Surreal continuing story: walking through doors and passageways

[NDP]

“I talked to Lorna about singing at the performance,” Alice says. “She agreed to and seemed quite enthusiastic about it. However, right after I hung up, I just remembered the bad blood there was between her and Gwen.”

“Oh God, you’re right,” I say. “Why didn’t I think of that earlier!”

“We’re getting ourselves into a very awkward situation,” Alice says with a worried tone. “How are we going to defuse it before the concert?”

“We’ll have to think of something,” I say knowing full well how obvious the statement is. I don’t have a clue on how to play diplomat between Gwen and Lorna.

“Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I got an e-mail from Gwen about 20 minutes ago,” Alice mentions. “She wants us to meet her this evening at Old King Cole’s Castle in William Land Park in Sacramento. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes,” I answer. “William Land Park is south of downtown and Old King Cole’s Castle is a part of the Fairy Tale Village they have there. People usually book it for kid’s birthday parties. Of course, it’s been years since I was there. I hope nothing’s changed.”

“We’ll have to start out soon,” Alice says. “How much longer are you going to be at your dorm?”

“I’m leaving right away,” I say as I get up and put my coat on. “I’ll see you in about 20 minutes. Bye.”

I hang up my phone and head out the door. When I step out, however, I see a large manila envelope with my name and the word “fraud” on the front.

Whoever left this here must think I’m the densest person in the world. I am not going to open it up. Instead, I put the envelope in a Ziploc bag and leave it at the post office where it can be examined. I then drive to Alice’s house, pick her up, and head to Sacramento.

On the way over, I tell Alice about the strange envelopes I’ve been receiving that say I’m a fraud.

“Do you have any idea what they mean?” I ask Alice.

“Apparently they mean someone thinks you’re a fraud,” she answers.

“Yes, but who?” I wonder. “And why do they think I’m a fraud?”

“That’s something I can’t figure out off-hand,” she says. “Although I do notice that we seem to attract a lot of odd characters.”

“That reminds me,” I say suddenly remembering the purpose of the trip. “Did Gwen mention anything about how she was doing with Lemoyne?”

“No,” Alice responds with a slight grin. “But I’m pretty sure that’s what this meeting will be about.”

Fortunately, my memory on how to get to Old King Cole’s Castle in William Land Park is still good. We find the location with no trouble and, at dusk, walk into the mock fairy tale structure. We look around. It’s empty. No sign of any kids, parents, or Gwen. Then, we hear a voice from above.

“Hello, Alice. Hello, ____.”

We look up and see Gwen fluttering around the ceiling. She’s wearing a backless white gown that allows her to use her wings, sparkly slippers, and a tiara. In her left hand, she’s waving around a fake plastic wand with a star on the tip. She looks as though she’s auditioning for the role of the Fairy Godmother in a production of “Cinderella” and is really getting deep into her part.

“You better come back down to earth before someone sees you,” Alice warns. “I think people in this town might get upset at the sight of a petite flying woman.”

“Why not?” Gwen says with a dippy smile as she gently lands on the table in the middle of the castle’s birthday party room. “Aren’t they open-minded around here? Don’t they believe in fairies?”

This whole conversation is getting nauseatingly twee. It’s time for me to intervene and find out what this whole meeting is about.

“Knock off the whole Tinkerbell routine Gwen,” I state with irritation. “What do you have to tell us?”

“Oh, don’t get all grumpy ____,” Gwen admonishes. "I just wanted to inform you on what I’ve been doing with Lemoyne since I talked with you. For one thing, I…

[dougie_monty]

…got him to give me some expensive jewelry–I think the last time I saw anything that expensive was when that ‘brood mare’ Eloise Sharp came over to your place with all those kids. And he’s taken me to a villa of his in Piedmont–that upper-crust city up on a hill inside Oakland."
I snort, “I bet he’s asked you for something in return,” Alice snickers at this too.

Gwen has much the same reaction. “Oh, he sure did.” Gwen sounds more like a dependable confidant now. “But he can’t perform worth a damn!”
I remember Alice’s comments in the car. “Gwen, there’s something else I believe we should discuss–your contact with Lorna McManus and Jock Dumfries.”

Gwen sighs. “I know–she’s still sore about me for the poisoned envelope. But I think a little medical documentation would be in order here.”
“What do you mean?” asks Alice."

“It so happens that I have a reaction to parathion myself. When I handed those envelopes to you and to Jock I had just kept them in a plastic liner under the top of my rolltop desk in the bookstore. And I regularly changed the liner.” She continues glumly, “In fact I developed a rash even after handling the envelopes for the few seconds that took.”
“So the notion that you cooked the idea up on your own is ‘not in your best interests’ as we in the law game would say. Now what we need to do is present solid proof to Lorna that you have a severe reaction to parathion.”

Now it’s Gwen’s turn to feel the sudden loss of a severe burden. She almost cries.
“Well, I’ll explain now what we want to do,” Alice continues. “The college is having a benefit performance in six weeks–for AIDS research in California–and we’d like to reunite Prester John’s Aunt. I’ve already begun contact again with Lena and Amy.”

Gwen’s face lights up at this. But she senses caution: “And you want Lorna or Jock to perform as well?”
“Lorna,” Alice answers.

“And those five married women–Mmes. Sharp, Blonda, Oranjeboom, Bradley, and Brown.”
“Louise Brown?” Gwen asks with a bit of pleasant surprise.
“Yes,” Alice answers.

“I remember her. Really nice–avid reader. She came into the store a few times with this really BIG woman!” Gwen cups her hands out in front of her chest, indicating that the other woman was really busty. Must mean the buxom, statuesque Jane Bradley, her longtime friend. Then Gwen pauses: “Hey, Alice, I think she looks like you!”

Alice remembers. “Yes, I know. We did a little pastiche about Chinatown until a lawyer approached.”
Gwen dismisses the mention of the lawyer, but she gets a good laugh. “I saw Chinatown four times. I think I know what you mean!” Her reaction seems a perfect expression of the smiley.

Alice continues, “I also plan to book The Cigar Band. A guitarist, bass player, singer, and drummer.”
Gwen doesn’t react. I figure a six-foot knockout like Jeanette, who wears long flannel dresses without underwear, and smokes long panatelas, would stick in the memory of anyone who ever heard the band.

Then Alice changes the subject. “Gwen, who gave you the envelopes?”
“Some real little guy. Spoke with an accent I think is Polish.”
I nod and tell Alice, “Pula Kinlai. Remember the chase?”

