Dressing Up

 

Shadows crawl. Down walls and windows. Over ceiling and floor. Across shutters, replacing all color in the room. Enveloping all in complete darkness. Every living being stops waiting for the lights to come back on. For their colorful world to return.

Several seconds pass as fog rolls in along the floor. A wolf howls in the distance. A much louder howl quickly follows. “Furnatche no!” is heard right before the baby dragon runs through the room, jumping on to the couch. He holds his position and peers over the back, sniffing the air for evidence of another animal’s presence. Furnatche howls a second time and waits quietly for a response.

Writer Lady slowly navigates the darkened room stopping next to the baby dragon.“Furnatche, the couch is a no no. Get down.” She instructs. There’s a rustling noise, the thumping of Furnatche’s tail against the floor is the only indication that he has cooperated.

“Thank you Furnatche. Good listening.”

“Well?” House asks.

“Well what?” Tinkletoes barks into the darkness.

“This is my living room décor for Halloween. How do you like it?”

“It’s the end of September. Isn’t it a little bit early for Halloween?”

“No.” House counters.

“Are leaves even falling yet?” Writer Lady asks.

“Halloween décor is so much more enjoyable when there’s a good nip in the air.” Aunt Purdy says.

“Decorating too early is tedious and in poor taste.” Paige announces.

“Who asked you?” House counters.

“When you asked everyone what they thought in a collective manner, young Miss Paige would have been included.”

Paige’s voice can be heard traveling up to the seven foot dragon. “Thank you Diomedes.”

Diomedes begins glowing a sedate sky blue as he looks down at the young girl. “You’re welcome Miss.”

“That’s better.” Carp says.

“Keep glowing man.” Ray adds.

“I can’t see anything.” Mural Man comments.

“Of course you can’t. Your eyes are covered.”

“The walls are covered. I’m a mural, I live on the wall, my eyes are covered. Great.”

“I can’t see much of anything either.” Tinkletoes agrees.

“Isn’t it great? The electricity bill will take a nice dip this month. In December, I can dress up properly like a house is meant to.”

Writer Lady stands next to Diomedes, looks at Tinkletoes and shakes her head.

“Writer Lady says no. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

“As much as I love you House. As much as we all love you. When you dress up, you tend to go overboard.” Writer Lady says.

“You all like the changes I made to my interior.”

“We do. It was a long process. It felt like it took months.”

“Beauty takes time.” House counters.

“We got lost...all the time.”

“Change is challenging but humans adjust.”

“I found myself locked between walls more than once.” Tinkletoes points out.

“No one really missed you.”

“That isn’t very nice House.” Writer Lady continues. “It wasn’t just Tinkletoes. We all spent time locked in some closet or room at least once.”

A variety of ‘yeses’ echo throughout the room.

“I don’t hear Ray complaining.”

“Ray was locked in the pantry with the cheese puffs.”

“The cheese puff room. That was a good room. Where did that go?” Ray asks.

“It actually became your room Ray.” House reminds him.

“Cool. Can I go there now?”

“Family meeting Doll. You can’t go now.” Carp says.

“Bummer.”

“No December dress up. The power grid in this town could not support you.” Writer Lady says.

“I’ll use a bit of magic and support it.”

“What happens after Christmas when the entire town is used to better amps and then it goes back to the way things were?”

“It really is too dark in here. Let’s try something else.” Mural Man suggests.

“O-Kay.” House sighs. The fog illuminates bringing more light into the room.

All of the furniture has been replaced with monuments.

“This is a cemetery.” Paige announces.

“Cemeteries are cool.” Ray offers.

The other males nod in agreement.

“Yes. They can be appropriately creepy for Halloween although I can’t help but wonder where the television and the gaming system went.” Writer Lady points out.

Tinkletoes shifts uncomfortably.

“Where is anyone going to sit?” Writer Lady asks.

“We’ll pull up a tombstone?” Peter suggests. The boy sits down on the nearest one. He stands up.

“Too hard?” Paige asks her twin brother.

“And cold. Slightly damp?”

“I know that you like authenticity but if you want to win this one House you're going to have to get a bit more creative.” Carp says.

Lights come up and the living room is back to its usual state.

“The gaming equipment wouldn’t look out of place if the living room was the set of a haunted sci-fi movie.” Peter suggests.

“Like a spaceship?”

“Alien.” Tinkletoes announces.

Carp shakes his head. “People snack in here. Too bloody.”

“How about a haunted spaceship?” Dylan asks.

“Ghosts are scary but not always gory.” Carp nods his agreement.

A smile crosses Writer Lady’s face. “Why don’t we split up into groups and decorate the rooms together?”

Tinkletoes rolls his eyes and mutters.

“A family project would be nice.” Aunt Purdy says.

“I am always up for putting my two cents in.” Carp agrees.

“Brilliant as always Madam.” Diomedes says.

Most everyone agrees. Ray doesn’t answer.

