Finder of Lost Things….
Tag Archives: weekly serial
2.49.b It’s not Biscuits & Gravy…But It’ll Do
Between the intensity of the conversation and my zeroed in concentration on the cutting board, I nearly lopped off my own fingertip when the buzzer above the oven sounded off. Beatrice, leaving the place settings on the counter, strode over to the stove and picked up the red hot orange pot. Setting aside the bloodthirsty blade, I scooted around Beatrice trivet in hand, placing it on the table where she wanted to set our sweet-smelling supper.
No longer able to maintain my feeble facade of non-existence, I wordlessly started shepherding the arroz con pollo trimmings (I’d already sampled for quality assurance purposes) to the table.
Beatrice began setting it – for two.
Ms. Hettie, who’d fallen silent after Beatrice’s cryptic observation, swirled her scotch and eyed me for a moment before shifting her gaze onto her great-niece.
Ms. Hettie (scour-pad voice scraping across the eardrum): “I know my bible-thumping sister and the rest of her brood are a bunch of nogoodniks Beatrice, but Grace is facing prison.”
Beatrice (thumping a plate onto the table): “A predicament that didn’t interest them the least when it was mine.”
Ms. Hettie: “Just think about it.”
Draining her glass in a single swallow, Ms. Hettie (who was wearing a sky blue sweatshirt with kittens chasing silver snowflakes across her bosoms today) levered herself out of the chair, casting significant looks at each of us before ambling out of the kitchen. The sound of the front door opening and closing followed a few seconds later.
Beatrice (dropping bonelessly into a chair): “Sorry, I didn’t think she’d keep hounding me if you were here.”
Me (placing spoons in the sides): “No worries, I’ve been on the receiving end of my fair share of familial guilt trips.”
Beatrice (rubbing her temples): “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about it.”
Watching Beatrice, I realized her gaze was fixed sightlessly on the glass of Oban Ms. Hettie had been sipping during their ‘discussion’. Unsure my liver had fully recovered from the last time we hit a bottle I caste about for a distraction.
Me (sitting down across from her): “Don’t worry about it. I’d rather not give Ms. Hettie the satisfaction.”
Beatrice (her hand pausing halfway to the bottle): “Satisfaction?”
Me (smiling): “She named the puppy. So I’d ask questions we’d talk and hopefully, in the end, convince you to do whatever it is she wants you to do. As I’m not interested in doing her dirty work, you needn’t explain a thing to me.”
Beatrice (flicking a glance at the three-quarter full bottle): “Damned, I always forget how good she is.”
Me (catching sight of the dull gold strip peaking out my pack next to me): “Funnily enough, Ms. Hettie’s not the only one hoping for your help tonight.”
Quirking an eyebrow at me, Beatrice waited a moment for me to elaborate. However, due to the proximity of the fragrant arroz con pollo – plus the knot of containers filled with lettuce, queso fresco, tomatoes, black beans, avocado, and steaming tortillas – my stomach chose that moment to issue a long and LOUD complaint.
Beatrice (corners of her mouth twitching): “Why don’t you explain after you’ve sated the beast.”
Feeling the tips of my ears grow hot, I simply nodded and started dishing up. After my first helping made a cameo appearance on my plate, my hands stopped shaking, and the hangries receded enough to resume polite conversation.
Leaning to the left slightly, I pulled the brown paper wrapped book from my pack and handed it to her. Pushing aside her plate and the nearest containers, she wiped the table with her napkin before carefully opening the cover and gently leafing thru the first few pages.
Me (speaking around a bite of beans and cheese): “I was hoping you’d have better luck deciphering it than I am currently. The handwriting gives me a splitting headache after ten minutes.”
Beatrice (eyebrows drew together in concentration): “Why not just stop reading it?”
Me (holding my breath for a second): “Because that’s the only copy of the Nevermore Conventions I can lay my hands on at the moment. As all the others, including mine, have disappeared. I’m hoping the reason why is somewhere inside.”
Beatrice (tilting her head and looking up at me): “And a bit more besides?”
Me (smiling wryly): “Yes.”
Beatrice (wrinkling her nose): “And the sooner I finish it, the better?”
Me (deflating slightly): “I know it’s a lot to ask…”
Beatrice (nodding once): “No problem.”
Me: “Really?”