Alice remembers, all right. “And I saw those headlines. And I forgot to ask, How did he get out of jail? I thought you said bail was denied.”
“I’m sorry,” I answered. “I saw an edition of the Bee shortly after we came out here and there was a correction: The paper admitted they left out text about how Kinlai escaped. In fact the police were looking for him when he was in that car. He’s in the jail ward and isn’t going anywhere. His injuries will keep him there for a while–then he’s probably going to San Quentin.”
Gwen and Alice and I book a double room in the Motel 6 nearby, for the night. Gwen goes into her room and Alice and I, of course, share the bed on the other room, and, as is our wont, we stay up really late in an absorbing conversation–even lying in the bed in the dark, she in a filmy nightgown and I in T-shirt and pajama pants, which I had thought to bring for a trip to Sacramento.
We then wrap our arms around each other, and fall asleep at almost the same time. The next day we…

[NDP]

briefly talk to Gwen before heading back to Alice’s house. Wearing a blue sweater to cover up her wings, she tells us she has some business in Davis to take care of and can’t accompany us back. Gwen also gives us a slip of paper she found inside Lemoyne’s desk that has my name, some strange numbers, and the words “column,” “top,” and “Astor.” She doesn’t know what everything means on the paper but the fact that my name is on it should make it relevant to us. She then says good-bye, rushes off around a corner, and disappears from our view. We’re not sure if she has a car or is flying to Davis.

“I can’t figure out what all this means,” I say to Alice while getting into the car. “But since my name is mentioned, I feel uneasy. Why would anyone care about me?”

“Because you’re with me,” Alice answers as she examines the piece of paper. “Maybe Lemoyne, to get to me, has some plan to get to you first. What I’ll have to do is go on my computer and look through my library to see how all this is connected.”

“I thought Lemoyne was pretty much down for the count anyway,” I say as I pull the car out of the parking lot and toward the freeway. “Maybe this some old plan that he’s scrapped since he got into trouble.”

“Or it could be something he still has up his sleeve,” Alice counters. “Sometimes people are more dangerous when they’re cornered.”

As she says this, I notice a thick tule fog–a common occurrence in the California cental valley during the winter–has set in. I turn on the fog lights in my car but that openly helps a little. Our visibility quickly shrinks to less than 25 feet. I slow my car down and watch the road ever more carefully.

Then, up ahead, I see flares and the flashing lights of four state patrol cars blocking the highway. For some reason (perhaps a wreck or poor visibility), the CSP has closed the freeway and is forcing traffic onto an exit ramp to follow a detour. Exactly what road were being forced off onto I can’t tell because the fog is so thick I can’t read the sign nor distinguish any landmarks. All we have to follow are road flares and the fluorescent orange detour signs that are placed along the shoulder of the two-lane road we’re on.

“Do you know anybody named ‘Astor’?” I ask Alice as I try to discern the road through the fog. “I noticed that name on Lemoyne’s paper.”

“Well, I know of the affluent 19th century American family the Astors and Mary Astor–the actress who was in ‘The Maltest Falcon’,” she repliess. “But as for somebody who I’ve met and is still alive, the answer is ‘no.’ How about you?”

“I don’t know any Astors either,” I state. “But, and I can’t right now pinpoint the exact reason why, I got a vague sense of familiarity when I saw the words ‘column,’ ‘top,’ and ‘Astor’ together.”

“I’ll do a ‘Google’ search on those words when we get home,” she says. “And, incidentally, have you seen any detour signs or flares recently?”

“You know, I haven’t,” I admit. “I do notice that there’s no yellow divider in the middle of road anymore and our visibility has actually decreased. I’m not sure but I thought I saw another road diverge on the left. Maybe that’s the one we’re supposed to follow.”

Alice sighs and says, “I think we’re lost.”

“We are not lost,” I assert. “We just need to turn around and go back to where either that supposed intersection was or where the yellow stripe ended.”

“Or we could pull over and ask for directions,” she suggests somewhat sarcastically.

“It’s too dangerous,” I respond as I try to find a spot to turn around. “The fog is too thick and this road doesn’t have much traffic on it. It could be hours before we finally see somebody.”

As I say this, I notice that the road’s surface is now gravel. We also seem to be going uphill.

“Did you bring a map?” Alice asks.

“I did but it’s a large California road map,” I answer with frustration. “Even if we knew what road we went off, it wouldn’t help us since it only shows highways and not country backroads.”

I follow the road around a curve, up a hill, and around another curve. Finally, I come to spot in the road that looks large enough for us to turn around. In fact, it turns out to be a Y intersection. Seeing that there’s no traffic, I stop the car and contemplate my options: go left, go right, or turn around.

“What are we going to do?” asks Alice.

Then, it hits me–the obvious choice. I decide to…

[dougie_monty]

…turn around. I remember the roadway well enough to follow it back to the motel, and that general part of Sacramento.

I guessed right. The fog has settled over Sacramento, but back where we started out it’s not quite so severe. We decide to find a restaurant and have breakfast; we’ll wait it out.
That turns out to be the right choice. It’s still foggy most of the way back to the Terwilligers’ place, but the wait has been long enough so that the fog has thinned somewhat, so we are not faced with zero visibility. The only wise alternative would be to pull off the road, especially what with the CHP even closing some highways. Fortunately, our way back isn’t one of them. :rolleyes:

---

We finally make it back to Alice’s home, two hours later than we planned. Better we should do that than run the risk of a collision or getting hopelessly lost.

After we return, a large, official-looking car pulls up in front of the house. Two men in black suits and snap-brim hats get out. They ring the doorbell, and Eda answers. Alice and I are in the parlor when she opens the door.
One of them shows Mrs. Terwilliger an FBI badge. He asks, “Is ________ here?”

Eda is baffled by their appearance, but she says, “Yes he is…” she turns to me and says the visitor wants to speak to me. I approach the door; the FBI man doesn’t ask Alice or her mother to step out of earshot.
They ask for my identification, and show me their badges. “The postal inspector’s office referred us to you, and the college gave this as a possible address. This is important enough for us to contact you immediately.”

He opens a portfolio and shows us a picture of Lemoyne.
“A few weeks ago this man was charged by local police with posioning a young woman named Alice Terwilliger with a dangerous pesticide. The postal inspector’s office found parathion on the first envelope you handed in at the post office, though not on the others. [Maybe the second and third were part of a scare tactic.] Victor Lemoyne’s fingerprints were found on all three envelopes. [:eek:] Since this was an effort to poison someone using the U. S. Mail, that makes it a federal offense. We have come to inform you that Lemoyne is in custody, facing Federal charges because of this, as well as for kidnaping and illegal surveillance.” We’d like to make an appointment for you to come to our local office this week and prepare a federal criminal complaint."
Alice steps within view and identifies herself.

