

Beatrice (utensils tinking together as she yanked open another drawer): “Treat them as clients? They’d never abide by the contract or pay me.”

Ms. Hettie (refilling her drink): “So make them, I’ll lend a hand if needed. I doubt either of us can fall any further in their opinion.”

Beatrice (closing the cupboard): “Unless I happen to prove she did it.”