Beatrice (an edge of her mouth tipping upwards a little): “Consider it a thank-you for not falling into Ms. Hettie’s trap.”
Me (grinning): “Can I push my luck and borrow your laptop again?”
Beatrice (shrugging): “Sure. Why?”
Me: “I need to organize my thoughts and that mind-mapping program you’ve got looked like an excellent way to do it.”
Beatrice (looking very much like her Great-Aunt for a moment): “These events wouldn’t include Sarah ratting us out to Little Ben the night of the Brace Affair, would it?”
Well crap, so much for me not being an awful friend.
2.20.a Hey Mr. Sandman, Why Has Thou Forsaken me?
Turning over onto my side, snuggling further under the covers, I gazed past Aunt Pearl’s second-best lace curtains at the moon. I wonder who first posited it was made of Swiss cheese. A clever cheesemonger? It’s a wonder some adman along the way didn’t rename it moon cheese, to sell a few more slices…Thank heavens, the lovely chef at the Rare Records Room didn’t sprinkle any moon cheese into my divine dish of ooey-gooey golden goodness. Because whichever name that white waxy cheese goes by, it’s not for me…I still can’t believe Ira’s a member of the Rare Records Room. How he convinced them to cater part of Wood’s party for me, I’ll never know.
Speaking of unexpected surprises, how can a man his age pull off puppy dog eyes?
Well crap.
Flopping onto my back, staring at the shadows dancing across the ceiling, my thoughts flung me from the precipice of sleep. Finishing the job off properly, I unpacked tonight’s dinner conversation from memory for reexamination. (Though technically it’s three am so it’s yesterday’s dinner conversation.)
Thanks only to Ira’s foresight in choosing a discrete dining table, Leo’s blurted statement of doom wasn’t broadcasted across the entire speakeasy.
Ira (quietly clearing his throat): “Not rotten so much as peculiar. Which is why I chose the Rare Record’s Room for dinner and why Leo’s here. We’ve been comparing notes about Nevermore, and we’re concerned…So we called you.”
Tracing patterns in the condensation on my glass, I waited for either man to continue.
Ira: “Did you hear about my promotion?”
Me (startled): “Promotion? That’s not possible.”
Ira (looking me in the eye): “Be that as it may, I’m now the Head of Facilities and Maintenance. Little Ben gave Gavin my old job title.”
Me: “Did your duties change? Or Gavin’s?”
Ira (shaking his head): “Mine no. Gavin’s, yes. He’s now required to attend meetings I’ve been politely rebuffed from, despite being his supervisor.”
Leo (interjecting): “Which is weird, because they’re listed as Board of Managers meetings on the calendar.”
Me (wracking my brain): “Nevermore’s never had a board of anything since I’ve been there….Did you ask Gavin about them?”
Leo (chiming in while Ira nodded): “From what I’ve gathered, every member signed a non-disclosure agreement, with some steep penalties if violated.”
Me: “So he’s afraid of losing his job.”
Leo: “Among other things, and with the baby on the way, he can’t risk it.”
Ira & I (in unison): “Larissa’s pregnant?”
Leo (grinning): “Yup, just announced it this morning.”
In unconscious synchronicity, we toasted the happy couple – they’d been trying for a while now. (It also allowed me to polish off my first custom marionberry infused cocktail, which packed quite a wallop and is the reason why I’m currently enjoying the comforts of Uncle and Aunt Pearl’s guest room. Uncle came and fetched me after I’d called to say I was a bit too buzzed to bus home).
Me (shaking my head): “So, besides Gavin, who else is on this Board of Managers?”
Leo: “Little Ben, of course, and the other department heads? I’m not one-hundred percent sure. They always meet before anyone’s scheduled to come in.”
Ira (gripping his drink): “I’ve never sat on a board for Nevermore either. However, back when I first started, I believe my predecessor took part in one right after Big Ben’s mother past away. But I’d just met my future Missus, and it was above my pay grade, so I didn’t pay it much attention…”
Me (exhaling slowly): “I wonder if the Nevermore Conventions could provide some clarification…What?”
Ira (exchanging glances with Leo): “That leads us to our other oddity, neither Leo or I can find a copy of the Conventions. Mine’s vanished into thin air. And I’ve turned both my office and the maintenance building upside down looking for it.”