The agent suggests she too may wish to give a statement.
I ask, “What will happen now?”
The agent says, “Well, the federal pre-trial procedure is different. For one thing, there is no plea-bargaining option. A suspect will have to go at least to a preliminary hearing, and you may be asked to testify there. Before that, of course, you will be asked to give a deposition.”

That’s pretty much all there is to it. The agents give us their calling card, which I slip into my wallet; I will note possible appointment dates, given the schedule this semester. Then the agents leave.
“Isn’t that interesting!” Alice comments. “Well, we gave him enough rope…”

“And he sure hanged himself!” I answer. “Well, it looks like the Fates are circumscribing that old bastard Lemoyne!”
Alice embraces me closely. Just at that moment Arthur and Daniel appear and give us catcalls. The Terwiligers’ big orange tabby Buster ignores them.

Making a mental note to throttle Arthur and Daniel some time soon, I ask Alice while we’re still nose-to-nose, “Let’s go do a search on that stuff Gwen told us about…Astor, and so on…”
“Sure,” she says, and she kisses me on the lips.
Arthur and Daniel hoot at us again.

“Will you mind your own business?!” Alice and I growl together to her brothers.
Then we go do a Google search, as we had planned. We find…

[NDP]

that when we submit the words “Astor,” “column,” and “top” together, the first things that come up are web articles about an Astor Column in Astoria, Oregon. When I see the list, my sense of familiarity grows stronger.

We then clink one of the links. A picture of the Astor Column comes up. Instantly, all the blanks in my memory are filled in.

“I know that place,” I exclaim. “I was there with my parents when I was nine. Have you ever been there?”

“No,” Alice answers. “I’ve never been in that part of Oregon. Where is it?”

“Astoria, Oregon is this small town in northern Oregon where the Columbia River enters the Pacific,” I explain. “Once, my family and I were taking a trip along the Oregon coast and my mother wanted to stop in Astoria, Oregon to see this tower (or column as it’s properly called in the web article). I remember it was on top of a hill in the south part of town. I also recall going to the top of it but not being able to see all that far because of the clouds and rain.”

“That’s surprising,” she says with mild sarcasm. “I would’ve thought the Oregon coast was warm, sunny, and clear all the time.”

“Hey, I’m sure it’s a spectacular view the seven or eight times a year when it’s not cloudy,” I add. “But the questions we should be asking is whether this is what Lemoyne was referring to on that sheet of paper and why.”

“There’s also the business of why your name is there,” Alice adds. “Especially, since you’ve only been there once and that was as a child.”

“And don’t forget the numbers,” I say. “Let’s take a look at these web articles on the column and see if there’s anything in them that sheds light on all this.”

We click over to another web site about the Astoria Column. There, we discover…

[dougie_monty]

…that a number of environmental groups have commandeered the area around the tower, periodically, in a campaign of protest against the despoiling of the coastline and the mouth of the Columbia. Opposing them were a few salmon canneries, a few developers, and much of the public in that part of Oregon.

“Odd that they should make common cause,” Alice notes.
Especially odd is what we find when we click on a link for the developers. One of the names is Victor Lemoyne and Company.
That raises my eyebrows. I ask, “Why would he have anything in common with the public on this one?”

“Coincidence,” answers Alice. “The public doesn’t want environmentalists blocking the area that tourists want to visit. The tower, but also the area near the mouth of the Columbia where so many people go to try their luck fishing for salmon.” You remember Henry, don’t you?"
“Henry who?”

Alice sighs, “Henry Huggins. I happen to know you have the child’s book Henry and Ribsy, in which Henry and his father and a neighbor–and Ribsy, the dog–go salmon fishing near the mouth of the river. It’s likely that the small-town ambience is what the Oregonians near the Columbia fear environmentlists may appropriate and make politically correct.”

And perhaps the tower is involved as well. I don’t remember the tower very well, trying to make a comparison with Devil’s Tower in Wyoming; I didn’t see Close Encounters and have only seen that landmark mentioned in geography texts along with Devil’s Postpile National Monument in California, and the Giants’ Causeway off the north coast of Ireland. I suppose, however, Alice will fill me in on that and that we may find a description of the tower on the website.
We’re still on the developer link when Alice asks something else. “What about those letters and numbers on that rubbery letter you received?”

“That was 2294101EGB. I thought the initials were Edmund Gerald Brown–a father and son who–”
Alice sighs and points to a name and address on the link. Edward G. Boylston, Box 22, San Francisco, CA 94101. D

“What does the ‘D’ stand for?”
“Could mean ‘deceased.’ He’s listed as a senior vice-president. In the papers Fields sent us–that the State officials seized–only Kinlai, Sparr, Beach, Tigner, Grover, and Yates were listed as active company officials.”

We look further and, according to the link, Boylston was in charge of mundane things like literature and chemicals. It may be that Lemoyne had some of Boylston’s unused supplies, including the rubbery stationery, and used that to send to me. This is one of the pieces of mail the FBI found Lemoyne’s fingerprints on. Then we go to the Social Security Death Index and find out, sure enough, an Edward Grant Boylston, with dates that would fit, deceased in late 1999.
Alice asks, “Did you note the postmark on that envelope?”

I don’t remember it offhand, but I have photocopies in my own portfolio. I find the corrresponding envleope photocopy and it has a meter mark, from The Dalles, OR. A Pitney-Bowes postage meter with a serial number. Not exactly the wisest thing for Lemoyne to do. Especially since the FBI and the postal inspector have probably already traced the postage meter.
“One more thing,” Alice asks. “The top. What do you suppose it means by ‘top’?”

I pause, as if my mental search engine is trying to locate this. Then I remember. “Indian artifacts. That may be it. Several Indian tribes have been involved in the protest and unless I miss my guess, that tower was part of an Indian burial site…” I continue recalling what my parents told me about the area when we were there…“there was a legendary Chief Brown Wolf connected with it.”

This bores Alice. “Indian lore?”
I answer, “Well, some. But there is more than one Chief Brown Wolf–after all, the tribe is very much alive. It could be the Tlingit but I’m not sure. I don’t know that a chief with that name is living. We may want to research this in the college library. I’ll ask Phoebe about it the next time we’re there–without giving our main objective away.” We do find a website for the Tlingit, but nothing about names of past or present chiefs. It does show a picture of some Tlingit men with top hats–and I can’t help but wonder whether Salbert is part Tlingit.

This is about as much as we can do now. We unboot the computer and return to the main house, and do some housework for Eda. I had never realized how physically demanding housework is. I’m washing windows while Alice handles laundry. With Eda standing nearby Alice comments facetiously, “We’re just like an old married couple, aren’t we?”
Before I can react Eda retorts, “Alice! Don’t scare him off!” I snicker a little and Eda and Alice go on their way.