“We can break up into groups and brainstorm in Ray’s room with the cheese puffs.”

“Cool.”

An Hour In Faerie Part II

I continued to walk out the door. Unfortunately for me Betterman followed.

“Are you a writer? Are you trying to build a following?” He asked matching my pace annoyingly well. “What gave you the idea to bring your stories directly to children?”

“No. No and No.” I answered as I stopped walking. It was clear that Betterman had latched on to me. The challenge was deciding which technique I was going to use to inspire a quick detachment on his part. Rudeness had always worked fairly efficiently. No. He seemed to be a nice kid. Rudeness of my caliber might hurt his feelings. I mentally shook my head. For the first time in years I had spent the last few months encountering people that seemed to have feelings. This one was an adult to boot. Life can take some funny turns.

“I know. I look really young. It’s true that I haven’t been at the paper for very long. I am just getting started. Could you do me a favor and give me a break?” He asked.

And with those words he had me. What I wanted more than anything some days was for someone to give me a break. How could I not extend the same courtesy to him when I knew how it felt to need it myself?

I checked the time on my phone. Great. Pops is gonna charge me good for this. I continued walking quickly and stopped in front of a pleasant looking diner with a sprinkling of empty tables. “How about this, you give me a couple of minutes to make a quick phone call and then I’ll let you buy me a cup of coffee.”

Betterman nodded, smiled, and turned to enter the diner.

“Betterman.” I called.

He turned to face me.

“You get three questions. Three questions. Make them good ones.”

I heard the other end of the line pick up just as Junior Reporter sat down.

“Candy? It’s me Trudy. I’ve got a puppy on my heel and I’m going to be late. Cover for me?”

As soon as the waitress left, I let Betterman have his moment. “Go.”

“Your stories are wonderful. They show so much imagination. Did your parents encourage you in any way?”

“How?”

“There are certain toys. Paint sets, puppets. Did you make up stories for your dolls to act out? Did they encourage your storytelling in any way? Do you have any special gifts that you received as a child?”

“Yes.”

Betterman looked at me. Pen at the ready.

“A gift for counting. That was all of your questions and then some.” I said. My lips turned up in a brief smile before I took a sip of my coffee.

“That was one question with two subparts. You never specified the type of questions I could ask.” Betterman countered.

“You got me on that one Betterman.”

“Now for your answer.”

“No. No. And no.” This was going to be much easier than I anticipated. With any luck I would arrive seconds late and could tell Pops to kiss my ass.

“When you tell a story to a child you foster the development of that child’s imagination, they learn how to picture in their minds what they are hearing. You’re not only helping them to develop listening skills but opening other doors to their development of literacy including imagination which can lead them to creating their own stories. Did you know that you were sharing so much? Are you aware of the scope of what you are teaching them? When you started, ‘An Hour In Faerie,’ is that what you had set out to do?”

“You’re diving a bit deeper now.” I said.

Betterman met my eyes. It was a challenge. I had to decide if I wanted to accept it. I raised an eyebrow and thought for a moment then answered.

“I want to teach these children many things. That monsters do exist. How a monster behaves. The fact that they never look like you think they will. How to face battles in life yet still not give up hope. If they keep working, keep fighting, eventually, they can win.”

“Anything else?”

“A tear away bra and matching thong is never an appropriate birthday gift.”

Betterman’s brow furrowed at that final remark.

I sipped my coffee waiting for him to proclaim himself finished, make an awkward apology and leave.

He scribbled profusely then he looked at me. I watched as his face stilled and his jaw set. “Tell me about ‘An Hour In Faerie,’ what happened on that first day.”

“You really are digging.”

“Channeling Barbara Walters is my super power.” He waited for a few beats and then repeated. “That first day.”

I looked out the window at the activity surrounding us. Two kids on skateboards lifted pieces of fruit from a display outside the local grocer. A pair of teenagers on the far corner greeted each other. One sliding his hand over the other’s, I knew that a small bag of coke had been bought and paid for. A well dressed man and woman stopped in front of the diner’s picture window. No words could be heard through the glass but the looks on their faces said it all. The woman got into the man’s face and said something, he put his hand to her shoulder and pushed her back, hard. An old lady came into the man’s line of sight. He stepped away from the woman and crossed the street headed for the teenager with drugs. The word “ogre” crossed my lips, no sound escaped them. I turned back to the young, naive Betterman. “The world can be a dark and cruel place. Every day I see people looking for some kind of light. Any kind of light in the darkness. Some turn to alcohol, drugs, gambling, engaging in extramarital affairs. Some worship money or hoard material things. Others turn to religion, invest in their health and physical fitness, meditate or seek therapy. They are all doing the same thing, looking for a way to cope. Looking for sliver of light in all of the darkness" I take a breath and clasp my hands in my lap before I give Betterman what he came for. "I don’t do any of those things, instead I go to Faerie.”

The young journalist’s body tensed with the information. I knew that it would.