Leo: “Sarah, Lottie, Nathaniel, and Little Ben’s copies are all missing from their bookshelves as well.”
Ira: “We were hoping you still had the Caretaker’s copy.”
Me (trying to visualize my bookcases): “Huh. Now that you mention it, I don’t recall running across recently…”
Both men looked crestfallen at my negative.
Me (slowly): “But I might know someone who could find me a copy.”
Leo (eyes shining): “So does that mean you’ll help us?”
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.”
2.03 The Whole Truth and Nothing But The Truth
So Wood took ballet.
I wonder if his Gran taped his recitals…I bet she did.
The glimmerings of a party started percolating. We could watch all of Wood’s performances in sequence while eating potato salad, pasta, and wings. The wings would, of course, require a plethora of sauces, Thai sweet chili, Kansas City bbq, Hawaiian, Korean bbq, teriyaki, maple-chipotle, ginger-scallion, mole, tandoori, honey-mustard…
Pulling myself physically from the visions of plum sauce dancing in my head, my mind slid back to the man winding cotton around my wounds.
Do they teach conversational wizardry in medical school? Sounds like a class Wood would ace, it’s probably an elective. Because trading truth for truth feels like a tactic discovered by Hippocrates (Father of Western Medicine). Which he then handed down to his students, who handed it down to their students, and on thru generations until it landed in a modern medical text as Chapter Seventeen – Securing The Truth: Ten Ways to Sway Your Patient.
What’s worse? It’s working.
The thought of paying Wood’s twenty-year-old Twinkle-Toes Revelation with a bunch of lame excuses made me feel rotten to the core. Especially since I’ve kept my knack a secret from him since the day we met…
Me (sighing): “How did you know I’d gotten hurt at Nevermore tonight?”
Wood: “Logic. It’s the only place where you wouldn’t call anyone for help. Sit still for a minute.”
With a snick of his scissors, he finished up my new wrappings.
Me: “You’re right, I did happen at Nevermore.”
While I cast about for a way, to tell the truth, without telling the whole truth. Wood continued to ride the silence stretching between us (another tip from chapter seventeen, I’m sure).
Me (watching him clean up): “So here’s the thing, I can’t tell you what happened.”
Yanking (and thankfully cracking) a can of cola from the fridge, he thumped it down in front of me, then dropped some impressively large pills next to it.
Wood (curtly): “Take these.”
Me: “But I can tell you why.”
Wood, after handing me my button-up, sat down and started balancing his chair on its back legs (a habit which Aunt Pearl’s been trying to break for years) while watching me thru narrow eyes.
Me (fumbling with my sleeve): “Ever wonder why I’m still trying to save Nevermore from Little Ben? And Little Ben From himself?”
Wood: “Loyalty to his father?”
Me (now floundering with my buttons): “That’s part of it…”
Wood (softly): “Because you’re related to some of the residents there?”
He knew about the Residents? Panic lanced thru my stomach until it struck me who Wood was tactfully alluding too. Blinking rapidly, I focused on our different definitions of the word, which permitted the knots in my middle to slacken.
Me (deciding I’d buttoned enough buttons to pass muster, I chuckled without any humor): “That’s where it started, a newly minted nine-year-old’s melodramatic promise, to always take care of them, the best I could.”
Wood (lowering his chair onto all fours): “Those were extenuating circumstances…”
Me (wondering if a bruise turns colors when you blush): “Yes. Well. I never forgot about it. So when Big Ben put me in charge of Nevermore’s internal operations, basically everyone above and below ground, my promise expanded with my promotion. Which includes, no matter how annoying he is, Little Ben.”
Wood started to say something – but I cut him off – if I stopped now, I’d never have the courage to sail this close to the whole truth again.
Me (rushing): “I know what you’re thinking, but I can’t just abandon my promise just because Little Ben handed me walking papers. That’s not how it works. Tonight, these {waving hands} happened seeing those promise thru, and before you ask, I can’t promise you it won’t happen again.”
Leaning back, Wood stared at the ceiling processing. I tried and failed to rest my head on my crossed arms (seems bending at the waist isn’t for me at the moment, this should make picking up groceries/luggage/cat carriers for my FLYT fares exciting).
Wood (leaning towards me): “These promises, they’re what really prompted your sudden need to hike up Pumpkin Mountain?”