Alice’s remark was just a harmless jibe. But as she and her mother leave the room, and I continue with the windows, I muse sadly on some past memories…

[NDP]

and just have the feeling that things have been going too well for me lately. For a time, things were changing so abruptly and capriciously that it’s a wonder I didn’t get whiplash. Now, everything seems to be evened out. However, I have the sense that at any time, chaos will erupt again and I’ll be bouncing uncontrollably from one place and time to another.

I reach down to the floor and pick up a Windex bottle. Out of the corner of my left eye, I notice the Terwiligers’ big orange tabby tomcat Buster enter the room.

“Why the long face?” I hear a voice say. “It seems as though life is going pretty good for you now.”

“Oh, it’s not so much sadness as unease,” I reply. "I just can’t–

I stop. Who said that? I look around and only see the cat.

“How much longer are you going to be with that window?” Buster asks. “I’ve got squirrels to stare at.”

“Can you talk or have I inhaled the Windex too deeply?” I say to Buster.

“I can talk,” the cat says. “And you probably have inhaled a little Windex. I don’t think you’re supposed to use half a bottle on one window.”

“Talking cats,” I comment. “Well, I guess things have been a little TOO normal lately.”

“What is ‘normal’ to a guy with fairy wings?” Buster rhetorically asks. “Nice look by the way.”

“You know about those?” I ask somewhat shocked.

“Yours, Alice’s, Gwen’s, and some other people you don’t know about yet,” Buster answers. “Oh, can you back to work on that window? I don’t want to miss any robins that might fly in.”

Still stunned, I resume washing and wiping the window. I say nothing.

“You know, for someone who’s in the same room as a talking cat, you certainly don’t have a lot to say,” Buster comments.

“I’ve never met a talking cat before,” I explain. “What can I say.”

“You could ask how I can talk.”

“How do you talk?” I ask.

“With my mouth, tongue, and vocal chords,” Buster responds. “No, actually I have no idea why I talk. I have yet to meet any other cat that talks. Also, the only people in this house I talk to are Alice and now you. It’s something I became aware of when I was kitten. Unfortunately, because I’m fixed, I don’t think I’ll be passing on this trait to future generations.”

“That’s … too bad,” I say.

“Sucks royale,” the tabby responds. “I was really pissed about it for a time but now, I can see why they did it. I mean they don’t call us tomcats for nothing. What with the fucking and fighting and the hissing and the spraying and the clawing and the late night ROWRRR, ROWRRR, ROWRRR, I’m singing!”

“So why do you talk only to Alice and me?” I ask.

“Oh, I talk to others–just outside this house,” Buster answers. “For example, you may know a rather skinny guy named Salbert.”

“You know Salbert?”

“More than know, I work with him.”

“What do you mean by ‘work with him’?”

“Were part of the same group–the DXM League. We do a lot of things but as far as Alice and you are concerned, let’s just say we intervene at just the right time or to drop some helpful advice.”

“Well, thanks for all you’ve done so far and all you’ll probably do in the future.”

“Your welcome,” Buster responds while sitting and washing his face with his paw. “No skin off my (or Salbert’s) nose. But I should explain all these good deeds aren’t being done without a reason. Let’s just say it’s very important you and Alice stay alive.”

“Why’s that?” I ask as I start wiping the last corner of the window.

“Actually, I don’t know,” the cat states. “Only a few at the very top know. I’m just told to help you and Alice out when I can.”

As I finish with the window, I hear footsteps. Alice and Eda are coming back into the room.

“Better cool it,” Buster says while jumping on the window sill. “Eda’s on my no-talk list. Talk to you later.”

A squirrel pokes around the yard. Buster crouches on the window sill with his nose and tail twitching.

“Come here you cute rat,” I hear him mutter. “Just because you’ve got a nice bushy tail doesn’t mean you’re not a filthy rodent! Just be thankful there’s a pane of glass between me and you.”

The cat stops talking. Alice and Eda walk up to me. I notice Alice has some Oregon tour guides with her.

“_____,” Alice says. "My mother and I were…

[dougie_monty]

wondering…would you like to visit that site where the tower is again? We may want to go up there come Easter week." Alice sets the tour brochures on the coffee table.
“Sounds good,” I answer. “Do you have a pertinent course this semester?”

“Yes, I do; one of my ‘minors’ is the study of West Coast Indian tribes, including the Tlingit and the Snohomish. But we have other ideas–you and I,” answers Alice with a wink.
Daniel appears in a doorway long enough to say, “Oh, Lissie, the dryer shut off.”

“DON’T CALL ME LISSIE!” Alice shrieks and quick-steps toward Daniel, who retreats from the room. Eda follows, not happy with her grown kids shouting at each other. I hear them all leave.
I glance at Buster. He smacks his lips. “I sure like Chinook salmon,” he comments. “Paul and Eda go up that way once every few years.”

“I like good salmon too,” I comment. “My Mom has always made salmon cakes with little vertebrae scattered in them. My aunt doesn’t do that but she breads them.”
"Buster answers disdainfully, “Leave it up to humans to spoil a good thing. I’m content to eat the raw fish.”

“To each his own,” I reply. “Sushi is as close as I care to get to raw fish.” He indicates he doesn’t care for sushi.
Buster, unusual for a cat, seems sympathethic. “I noticed how glum you were a little while ago.”

I grimace. “Well, it’s not about Alice or Lemoyne or Tigner or anything like that. Do you remember me talking about that rock concert I was in last month?”
“Yes. Alice didn’t kiss and tell, but I think I know what you and she did when you got out of Tom’s limousine!” Buster winks.
“That isn’t it at all,” I say, blushing deeply. “Alice and I have really hit it off and I am glad indeed I found her. But what I was musing about was the guitarist–that strawberry-blonde knockout with blue eyes–at the concert.”

“Vickie Sanders? I heard Alice and Samantha talking about that. But remember, you and Vickie were in school a long time ago.”
“You’re right, Buster…but some things just linger.”
I pause a while as I change the water and pick up a fresh sponge. I start on the upper part of the main picture window, and Buster and I continue to talk. Now it’s my turn to ask him something.

“You may know I’ve been concerned about Daniel’s situation lately.”
“You mean the gnomes?”

“No–granted I think it’s creepy for him to have that room full of them. It’s the way he was around Mary Blonda when she was here.”
“Be careful about that,” Buster admonishes me. “You may be reading something into that that doesn’t exist and the consequences could be serious for him and Hermione and you. I know you told Alice you don’t want to cause Hermione any grief.”