“You’re safe Betterman. I’m not delusional. I checked. It's true that I do go to the library for an hour every day. I sit in the multi-purpose room in my favorite chair and picture going on an adventure in a more colorful world. When I leave the multi-purpose room I leave Faerie behind until next time." 

I studied him, he made no move to leave. I continued my story.

 "One day, a few months ago, the little girl that always sits in the center of the front row approached me. She started asking me questions like who I was and why I came to the library every day to sit in the multi-purpose room in the same chair just to look out the window.”

“Instead of telling her that the world was a dark and difficult place to live in and the library was your safe haven…”

“I told her what I was seeing in the moments before she approached me.”

“When you were telling yourself a story.”Betterman said.

I nodded.“When I was telling myself a story.”

“She returned the next day.” He said.

“Yes with two of her friends. It grew from there.” Before he had a chance to ask me anything else I stood up and offered him my hand. “It looks like you have your answers. I need to get going. It was nice to meet you Ty Betterman. Best of luck to you.”

“I was wondering if I might get a phone number and an email address. I prefer to send my interviewees an advance copy of the article before it is sent to print to verify their name is spelled correctly and nothing was misquoted.”

“No and no.”

Junior Reporter looked at me, his mouth ajar.

“We had coffee. I trust you.”

He stood up awkwardly and shook my hand.

“I have no preferences regarding this interview, it is your story.” 

I leaned in close before releasing his hand and whispered. “Think about what you choose to write and how it will affect the children. ‘An Hour In Faerie,’ belongs to  them now.” I looked into his eyes hoping to communicate how important it had become to them...to me.

He nodded. “You have my word.”

I wished him a nice evening and went to work. I knew that he would follow but the interview was over and I was late. I was not cutting him any slack this time. I felt his eyes on me as I entered the strip club for my shift.

 I whispered to myself, “Remember your promise Prince Valiant. Remember your promise.”

An Hour In Faerie

“I looked up at the sky, Prince Valiant and I watched as a falling star crossed overhead and disappeared into the distance. We fell asleep nestled in the trees at the edge of the enchanted forest and woke with dawn’s first light.”

I looked at my audience. The girls were sitting still, listening closely. The boys were fidgeting. I watched as one removed a wad of gum from his mouth and stuck it to the underside of a nearby shelf. I moved my gaze before his eyes turned to the back of the room and found mine.

“What do you think happened next?” I asked.

“Prince Valiant says a bunch of stupid stuff, gets down on one knee and asks her to be his princess or something.” One boy responded looking at the carpeted floor.

“Yeah, that stupid girl stuff.” Another one added.

I smiled at them. “You’re forgetting, Prince Valiant is not a man.”

With that one sentence the fidgeting stopped and the room fell silent.

“I told you yesterday, Prince Valiant is a unicorn.”

“He’s not a prince?” One of the girls asked.

“He is a prince. He is also a unicorn. Faerie is magic. Animals can talk, fight in wars, cast spells, and they can be princes.”

I looked at the children as their expressions changed. They were thinking about what I told them, picturing it, then accepting that in this magical dimension some place far away things could happen in exactly that way. The faces changed again. It was the expression that I had been waiting for. They had questions about Faerie. It was a sign. They were drawn in completely. 

I had my audience.

“How can a unicorn fight if he can’t hold a sword?” One boy asked.

“He can speak therefore he has magic.” I raised a fisted hand to my forehead and stretched my arm, indicating the horn, “And a unicorn always has his weapon with him.”

“How will you become a princess if you cannot marry Prince Valiant?”

“I won’t.”

“How will you survive?”

“A lady does not have to become a princess to live in Faerie.”

“If she doesn’t marry a prince she won’t have a happily ever after.”

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Because all of the other stories say...”

“All of the other stories.” I responded. “Not every story is the same. I think that if you let me finish my adventure you will be pleased with the outcome.”

“Do you become a princess later?”

I sit and contemplate the little girl’s question before answering. “No.” My eyes slowly pan the group, all are interested. “I do not become a princess. I am made a queen.”

“A queen. How?”

“The usual way.”

The little girl in front who is obsessed with princesses answers, “She married a king, how else do you think she became a queen stupid? Everyone knows that marrying a king is way better than marrying a prince.”

“I fought beside the brownie tribes during The Ogre Raids and after the ogres were defeated they asked me to be their queen.”

I decided not to admonish the little princess sitting in front of me and handled the issue indirectly, “Do you know the word stupid does not exist in Faerie? Because every being has its own set of strengths and weaknesses. We do not believe in pointing out each other’s differences in demeaning ways. It is not considered polite. Royalty should always be polite. Who else has a question?”

The little princess hangs her head for a few seconds but immediately raises her hand to ask another question. I know that my words have gotten their point across without causing any permanent damage.

A hand popped up from the back of the room. I acknowledged it.

“Have you ever ridden Prince Valiant?”

I found the face attached to the raised hand. It was an older boy standing with a group of his peers, his face was red with embarrassment. I knew where the boy was trying to go with this and quickly headed him off at the pass.