Crap. Crap. Crap. Did he make the connection between the Fall Foliage Tour and Tiffany Grindle’s anonymous tipster? It didn’t matter, he’d know if I lied.
Me (sighing): “Yes.”
Wood (nodding): “Okay.”
Me (wary): “Okay?”
Wood (meeting my gaze): “I’ll smooth thing over with Uncle and Aunt” Pearl.
Relief swept thru me (or perhaps the painkillers kicked in – it could go either way) and put a smile onto my face.
Wood (returning mine with a small sly one of his own): “Oh, don’t thank me yet, we still need to settle your tab.”
2.00 The Grey Man
Turns out when you inadvertently scare the bejesus out of a septuagenarian, they don’t ask a whole lot of questions.
Entirely engrossed in the mystery I’d lent him, Mr. Nelson didn’t notice me standing by the driver’s side door until I knocked on the window. After clutching his heart and hyperventilating for a few anxious moments, he leaned over and unlocked my door.
I thought the Princess smelled like a fruit basket before.
If the squares in his lap and the wrinkled cellophane packages in the back were any indication. He’d happily sampled his way through the entire marshmallow cornucopia. Sarah would just have to make do with twenty-five dollars worth of the suckers – she’d live. Handing me the Princess’s keys (locking him in the car without them felt slightly kidnapy), he finally noticed the swaths of gauze wrapped around my palms, wrists, and extending up my forearms.
Mr. Nelson (eyeing my bandages): “Are you up to driving?”
Me (shoveling reassurance into one word while turning over the ignition): “Yup.”
Pulling the Princess out of her impromptu hiding place, I gingerly steered the car while Mr. Nelson fumbled around in his seat.
Me (cranking up the heater): “You okay over there?”
Mr. Nelson (grumbling and struggling): “Yeah, the seat belt is wrapped around my arm…”
Me: “I’ll stop at the gates so you can sort yourself out.”
Mr. Nelson just grunted and continued to juggle the book, book-light, and marshmallows all the while trying to keep the seatbelt from strangling him. Neither of us appreciated the four speed bumps we bounced over on the way to the gates. He finally got his feathers smoothed by the time the Princess rolled to a stop at the Second Avenue entrance. Turning to place the remaining marshmallows into the box in the backseat – it was his turn to scare the bejesus out of me – with a rather loud and inarticulate exclamation.
Turnabout is fair play, I suppose.
Me (staring wildly around, dimly registering the pricking of my toes): “What? Where?”
Mr. Nelson (jabbing the air wildly with his index finger): “Look! Over there!”
Looking around for the source of Mr. Nelson’s excitement – I glimpsed Joseph’s back as he strolled around the curve and out of sight.
Mr. Nelson: “Did you see him? Did you see The Grey Man?’
Me (still trying to get a grip): “The Grey Man?”
Sitting back down in his seat, he gave me a look that made me wonder if I’d accidentally spoken in Swahili. Smoothing his re-ruffled feathers, Mr. Nelson took a deliberate moment before answering my question. Which was great because my heart couldn’t take another shock tonight. Who the hell is The Grey Man?
Channeling my inner ostrich, I buried my head in metaphorical sand. This is tomorrow’s problem.
Pulling out into the quiet street, I steered the Princess towards my passenger’s house.
Mr. Nelson (unknowingly stomping all over my tail feathers): “A bit before your time I dare say, before my own if truth be told. But they say Grey Man of Rye is, was Edmund Wynter. A corrupt politician from the early nineteen-thirties who was found one a quiet Sunday morning hanging from the oak tree in front of City Hall…”
Me (my foot barely touching the gas): “Serious?”
Mr. Nelson (a mischievous light in his eyes): “As a heart attack. The only clue? A note pinned on his chest with the words, ‘No More’ written on it.”
Me (the Princess moving at a crawl now): “No more? No More what?”
Mr. Nelson: “That question didn’t get answered for twenty years.”
Me (feeling like a myna bird): “Twenty years?”
Mr. Nelson: “A reporter at the Daily Harvest overheard a conversation when he was a kid, and remembered it. During a slow news summer, he started digging. Discovering not only the meaning of the note but the motive for Wynter’s murder – blackmail. Turns out Wynter, for a price, would alter any record in City Hall to suit. What his ‘clients’ didn’t know was he kept the original documents. Then when he needed a favor, he’d use the originals to extract it.”