“Indeed I don’t. Look…if you believe that–and I’m not necessarily contradicting you–why not observe them–Daniel and Hermione–for a few days then give me your impression? If I’m overreacting I assure you I’ll back down.”
“Gladly,” answers Buster. I finish with the picture window. Buster, with a slient nod, leaps up onto the top of the couch just as Paul, Eda, and Alice return to the room. I stroke his back gently as he watches the rodent outside; he starts to purr. Alice sits on the couch nearby. I sit next to her, and rest my arm over her shoulder. Then, before I even turn to face her, I shed a lone tear. Alice notices…

[dougie_monty]

…and asks, “What’s the matter, then?”
I pause a moment before answering. Buster waves his tail slightly, and makes a purring/growling sound as if to say, “Answer with caution.”

He’s right. I must not spoil my relationship with Alice for the sake of an old memory. Alice has had more positive influence on me lately than anyone else and a statement I would later :smack: about would be the worst idea I could muster. What Alice and Samantha said about the people at the concert–well, I’d best give Alice the benefit of the doubt. So I say…

[NDP]

“Apprehension, unease, and the aroma of too much Windex.”

“About what?” she quietly asks as she turns toward me to keep our conversation private.

“Oh, I just expect things to go to Hell at any moment,” I explain.

“Why?” she asks me. “Things seem fairly calm now. I would’ve thought you’d feel relieved.”

“Well, I’m just insecure and subdued by nature,” I tell her. “Sometimes just the littlest things can set me off. And all that weird stuff that’s happened to me hasn’t helped things.”

Alice smiles and takes my left hand. “Well, I’m here now,” she says. “Does that make you feel better?”

I look at Alice. Her big dark brown eyes are beaming. My mood improves.

“Considerably,” I answer with a slight grin.

“Would you feel better I tell you that I’ll never let anything bad happen to you?” she asks.

“Yes,” I respond. My sadness dissipates and we stare at each other for a moment. However, suddenly, insecurity strikes me again. I feel as though I’m not good enough for her.

“Thank you Alice,” I tell her. “And I’d also do anything to keep you from getting hurt.”

“Oh, you don’t have to be so over-dramatic,” she says with a wide smile. “I have always sensed that about you.”

She then kisses my hand and I feel better. I am definitely a lucky man.

“Oh, ____,” I suddenly hear Paul say. “Is this your sheet of paper?”

I turn my face from Alice and look over at Paul. He’s holding the mysterious sheet of paper that Gwen stole from Lemoyne. I should’ve not left it lying around.

“Um… yes,” I stammer. “I’ve been looking for that.”

“What’s this strange writing on it?” he asks. “Is it some type of code?”

“Oh, it’s just personal notes,” I tell him while hoping he’ll hand me the paper. “Stuff I jotted down for one of my classes next semester.”

“You wrote this?” he continues querying while examing the paper. “It doesn’t look like your handwriting. And who’s Astor?”

“I was in kind of hurry when I wrote it,” I explain while really hoping he’ll hand me the paper now. “And Astor is one of the professors I’m thinking of taking next semester.”

“Really? Your handwriting improves to near-perfect letter block when you’re in a hurry?”

Damn! Why must Lemoyne have such perfect handwriting?

“Paul, don’t be so suspicious,” Eda mildly scolds. “Just give ____ back his notes.”

“Okay,” he says finally handing the paper back to me. “I didn’t mean to pry so much. Especially when you’ve been so helpful around the house.”

“That’s okay,” I say with relief.

I want to change the topic of this conversation. I see Buster jump off the couch and head toward Alice’s library. There’s my chance.

“How long have you had Buster?” I ask Eda.

“About six years,” she answers. “Actually, Alice brought him here.”

“He was this stray kitten hanging around my dorm who attached himself to me,” Alice explains. “But we weren’t allowed to keep pets at the dorm so I took him back to the house.”

“He seems like a smart cat,” I say knowing full well how much of an understatement that comment is.

“Smart nothing!” says Paul. “I’ve beaten him in chess best two out of three.”

I know that’s an old joke but, for a moment, I actually think Paul’s telling the truth.

Just then, the doorbell rings. I hear Daniel answer it, greet whoever’s there, and direct the guest to the room where we all are. It’s Lorna and after saying “hello” she tells us that…

[dougie_monty]

…she’s interested in performing at the benefit. Before the others come into the library, Buster comments, “You’d better see what you can do to patch things up–you know, between Lorna and Gwen.”
“No question about that,” I reply in a voice too soft for the others, even Alice, to hear.

So I ask Alice to step out in the hallway.
“Remember, we want to show Lorna positive proof Gwen was not trying to steal Jock from her.”
“What do you suggest?”

“I’d like to have a meeting with them at a neutral site; Jack and Eloise Sharp have told us we can use rooms in the mansion any time we need to,” I say. “The green sitting room near the foyer would be good.”

The Sharps’ Green Room is a nice serene place. Green draperies and green deep-pile carpeting; off-white walls. “White noise” or soft music piped in. And, of course, refreshments served by Lupe and Armand, the Sharps’ kitchen staff. A big round table that seats twenty–often used as a dining room by the 17-member Sharp family themselves.
I tell Alice I’d like to have a meeting there, attended by her and me, of course, with Lorna and Gwen; with Phoebe, Jane, Cornelis Oranjeboom…

“Well, we’ll all be there this Saturday anyway,” says Alice; “you know the Sharps want to have a Super Bowl party, even for those who don’t like football. But I think it should be up to me who else will attend such a meeting.” I agree.
So we go to where Lorna is waiting, in the library. Buster, who certainly knows how to communicate, sits next to a copy of Stedman’s Medical Dictionary.

So Alice starts. “Lorna, I must be honest. We were planning to reunite a combo of mine called Prester John’s Aunt, with two friends of mine who live out-of-state–and Gwen Berry.” I steel myself in case Lorna explodes.
She doesn’t, but she scowls. “I hope you can show she did not try to poison me–she did after all give me an envelope impregnated with parathion, you know…”

"Yes, I know, " I say. “And I intend to show you that she had in fact been duped into this, by a third party who had an ulterior motive and intended to convince you that she was after Jock.” I glance at Buster, who is still leaning against the medical book.
“Gwen had a severe reaction to the parathion herself.” I say. This causes an immediate change in Lorna’s countenance. "Hey, if she wanted to poison you, why would she poison herself?"
She nods. “All right,” she says warily. “If you can show me proof that she had a reaction to the parathion I will relent. [Lorna, in fact, had only a slight reaction to the poison herself.] But I insist on medical documents!”