“Of course not. Princes do not carry passengers.”

He tried again.

I interjected.

“Princes do not carry passengers.” I returned my attention to the children at the front of the room. “Who knows what an ogre is?”

When the children collected their things and headed out of the library’s great room, twenty minutes later, The Ogre Raids had begun. Their conversations consisted of sharing what they knew about ogres and comparing notes in anticipation of our next visit.

As I rose from my chair and picked up my bag I noticed that the room had not emptied out entirely. A young man stood by the entry. He was tall, well-groomed yet comfortably dressed and was wearing a friendly expression. Ogres wear friendly expressions too. In the beginning.

I told myself that he is probably just a weekend dad that didn’t get the message from his ex that Timmy has a fever and not to pick him up for a visit today. I crossed the room at an efficient speed to get whatever it was over with quickly. I had things to do.

“I did not know that a unicorn could become a prince.” Were the young man’s first words.

“In Faerie anything is possible.” I responded.

“You’re very good with children. How long have you been teaching?”

“I’m not a teacher.” I said as I continued my journey.

He fell into step next to me. “How long have you worked at the library?”

“I don’t.”

The stranger looked at the sign posted at the room’s entry. “How long have you been an actress?”

“I’m not.”

He looked at me more closely. I could tell that he was studying everything. The shiny gloves peeking out of my bag, my outfit, the elaborate styling of my hair, the vibrancy of my make-up. “You’re not a teacher, a librarian, or an actress. Who are you then? Why are you telling stories to children?”

“My name is Gertrude, Gertrude Scott. Who wants to know?”

“Everyone.” He said with a smile. The young man pulled a card out of his jacket pocket as I stopped to put on my coat. “Ty. My name is Ty Betterman, I’m a reporter for The Post. I was sent here by my editor to write a story.”

“About?”

“About ‘An Hour In Faerie,’” He responded, pointing to the sign. “About you.”

“ ‘An Hour In Faerie’ is a story hour set in the land of Faerie.” I said picking up my bag. “End of story. Congratulations. You’re done.” I said as I proceeded to walk away.

When Your Blog Characters Read Your Novel

“Oh my goodness. That is most exciting.” Diomedes exclaims. The dragon looks around the room at the others and smiles.

Ray and Carp look up from their e-readers.

“Where are you?” Carp asks.

“In the woods. Everyone is how do you humans say it? Everyone is outfitted for confrontation?”

“Everyone is packing?” Carp suggests.

“Locked and loaded.” Tinkletoes answers absentmindedly. He presses the button on his controller to continue his video game. (Sorry, virtual training exercise.)

“Oh my goodness.” Diomedes calls out. He thumps his tail in amusement, setting Aunt Purdy’s rocking chair in motion lightly tapping the wall. “It is most humorous how you humans do battle.”

“Duuude. No spoilers.” Ray says.

An explosion comes from the television signaling that Tinkletoes’ character has died. The self-proclaimed mercenary growls under his breath and starts a new game.

“No way.” Ray says.

Carp looks up from his reader. “Way.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Carp repeats.

Tinkletoes goes up in flames again.

“Oh my.” Diomedes says. The dragon is a tranquil blue color with a violet tint indicating he is having a good time.

“Anyone up for a game?” Tinkletoes asks.

Ray shakes his head.

“Bu-sy.” Carp responds without looking up from the screen.

Tinkletoes studies the group for a moment. He shuts everything down and puts the gaming equipment away. “What are you guys doing?” He asks.

“Reading.” Carp answers.

Diomedes looks up from his dragon sized reading device. “It’s most entertaining. Most entertaining. A story about a darling woman fighting a cannibal.”

Tinkletoes looks at Diomedes questioningly.

“Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal.” Carp corrects. “It is quite entertaining.”

“No way man!” Ray proclaims.

“Way.” Carp says.

Tinkletoes looks around the room and spots an abandoned reading device on the table next to the couch. The self- proclaimed mercenary sits down next to the table and picks up the device when he thinks that no one is looking. “How do you turn this thing on?”

Carp holds out his hand and takes the device from Tinkletoes. He opens it up. “Do you want to read the book too?”

There is no response.

Carp turns his head and looks at Tinkletoes.

“I guess so.”

Carp puts down his device long enough to set the other device up for Tinkletoes. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary takes one look at the cover and asks, “This isn’t one of your books is it?”

“Are there half naked people on the cover?” Carp asks. “Does it say ‘Jenny Love’ at the bottom?”

“No.”

“Then it’s clearly not one of mine.”

Tinkletoes begins reading, decides to abandon the book and just as he’s putting the e-reader back down on the table...

“An excellent outcome. That was most enjoyable.”

The self-proclaimed mercenary picks it back up and reads. After a few minutes he begins shaking his head. At an hour in, he is muttering to himself. He shakes his head and puts the e-reader back on the table. Tinkletoes looks around the room. No one is looking at him. No one is talking. “That is a waste of time.” He proclaims.