Me: “But how does this relate to the Grey Man?”
Mr. Nelson: “Right after Wynter’s gruesome death, people started to report sightings of him, wearing his trademark gray suit, all over town. Always looking over walls, thru windows, and around corners. It was whispered he was looking for his killer. However, after the story in the Daily Harvest, people began to wonder if he was really looking for his blackmail material, because none of his records ever resurfaced.”
How had I never heard this story before? Me, Morticia, Queen of the Macabre? (Mostly because people keep giving me skeleton themed gifts)
Me (snails were moving faster than we were): “Did they ever catch who killed him?”
Mr. Nelson: “No, and from the Daily Harvest coverage I’ve read, the police didn’t look very hard. Hey, your Uncle’s house is just up ahead. Can you pull in there?”
Me: “Sure. Why?”
Mr. Nelson (clearly excited): “I want to tell your Uncle I spotted the Gray Man! It’s been twenty years!”
Looking at my watch, which made me recall my current state of being (it was concealed by swaths of cotton), and because my ex-ray vision was down, I looked at my dash clock. Which informed me it was only ten o’clock. Still within calling hours of their house (which can extend pretty late if you have something interesting to say or show my Uncle).
Turning into the drive, Mr. Nelson bounded out of the car before she’d rolled to a stop. Parking the Princess in her usual spot, I leaned my head against the headrest, took three deep breaths then opened the door.
This should be fun.
1.74 Postmortem
Stepping past the now inert wooden box, up to the stainless steel sink I watched Joseph turn on the taps. Keeping my eyes firmly away from my mitts, since acknowledging them only made them hurt more enthusiastically, I concentrated all my attention on the inside of Joseph’s left elbow while he sluiced water over my wounds.
If it weren’t for all the stinging the water would have felt nice. Its warmth helped to dispel the frigid echo of her hands on my heart.
Me (attempting to distract my mind): “You were going to make her a Resident, if she hadn’t attacked me, weren’t you.”
Joseph (absently): “Yes.”
Me (wincing): “But she attacked you first.”
Joseph (dryly): “I will admit that didn’t bode well. But I wanted to give her a chance at a different sort of existence.”
Me (cocking my head): “Why didn’t her attack work? On you I mean.”
Joseph (shrugging): “Does it matter?”
Me (wincing again): “Well yes, if you can teach the Residents what you did, it could help keep them safe.”
Joseph (glancing sideways at me): “It isn’t something I can teach them to do.”
Me (sensing the knotting off of that subject, I moved on): “Okay…But how was she able to hurt me? And I her?”
Joseph (sounding distracted again): “Both are excellent questions.”
Me (gritting my teeth while he worked a boulder out of my left palm): “Are you going to answer them?”
Joseph (releasing my hands): “Yes, but not tonight. Keep your hands under the water while I find the first aid kit.”
Resting my temple against the cabinet above the sink, I closed my eyes and obeyed…
Joseph startled me when he pulled my beleaguered appendages out from under the water and started drying them with a large piece of gauze. Seems I’ve acquired the new and useful skill of dozing off while standing up. Yet another talent which isn’t really résumé applicable.
Tipping my head back I struggled to shove away my exhaustion, while Joseph started to apply ointment from the kit he’d found.
Me (casting about for a new topic while he worked on me): “How did you know she was here tonight?”
Joseph (exasperated): “You think I don’t know when a Woman In White crosses into Nevermore? How did you know she was here? The message Mazy relayed stated her arrival wasn’t for a few more days.”
Me: “Radio. Sarah let me down. County probably changed dates without telling her. Crap!!!”
Joseph (pausing in his application of bandages): What?
Me (looking him in the eye and waving my hands): How am I going to explain these to Mr. Nelson?
So wholly occupied with the creation of at least a moderately plausible explanation for my current state I failed to notice when Joseph finished bandaging me up and started herding me towards the door. When I finally realized where we were heading (and the fact Joseph seemed inordinately amused by my highly improbable scenarios), I protested. He shouldn’t have to clean up the mess all by himself. When pointed out Mr. Nelson probably wouldn’t stay put forever, I was forced to concede the point.