Alice and I promise we’ll provide them. Lorna goes into the kitchen to talk to Eda, with whom she’ll prepare tea and cakes.
Meanwhile, I have contacted the FBI agent who visited and we have set an appointment for Wednesday afternoon next week, for Alice and me to give depositions.
Alice and I remain in the library with Buster. He walks over to where Alice is sitting, on a couch next to me, and jumps onto her lap. She holds him and lightly strokes his fur.
He tells me, “You were right, I think. It’s hard to believe Lemoyne would be dumb enough to put his own fingerprints on those pieces of mail–but evidence is evidence.”
“And using that postage meter in The Dalles won’t help him either,” says Alice. “All we need is for something new from Pula Kinlai or Yates…”
And wouldn’t you know, the phone rings. This time Paul answers it, and he calls both Alice and me to the phone.
It’s Professor Fields, and he sounds happy. “It’s time you had some good news about Lemoyne,” he says. Alice can hear his voice–I’m holding the handset much the way Mary Hatch was when George Bailey was listening in It’s a Wonderful Life– and I glance downward; Buster has perched on the top of the nearby easy chair and we don’t doubt he is listening too.

“What is it?” I ask.
“You remember Rita Waterford–the secretary who shot at you?” Fields says. “Well, Lemoyne stiffed her out of ten grand and she’s agreed to turn state’s evidence!” Oh wow. Lemoyne is sure surfeited with incriminating evidence now. We’ll want to attend the court proceedings for sure now…

Fields also says, “And Alice may be interested to know about another matter Paul and Eda asked about.” I hand the receiver to Alice.
“Go on, Professor,” she says.

[dougie_monty]

Then Buster waves his tail again, clearly indicating to me he wants me to step out into the hall. This is Alice’s call.

“Excuse me,” I say, and I follow the cat out into the hall. Paul and Eda are with Alice, and no other people are present.
“Alice can handle her own call,” he says. “You may have a more urgent matter to deal with.”

“What do you mean?”
“You know two guys named Bob Long and Howard Albert,” Buster says.
“Yes, I do. Bob’s been a friend of mine since high school. He’s a sergeant with the college police. And Howie isn’t a friend, but I cross his path on rare occasions because he bears a strong resemblance to me. That’s all he has in common with me–the college, his age, and his appearance–tall, dark-haired, heavy-set, glasses.”

Buster ponders this a minute. “Does Howie live in that dorm?”
“No,” I answer, “I don’t really know where he lives. He comes into the dorm and plays the piano in the common area.”

“What doesn’t he have in common with you, for example?” Buster asks.
“Well, for one thing, he plays the piano much better than I do. And I’m not sure, but I think he’s gay.”

I pause. “How do you know about Bob and Howie?”
Buster says, “I was contacted by Salbert–in a way only we in the League can understand.”

“Go on, Buster,” I add.
“I sense that foul play has occurred–and for very obvious reasons this will concern you directly.”

Now Alice has finished her call. Just before Paul and Eda leave the room, Buster admonishes me to stay in touch. He then returns to watch squirrels through the picture window.
Alice relaxes with tea and a magazine. I start to sit next to her, but the phone rings again. I answer it; it’s for me–Sergeant Bob Long. Buster must be psychic. :eek:

I start to greet him, but he says it’s urgent that I return to the dorm immediately. I wonder whether Buster coached Bob on what lines to use!

“Sergeant Long needs me to return to the dorm,” I tell Alice. I surprise her a little by standing her up, and giving her a quick hug and kiss. “He says it’s urgent.” I head for the door to drive over to the dorm. Alice follows me to the door, apparently sensing my concern at Bob’s call; she embraces me again, and says with concern, "Be careful, for God’s sake, _____; “and keep in touch with me…”
I get to the dorm promptly. The other officers admit me to the common area when I show my driver’s license. Bob steps over to me and says…

[NDP]

“There’s been a shooting,” with a grave voice. “Two strange men managed to get into the dorm and were spotted by campus security. They were both wearing overcoats and were carrying large boxes. The security man, Nate Colbert, followed them to where they both stopped–in front of the door to your room.”

“What were they doing?” I excitedly ask.

“They were in the process of leaving the boxes in front of your door when Colbert ordered them to stop and identify themselves,” Sgt. Long continues. “They then dropped the boxes, reached into their overcoats, and pulled out guns. There was a short exchange in which Colbert was grazed in the left shoulder and one of the trespassers was killed instantly. The other fled with one of the boxes. There’s A.P.B. out for him over the entire university district.”

I’m dumbstruck as I try to process all this information. Eventually, some questions come to mind.

“Did they find out who the dead guy is?” I ask.

“Not yet,” Sgt. Long answers. “They took him down to the morgue and are still in process of identifying him.”

“How’s the security guy?”

“Colbert will be okay,” Sgt. Long answers. “They took him down to the E.R. and I just found out the bullet just skimmed him.”

“That’s good,” I say with some relief. “I owe him a lot.”

“You may want to know one of the boxes was left at the scene,” the Sgt. adds. “We don’t know what’s in it yet but we did see the words ‘TO A FRAUD’ spelled out in big letters on top. Do you know of anybody who thinks that way about you?”

“I have a general idea of who might,” I say. "This ‘fraud’ business has happened before and we already had the post office investigating it for us. In fact, Alice knows quite a bit about this. Let me call her on my cell phone so–

Just then we hear a loud and oddly unearthly noise coming from the floor my room is on. Sgt. Long and I run upstairs to see what it is. When we reach my floor, we are greeted by a mob of police and security running the other way and telling us to turn around. I initially can’t quite make out what’s causing them to flee but I soon catch of fleeting glimpse of it. And when I do, I can’t get out of there fast enough. What I saw was…

[dougie_monty]

…Howie Albert, lying on the floor writhing in pain with a large sword in his chest. Bob calls for the other officers to come upstairs, and also sumons paramedics.
I come on this grisly scene and I am so shocked I have to sit down. No chairs, so I sit on the floor several feet away. Howie is bleeding profusely, even as several policemen try to cover him with makeshift bandages. Howie lies on the floor with blood spots leading halfway across the room from the elevator. I stand up as one officer, with a camera, goes to the elevator, pushes the call button, and waits. The doors open and I see one trail of blood spots, as well as a cluster of drops inside the car, suggesting he met his fate inside the car and ran, bleeding, out of the elevator.