“You don’t like it?” Carp asks.

“Duuude, how do you not like it?”

“A woman wrote that. One that doesn’t know anything about men.” He responds.

Carp and Ray look at Tinkletoes.

“Detective Farina? Real men don’t act like that.”

Carp and Ray look at each other. Carp looks back at Tinkletoes. “Some men do.”

“Well they’re pu....”

A child runs through the living room chasing a pixie.

“...wimps.” Tinkletoes leans in and whispers. “She calls him ‘Vagina.’ No man in his right mind is gonna put up with that.”

“It’s a term of endearment going back to the first book. It’s unusual but charming in it’s own way.”

Ray nods. “It’s a long story man.”

Tinkletoes counters, “A real man wouldn’t put up with it. I wouldn’t put up with it.”

“Terms of endearment can be embarrassing but he’s got a girlfriend. Can you say the same thing?” Carp asks.

“I may not have a woman right now but no one calls me funny names.”

“Your name is Tinkletoes.” Carp says.

“Damn right it is.”

“Are you not seeing the irony?”

“Alpha males have unusual names, it helps us stand out in a crowd.”

“Tin-kle-toes.” Carp says.

“Yes?”

Carp looks at Ray, “He doesn’t get the irony.”

“That’s rough man. Cheese puffs?”

“Sounds good.” Carp responds. “It’ll go great with the shoot out.”

“There are guns and stuff?” Tinkletoes asks.

“Ye-ah.”

“Maybe I’ll read a few more pages.” The self-proclaimed mercenary picks up the reading device. “Point me to the guns.”

"Heather Darling and The Case of the Clockwork Cannibal" is available for download on Amazon.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal" Coming To An Agreement

When we finally arrive at the diner, the place is packed. We find Uncle Will and Ian at a small table to the right of the door. The pair have a clear view of the door and seem to be watching it closely. I can’t help but wonder what they’re up to. We grab a couple of chairs that have just been vacated and prepare to squeeze in when Uncle Will shoos us away.

“We are a couple of single gents out on the town. We don’t need our style getting cramped by old fogies like you two. Go over there.” He says and waves us towards the other side of the diner.

The two furthest booths are empty. We take the one that is not in the corner, neither one of us is too keen on eating in the dark. Pulling a menu from between the salt and pepper shakers, we begin looking for dinner.

I look up from my menu to study Uncle Will and Ian. “Those two are acting weird.”

“They just have a little cabin fever.” Detective Farina says without looking up from his menu. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll get lucky.”

“With what? Bingo? It’s Sunday night.”

“Maybe they just want to blow off some steam.” He says as he lowers his menu to the table. “Maybe I wanted to be alone with you.”

I look at Farina.

“I think we need to talk about the murders, the suspects, and why we can’t seem to agree on who’s behind them...”

“I agree.”

The waitress approaches the table and takes our orders.

Farina dives in. “The FBI’s preferred suspect, Desmond Parrish...”

“...is not the killer.” I finish his sentence.

“We both agree on something.” He says.

“It’s about time.”

After dinner salads full of interrupted sentences and dirty looks, we both agree that we should discuss why our suspect is the actual killer and why the other person’s is not at the farm. Where there’s better coffee and visual aides. Not to mention detailed notes and police reports.

By the time the salad plates have been replaced with open faced turkey sandwiches with the best gravy in the Midwest, we have agreed to disagree and move on to a lighter subject for the time being.

“Heather said she was happy?” Detective Farina asks.

“She did.”

“She deserves to be.” He says.

“She does. If nothing else for putting up with all of us.”

“What do you mean by that?” He asks. “I am an excellent roomie.”

“Excellent yes. Perfect no.”

The detective looks disappointed.

“You’re not perfect,” I say looking at Farina, “but you are perfect for me.”

He reaches out and takes my hand in his. He smiles. “I found something,” Farina gets so excited reaching for something in his coat that a thumb hooks his fork and it goes flying towards his lap. He catches it just in time, puts it back on his empty plate and retrieves one of my grandfather’s old journals. He opens it to the page that he’s marked with an old playing card and hands it to me.

“You said that Heather told you it is possible that Clyde and Desmond knew each other when he was four or five. I found a passage where your grandfather writes about Clyde telling him about an intensely curious little boy who helped him every minute that he was on his last job. Some of the servants even referred to the pair as CD because D follows C. He recalls a story about how Clyde had just fixed the oldest clock on the client’s property. It was so old that he had trouble finding a replacement part. Clyde came home for the weekend and crafted his own using pieces from a similar clock. The client and his wife were so pleased they complimented him repeatedly on his work, calling him “Amazing,” a “Genius,” and an “Artist.” Clyde told them he was none of those things, if he was anything he was a clockwork cannibal, because he cannibalized one clock so that he could make another clock work. Clyde told your grandfather that a day or two later, he heard from the staff and the other children living in the house that the four year old was telling everyone he met about his amazing friend the cannibal. There were a few concerned phone calls from the parents of the small boy’s playmates.