Me (treading wearily to the end of the hallway): Sorry for ruining your offer of Residency.
Joseph (stepping a pace ahead and opening the outside door): The only apology owed is for underestimation of my skills.
Me (I started to apologize again until I saw the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth): Not pompous at all.
Joseph (chuckling at my dry tone, he then sobered): Even after striking me I might still have given her a chance if she’d shown any remorse for her actions. But her attack on you proved her transformation into a Woman In White was complete. By coming here tonight, you undoubtedly saved a few of the Residents from being stripped.
Taking the straw he offered me, I tried to use it to subdue the wiggling feeling of guilt inside.
Me (pausing just on the other side of the dumpster where I’d left Mr. Nelson and the Princess, using my quiet voice): Thank you for stopping her from…
Cutting off my gratitude Joseph placed a kiss on my forehead. Which warmed the very cockles of my heart.
Joseph (smiling): Your welcome.
Smiling in return, I murmured my goodbyes and walked around the dumpster.
1.73 With A Whimper or Bang?
Gasping for breath I braced myself against the wall, trying to gain enough leverage to shove her greedy hands away, but I couldn’t budge them an inch. I nearly sobbed when Joseph’s hand settled over one of mine. “Phoebe let go.”
Gently his fingers probed the back of my head, a moment later the pain receded enough for me to think clearly, “Phoebe, look at me.” Unable to comply in any fashion, it took several minutes of reassuring words for me to detach my eyes from her grasping hands onto Joseph’s face. When I finally managed the task he smiled and stroked my hair, “You’re safe.”
Turning back I finally saw what my myopic view missed, the Woman In White was still as a bronze Rodin. Turns out I wasn’t the only one her tell had clued in to her final decision. Joseph had stopped her a hairsbreadth away from plunging her hands back into my chest.
It took a few more heart beats for the word ‘safe’ to reach my extremities. My hands proved the most troublesome of the lot, locked fast on her wrists it required actual effort to loosen their death grip. When they finally did release, I quickly scooted out from between her and the wall. Burying my face in Joseph’s chest, I took in the smell of old paper, earth and the faint undercurrent of dog for a long minute.
Finally, I reluctantly let go of Joseph’s stolid presence and turned to confront the woman who would undoubtedly star in a few of my future nightmares. From experience, I knew that if I watched the Fade, I might avoid some of the worst images my subconscious would throw my way (though to be fair none of the times I’d needed to intervene with a Resident were this dramatic). She stood suspended before me staring at the wall, her blond hair billowing around her face and her clothes rippling under unseen waves.
When I finally dared to look at the hands which so mercilessly attempted to strip my spark, I couldn’t stop staring.
“Joseph what did I do?”
He remained silent behind me.
My brain couldn’t reconcile the images my eyes sent. Forgetting my fear (and Joseph) for a moment, I leaned in for a better look. The Woman In White’s wrists now sported deep char marks where I’d hung onto them for dear life. Sooty black streaks extended all the way up both her forearms highlighting where my hands had slipped during our struggle. None of what I saw made any sense.
Unable to think of a new question, I turned and looked him in the eye, “Joseph what did I do?”
“You were trying to stop her from hurting you again.” He replied quietly.
Staring stupidly at my blood smeared palms, “But salt doesn’t do that.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
My attempts to study the seared divots my finger left in her skin were thwarted when she buckled slightly then smudged, forcing me to give up my shocked scrutiny. The Fade was settling into her form and was erasing the finer details from her while I watched.
“Let’s take care of those scrapes.”
Finally recalling I literally had salt in my wounds, my palms stung so severely my eyes started watering. Or maybe it was walking from a dimly lit hallway into Sarah’s bright domain. Either way, my cheeks were wet.
“I got blood all over you!” My face grew hotter with each new dark blotch I spotted on his dove gray jacket.
With a twinkle in his eye, “Don’t worry, I own more than one suit.”
When I glanced over my shoulder (and away from what I’d besmirched), I witnessed what little was left of the Woman In White shudder slightly then evaporate from sight.
A small burst of highly inappropriate humor popped out of me, “Best magic trick ever.”
“That is of course what I was aiming for.” Joseph’s reply was as dry as dust, but when I looked his mouth, it held a wry smile that reached all the way to his eyes.
Finder Of Lost Things 
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