He’s about halfway down the corridor, and this is my floor.
Shades of Sherlock Holmes…I see, on the wall near Howie’s right hand, the letters R-A-C-H-E…
In Doyle’s story, Holmes and Watson came on the scene of a murder with the letters R-A-C-H-E wirtten crudely on a wall. One bobby suggested there was a woman named Rachel who started writing her name, no matter how absurd that sounds. :rolleyes:

As Holmes left he said to the detectives, "Rache is the German word for ‘revenge’–so don’t bother looking for Miss Rachel."
Bob and I had been in the same Junior English class in high school and we both did book reports on Sherlock Holmes; the class had discussed this particular story. Now I remind Bob of this passage; he figures someone was after me and mistook Howie for me. This is chilling…is Lemoyne after my life now? :eek: Paramedics lift Howie onto a stretcher, and take him to the elevator; a few minutes later I can hear a siren outisde, fading into the distance.

Then Bob gets a call on his handy-talkie. He goes into a side room to answer.
A minute later he makes a general announcement to the other police personnel present. Then he tells me, “We just arrested two suspects, behind the cafeteria.”

So soon? “Tell me more,” I say.
“Well, all I can tell you is their names–Rudolph Sparr and John Beach. They were searched when they were arrested and we think they are Navy vets.”

Well, it all comes together now. “Bob, will you call Professor Walter Fields at this number?” I hastily write Professor Fields’ home phone number for the sergeant. I simply tell Bob there’s a person in federal custody whose minions, Sparr and Beach, were apparently sent after me at the dorm…
And now these guys have been sacked up by the local police. I glance out a window and see two handcuffed suspects being put in a paddy wagon by the city police department. I’m spent emotionally and I almost faint.

Bob says, “You’d better sit down.” He gets a chair for me. “You take it easy…would you like to get to your room? There was no blood or tampering near your door.”
“Thanks just the same…” I’ll pull myself together. I fall apart first and break down–I wail in anguish. Bob talks to the police photographer, who is now finished; a print man arrives and begins work, and other officers gather physical evidence. The dorm’s concierge is also present and she stays with me until I manages to compose myself.

Even as I feel emotionally drained, there is a positive side to this, if I can call it that. Howie was no friend of mine, and the fact that he resembled me, of course, suggests that Sparr and Beach were acting as Lemoyne’s hit men. But I don’t know if either of them spoke German, or whether Lemoyne was getting more and more careless; now he’ll face a charge of soliciting an attempted murder…
I’ve pulled myself together enough to go into my room–no signs of anything out of place. In fact it now seems a cheerful oasis to me. I sit in my overstuffed chair, in front of my computer, and pick up my cell phone. I call the Terwilligers and ask for Alice.

She comes on the line and I say, “Alice, honey…please come here and pick me up…I need you…” I almost cry. She senses my emotional state and agrees to come right away.
I just sit there for a while. By now the police have finished–even the print man, who did not approach my door–and I hear a knock. I look through the peephole and it’s Alice.

I open the door and step outside, locking it properly just before I embrace her tearfully. I walk with her to the elevator, and we exit on the ground floor, and go to her car.
On the way to her place I tell her what happened. It’s all I can do to speak clearly, as emotionally wrenched as I am.

We get to her place. After she shuts the engine off we collapse tearfully into each other’s arms. Daniel approaches and jeers us again. Alice retorts…

[NDP]

“Why don’t you go bathe a gnome?”

The instant Daniel hears this, he goes silent and his face turns an ashen color like some deep dark shame has been brought out into the open. Then, apparently realize that any visible discomfort on his part at the mention of “gnomes” would give away his secret passion, he suddenly shifts his expression into one of forced normality.

“Is everything alright?” he asks innocuously.

“No, everything is not alright,” I respond with irritation at his earlier jeering and his seemingly stupid question. “There was a gunfight in front of my dorm room in which one man was killed and another wounded, an acquaintance who somewhat looks like me was stabbed with a sword, a mysterious box was left at the scene whose contents I still don’t know, and I’m pretty sure someone–maybe Lemoyne–wants to kill me. Aside from that, everything’s peachy.”

“I’m sorry I asked,” Daniel responds with a tone that says, “What a surly bastard.”

I sigh and realize that I was too curt. Even though Daniel was acting pretty juvenile, I didn’t mean to bite his head off. Alice is looking at me as if to say, “You didn’t have to be THAT testy.”

“I’m sorry,” I say to Daniel. “I’ve just been through a lot and I’m still on edge. Don’t take it personally. If there’s anything I can do to make up for it, tell me.”

“Apology accepted,” Daniel says. “I guess I should’ve read the situation before opening my mouth.”

“Good observation,” says Alice in agreement as we get out of the car. “Did we get any calls why we were gone?”

“That’s why I originally came out here,” answers Daniel. “You got a call from Gwen Berry. She said it was urgent. And _____ got a call from a Sgt. Long.”

“What did he say?” I ask anxiously. For a second, I wonder why he didn’t try to get me on my cell phone but, upon pulling it out of my pocket, I discovery why–my battery’s dead.

“Just that they found out what was in that box left in front of your dorm and for you to call back when you got back,” Daniel says handing me a post-it note with Sgt. Long’s phone number on it.

“No decapitated heads I hope,” Alice states.

“No, he didn’t say anything about that,” her brother says apparently not getting Alice’s movie reference.

I hurry inside to the first available phone and dial Sgt. Long’s number. He picks it up on the first ring.

“_____,” he says. "Glad you called back. We opened up the box and we’re trying to get our heads around what’s in it. It’s…

[dougie_monty]

…really enigmatic. [Incidentally, I forgot to add that the bomb squad scrutinized the package before they even carried it anywhere; the police found nothing poisonous, sharp, radioactive, or otherwise harmful in it.–d.m.]
“…a mirror, as from a compact; a photograph of a Navy cruiser, with the serial number clearly visible on the hull; a photograph of your dorm building, with a window–maybe it’s yours–circled; a crumbled English muffin; and a stack of pink paper that feels like it’s made of rubber. The Navy photo was stuck to the bottom of the stack. On the top of the stack was scrawled, ‘Speculation at the end of a Bruce Lee biographical documentary.’ And pages of the National Enquirer were wadded up to use as packing paper in the box.”

While musing about the end of that movie–which I did see–I think to ask, “Bob, I assume they took fingerprints.”
“Yes, they did,” he says. “None on the outside, but the photos had a few fingerprints we lifted; and the mag powder discovered some more on the pink paper.”
“Whose fingerprints are they–do you know?”

“Well, all I can tell you is that they include that suspect Victor Lemoyne, as well as those guys we nabbed behind the cafeteria, Sparr and Beach. And two others–Douglas Grover and Cyril Yates. We haven’t identified all of the prints, and what’s left could just be more of the same.”
“Did you catch up with Grover and Yates yet?”