“Clockwork Cannibal?”

“It’s quite a story.” The detective says.

“Hmmm...” I look at the detective.

“I know that look.” He says. Farina raises a hand to get the waitress’ attention. “Could we get those desserts to go?”

Excerpt--"Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal" -- Heather Darling gets caught breaking the rules.

Focus, precision, and patience. Why else would that phrase be familiar? I open my eyes, the room is dark. I can hear Detective Farina sleeping. He snores lightly. He’s having a good sleep tonight. There’s another sound. I put my hand to my mouth and stifle a laugh. He does fart in his sleep. Caught you. I think I’ll save that little bit of information for another time. I get out of bed as quietly as possible, procure the stack of paperwork that the detective brought back with him and hope that a copy of Congressional Assassin or ‘whatever the hell they’re calling him's' psychological profile is hidden within the stack of files. I tiptoe out of the bedroom with my treasure, grinning from ear to ear.

The first thing that I do is go into the kitchen and make some coffee. Because up at two a.m. without coffee? What kind of a woman do you take me for? Besides, it’s always a good time for coffee. I have been drinking coffee and finding everything except the psychological profile when Ian comes into the dining room with his own cup of tea and one of Grandpa’s journals.

“Oh.” He says.

“Hi.”

“What are you doing up?” He asks.

“I was getting ready to ask you the same thing.”

“I thought I saw something in Zeb’s journal yesterday that might be useful. I didn’t want to wait until morning to look for it. You?”

“I thought that Detective Jillian told me something about the guy shooting at representatives that sounded familiar. I didn’t want to wait until morning to look for it.”

A smile comes to Ian’s eyes. “I guess that’s something else that we have in common.” He says.

“Deep curiosity?”

“A complete lack of patience.”

“I have patience.” I counter.

“Not according to Heather, Uncle Will, or Detective Farina.”

“Hey. Christmas doesn’t count. Besides, that’s only three people. What do they know?”

My father smiles. We both dig into our reading.

“I found it. Listen to this. ‘The assassin is focused, he only has one purpose. He is precise in what he does. Only one bullet is ever fired. He is patient. The assassin has studied his target over an extended period of time and chooses his moment carefully. Look for a suspect with a military or intelligence background.’ Focused, precise, patient.” I start to underline the words and remember that these are private. I shouldn’t be looking at them. At all. “I heard that all the time when I was a kid. Clyde Thompson uses that exact phrase.”

“What exact phrase?” Farina asks as he pads into the dining room barefoot.

“Focus, precision, and patience.” I answer. “It’s in the assassin’s psychological profile. It’s also what Clyde Thompson says about hunting. All the time.”

“He’s also older.”

“So?”

“Take another look at the psychological profile you have already looked at once. Illegally.” He says.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal"

The detective and I each accept a pair of gloves from someone from the Medical Examiner’s office before squatting on either side of the body. Detective Farina pulls back the tarp and points to the hole in Earl’s back. I look at it and nod. He turns the body over enough for me to take a good look at the gunshot wound on the front.
  “What do you see?” He asks.
  “A hole.”
  “Where is it?”
  “His stomach.”
  The detective lays Earl back the way we found him. “One hole in the stomach. One in the back. It’s likely there were two separate shooters.”
  I think for a moment.  “No.”
 “Why not?”
 “The wounds are the same size. We only found one gun. Earl’s.” Something also felt familiar.  What...I don’t know. What I do know is that it’s too soon to share the information with Detective Farina.
 “The wounds are in two very different places.” Farina counters. “The wound in the front indicates a shot that was made quickly. A crime of passion. The killer didn’t even take time to aim. The shot to the back was the fatal one.”
 “That’s your theory?” I ask.
Detective Farina nods. “There were two shooters. The first shooter was angry with Earl and wanted to kill him.  The second shooter came for moral support when the first shooter failed, the second shooter knew that the only way to keep from getting caught was to finish the job. The second shooter is more experienced with firearms. He or she fired the fatal shot.”
 “Earl’s body is going to St. Louis with you so Amy can verify that you’re right.” I say.
 “And to take any additional evidence. Teddy Baskins...” Detective Farina looks at the person who gave us the gloves and smiles briefly, “...is the recently elected County Coroner and the son of the local mortician. This is his first death by homicide.”
 I look at Mr. Baskins. He’s a bright eyed young man with cheeks that I haven’t seen since the last time I watched “Leave It To Beaver.” He’s a little pale but sticking it out. Doing okay with the Lamaze breathing. “This your first dead guy outside of work?” I ask.
He nods.
 “It’s my second. Creepy as fuck isn’t it?”
Farina glares at me and then looks at The Beav.
The Beav begins checking his pockets. “I don’t have my...I need to go get it from the truck.” Baskins says as he walks away quickly, whispering to himself.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of the Clockwork Cannibal"

“What happened while I was gone?” I ask.

“The doctor stopped by and everything looks good.” Ian says.

“Looks good.” Farina repeats.

“His kidneys are working like they are supposed to.”

The detective finds his bed sheet fascinating. “Went for a walk. Took a whiz.”

“His behind was uncovered. Several nurses have stopped by to say, ‘Hell-o.’” Ian says with a grin.

“My patootie is a cutie.” Farina says with a smile.

I smile back.

He looks at me and says. “You’re so pretty.” He looks at Ian and says, “She’s my wife.”

I look at Ian. “He’s like a broken record.”

“You picked him, Lassie.”

“That’s right. You picked me. Where’s Lassie?”

I send Ian out of the room to eat something and spend the entire time he’s gone trying to convince Detective Farina that Lassie didn’t come to see him. Which leads to a long discussion about Lassie and why Timmy’s parents let him play around so many dangerous things like wells. Fun times. I’m tempted to call for reinforcements. Why should his partner miss out on the fun? Detective Farina finally starts to come down from whatever the stuff is. By midnight, he is in and out of sleep with random comments about Lassie and his desire for a root beer float. Kids, you gotta love ‘em.

Excerpt "Heather Darling and The Case of The Clockwork Cannibal"

Following him inside, I find that the house is nearly as crowded as the front yard. I head up to the master bedroom first to put Earl’s shirt away. I stop in the doorway and watch as a small group of women stand in front of the closet and search through Earl’s clothes. I have an urge to scream at the ridiculousness of this reaction to Earl’s death. You’d think Elvis had died the way they’re acting.

I clear my throat. Everyone looks at me. One lady says hello.

“Hello.” I respond.

The lady nods and everyone goes back to doing her own thing.

“Excuse me. Beth Peters is my cousin. So if y’all would do me a favor...get out of her stuff.”

The lady who greeted me politely picks up her choices and says, “Sweetie, I am so sorry for your cousin’s loss and of course you and the rest of your family. As you can see we aren’t going through your cousin’s things. Just her husband’s.” She turns around and goes back to what she’s doing.

“Okay...apparently I didn’t say this clearly enough. Earl is dead. Beth is his wife. His stuff became her stuff the moment he died. Please get out of her stuff.”

No one is listening although everyone’s moving faster. I take a peek at the hallway outside. Empty. I close and lock the bedroom door. Then I pull out my little friend.

Everything stops when you pull a handgun out of your bra. I don’t know if these women were shocked at the sight of the firearm or amazed that it hadn’t fallen straight through. Either way, the room got real quiet real fast. “I tried to be nice, courteous, and ladylike about this. But y’all don’t seem understand English. At all. Put that shit down. Get your butts out of Beth’s stuff, out of this house, and don’t ever come back.” I got several glares and bad wishes. There might have been a voodoo swear word mixed in for good measure. Everyone dropped their “treasure” and left. Not before I checked their purses and had them open their coats. The cordial woman with the “manners” was last. I checked her purse and her coat. “Now get out.”

“You don’t understand. I know your cousin from way back. Lucy Stubblefield? I’m the secretary at the church that Beth and I attend.” She says, extending a hand.

“You should know better than anyone not to covet anything belonging to your neighbor.” I say.

“She’s not my neighbor. I live on the other side of town.”

The Legend of The Wild Card

She meditated as she did every morning.

Pretending not to hear the laughter of the children at play.

They ran up to gather in front of her.

To hear a story as they did every day.

She waited to hear the soft footfalls of a young girl.

Susanna, her name she believed.

The young girl would stay at the far edge of the circle

and patiently wait for the wise woman to speak.

"Tell us the story." Susanna would say. "The Legend of the Wild Card."

The girl would make the request with stars in her eyes.

She could tell that Susanna was already half in love.

She knew exactly why.

The Wise Woman would smile gently.

Slowly opening her eyes.

For a moment her heart would mirror that of young Susanna's.

The two kindred spirits.

A special connection.

Their shared song.

"You children hear it nearly every day," the Wise Woman would answer.

"But we all love Susanna and she's so fond of it," her little brother Joey would say.

"He's her boyfriend," one of her girlfriends proclaimed.

The other girls would giggle.

Young Susanna's face would grow red.

The Wise Woman would smile and roll her eyes at them.

A look of reassurance to young Susanna.

Then she would begin.

"The Wild Card was a man.

A man like any other.

A loving man, a kind man, a strong man.

Much like your fathers, uncles, older brothers.

"Like all young men, he left home one day to seek his destiny.

The young man ran into a problem along the way.

He met a woman of magic.

Which is good luck to many.

But not in this case.

The Woman of Magic loved him deeply.

She was beautiful and kind.

There was something in her eyes that could not be brightened.

A heaviness lived in her heart that could never be lightened.

He did his best to make himself love her.

She tried to be patient, the young man was kind.

Time passed and her love was not returned.

The Woman of Magic became angry.

She made the worst mistake anyone who has the power to wield magic can make."

Voices echoed around the Wise Woman.

"She used her magic to punish and control another."

Bringing Scotch Up To Speed

“What are you talking about?” Scotch asked.

“Don’t tell me the super spy I’m talking to doesn’t know that Casanova was a spy.”

Scotch stood, walking into the bathroom followed closely by Pen. She continued talking to him from the other side of the closed door.

“Giacomo Casanova also known to many as Jacques and Chevalier de Seingalt was a writer and a soldier who relied on his charm and his gambling prowess to develop his fortunes. He also, for a time, worked for the Venetian Inquisitors of State as a spy.”

The words “You’re a chemist,” returned to Pen from the bathroom.

“Because I’m a chemist nothing except chemistry can exist in my brain? I suppose that you never think of anything else except picking up Intel and pens that explode.”

“No. I am having trouble picturing you as someone who holds an interest in history.”

“Scientists must keep detailed records of not only their hypotheses, but also their experiments and their results. The papers that describe it in detail are just a history of their work. History is a science.”

Scotch opened the door appearing more awake and less disheveled. He looked at Pen.

“Girls develop crushes as they grow up. Usually it’s on musicians, actors, etc… Some girls develop crushes on fictional characters.”

One corner of Scotch’s mouth began turning up in a smile.

“When I was a young girl I developed crushes on historical figures.”

“Like?”

“Sir Lancelot, King Arthur…”

“Ah...fictional characters.”

“Historical.” Pen countered.

“Aye...but they really exist Milady? Is there historical proof?” He teased.

“There is little proof that King Arthur himself existed as we know him but there were several leaders throughout that period of history which contributed to the Arthur mythology. Much like the stories of Jesus.”

“Jesus, a myth? I’m surprised.” Scotch playfully continued to admonish her.

“There are many stories of men who did notable things in that part of the world during that time. Jesus is a common name in some parts of the world. Considering how King Arthur’s story evolved one would have to be remiss to completely ignore the parallels.”

Scotch did not have to contribute further Pen proved to be passionate about her medieval knights. The spy let her run with it. Quickly straightening the rumpled bedding he proceeded to exit the room. Pen followed.

“It’s never a bad thing to look at complete pictures regarding any subject. You may be surprised at me sir. I am surprised at you. I cannot believe that as an Englishman you would take a romantic myth that has become a cornerstone of your heritage so lightly.”

Scotch stopped just inside the master bedroom and turned to face Pen. “During that period in history there was lots of elaborate talk but knights were men called upon to wear these ridiculously heavy suits that allowed for little movement. One or two good solid blows and they went down. The elaborate stories that are the cornerstone of my heritage had to be woven about the amazing feats of those fictional heroes or other blokes would not have been interested in signing on.”

Pen’s lips closed tightly.

“Have I ruined something?”

Pen walked past him into the room.

“I did.” Sniffing out a bit of fun he followed. “You had a major crush on the old man didn’t you? Did you design your own wedding gown? Did you practice signing your name Pendragon?” Scotch stopped in front of Pen so she would have to stop walking. “Did you dream about his sword visiting your scabbard?”

“That’s not important.” She responded. Pen ignored the jokes and got to the point. “Casanova was my history boyfriend during a particularly lonely summer in junior high school. That’s how I know so much about him.” She stepped around Scotch and continued into the no longer hidden room.

Scotch followed. The pair entered the room with Scotch taking a seat as well as command of the social media accounts. “I want you to start at the beginning and move forward from there.”

Pen picked up McKinney’s phone and scrolled back to the beginning of the conversation with Mata Hari.

“This is where it started?” Scotch asked.

Pen nodded.

“She talks about the weather, asks about dog breeds, refers to a dog park visit…” Scotch narrated as he read through them.

“If you look at @IF20’s account the day before the meeting he mentions it too. The same place, date and time as Mata Hari.”

“What does Casanova have to do with it?”

“That’s what I asked her.”

Scotch studied the messages. “No you didn’t.”

“Yes I did.” Pen reached over the spy’s shoulder to point to the long whistle.

“You said that you knew someone who was looking into writing a series of articles and asked about private locations that would make good day trips for quality time with your pet.”

“Strengthening the secret bond between a dog and his owner.” Pen quoted. “Look at Mata Hari’s answer.”

“It’s a request to PM. That was when you started speaking privately.”

Pen nodded.

“Good show old girl.”

“Once we started private messaging I admitted that I lied about the article and said that I had some high profile friends that preferred to conduct sensitive business in places that were removed from watching eyes.”

“She doesn’t admit to anything specific but agrees that some sensitive matters of state are better discussed elsewhere than in an office.” He added.

“I asked how she chooses these locations. Mata Hari responded that Casanova knew all of the best places.”

“Would you like to meet with him?” Scotch read.

Pen turned her attention away from the phone to Scotch. “What do you say Boss? Would we like to meet him?”