Bob pauses. He says grimly, “Grover and Yates were in the shootout. Grover was the Code F [fatality]. Yates is still at large, but we got a picture to go with the fingerprints. His last known residence was about two blocks away from the college, on Siddely Street–and the landlord said this afternoon he still lives there. We’ve staked out the place.”
I’ve been chewing on Bob’s mention of the fingerprints. I finally say, “Those guys sure were careless to leave their fingerprints on that stuff like they did. Colossal mistake.”

“Well, we’d never catch up with suspects if they didn’t make mistakes.” Bob and I ring off, but I’ll be in touch.
I return the receiver to the cradle. Alice–and Buster–heard the whole conversation.

Alice comments, “Maybe the English muffin was me; the building was you…”
Daniel and Arthur have left the room. Paul and Eda were in briefly too but now it’s just Alice, me, and Buster.

Buster speaks up, turning his full attention to us rather than the squirrels. “Don’t be too worried, Alice. The box was set there when they figured ______ was approaching. They were dumb to leave fingerprints on that stuff, but otherwise they must have wanted to tease the police with enigmatic clues once they figured they’d killed him.”
“What about that Navy photo?” I ask.

Buster says, “Either they’re unbelieveably dumb or unbelieveably careless. On the bottom of the stack of paper? I’ll bet it got stuck there by accident. You said Lemoyne had that guy’s–Boylston–his unused supplies. Could have been stuck together; you may want to ask Bob Long about that.”

“I will,” I say. And I’ll ask George Galloway about that Navy cruiser in the photo…was Sparr or Beach on it?
Now Alice wants to call Gwen and uses her cell phone.

“Hello, Gwen? This is Alice…oh yes…he just got back–there was a ruckus at the dorm–oh, you were there?..some guy that looks like _______ was stabbed and there was a shooting in the building…that’s right…no, not yet…yes, one of his guys was killed in the shooting…Oh, Gwen, what did you want to call me about?..Oh, very well…Sunday? yes…we’ll be there…Oh, I see…Very well, I’ll be there Monday afternoon to sign for it…and we’ll be at the Sharps’ tomorrow afternoon…before it starts…well, I’ll decide who attends it; I’ll make some calls tomorrow morning…Yes, it’s still on, so far as I know…Yes, Lena is still in that address in Nevada. I’ll call you tomorrow around 11. Bye now.”

Alice hangs up. “Gwen said I need to go to the hospital to sign for a copy of the medical records–after she got that bad rash from the parathion. She wanted to visit you but when she approached the dorm building it was cordoned off. [This would have been before I arrived.] And we’re to meet at the Sharps’ on Sunday afternoon, before the game. And she said she figured Lemoyne had something to do with the incident.”
By now Alice and I have caught our breath. We go into her room to continue our conversation, sitting on the bed; Buster follows and sits on Alice’s computer chair.
“What was in that Bruce Lee movie you saw?” Alice asks.

“At the end there was a speculation that he had been killed by some kind of gang, even Chinese Communists,” I answer. “His death was mysterious but I bet whoever wrote that message knows that’s the popular concept–and supposed I would have been aware of it. So Howie got stabbed with that big old sword.” I remembered that paramedics drew it out of Howie’s chest, holding it by the blade side of the hilt; it was duly checked for fingerprints; none were found. Bob told me it would be held as evidence.
“And the mirror?”

“Well, remember Lemoyne may still be in touch with Pula Kinlai, who flew out–or oozed out, or fell out, that exit and may have seen the mirror himself. Remember, we have no evidence that Lemoyne himself has ever even known about the catacombs, let alone walked through them.”
We hear Eda calling, “Buster, kitty, kitty, kitty…”

He sighs and jumps off the chair. “If she didn’t give me liver I’d never come when she calls me like that.”
“We’'ll keep in touch,” Alice says just before Buster leaves the room. We laugh a little.

I get up and close the door. We lie together on the bed, just to be close to one another and have each other to hug for comfort. Alice knows how concerned I’ve been about the events at the dorm; I know she must deal with Lorna and Gwen–two potentially hostile women. And then there’s Lemoyne, although we sense the noose is tightening around him; next week we’ll have to go to San Francisco to give depositions for the federal court.

But now it’s time to pay attention to each other…

[NDP]

for about an hour or so after which Alice and I sleep for awhile.

In the morning, I wake up before Alice. A sudden curiousity about the paper Gwen stole from Lemoyne seizes me so, while Alice continues to sleep peacefully, I get up and walk over to her desk where I left it yesterday. I pick up the paper, return to bed, and closely analyze its cryptic contents–in particular the mysterious numbers which we have yet to decipher.

The numerals are written in succession from least to greatest: 23, 46, 69, 92, 115, 138, and 151. It doesn’t take long for me to find a pattern: they are all multiples of 23. However, the significance of this pattern still escapes me as does its link to the other things written on the paper: my name, “column,” “top,” and “Astor.” I feel the need to go check out the web articles about the Astoria Column to see if anything having to do with the number “23” and its multiples is mentioned. As I think this, my sense of unease returns.

I look at Alice. She looks so ethereal–like an angel–as she sleeps. I feel some of my unease abate.

Then, Alice begins to snore–loudly.

I go back to trying to make sense of the paper but make no more progress. My concentration is broken when I hear Alice’s cell phone ring.

Alice stops snoring and groggily gets up to answer her phone. “Hello?” she says with an audible yawn.

For a few minutes, Alice listens to whoever’s on the other end of the line. I notice she with every second she grows more alert and looks more concerned. Then, she briefly turns her head from her phone and tells me the person calling is…

[dougie_monty]

“…Salbert, downtown… He says Winifred’s in a shootout right now with three suspects in a burglary. He’s calling from a pay phone at the scene.” I assume Salbert is in human form, looking like Cracked’s “Sagebrush” character.
“You think she’s in danger?” I ask.

“No more than usual. Winifred could shoot the fuzz off a peach at fifty paces. Has ‘eyes like a hawk,’ as you say here. She has in fact won marksman awards from her department, unusual for a woman.”
Unusual indeed. Winifred is quite a knockout in her own right…and she knows her police work. She has told us that she has handled hardened criminals by the score, in holding tanks; and there’s even a jail grapevine that tells inmates to avoid her.

“Did Salbert give any details?”
“He said she’s down by the Westfield Finance Company. What is bizarre is that she’s firing at only one person. In fact Salbert thinks he knows who she is–a professional criminal named Carol Cott.”

Carol Cott? Hmmm. I wonder if I’ve heard the name before.
Of course! Three years ago in that law office. I came in and she posed as the receptionist. Kept me waiting; spoke on the phone for two hours…then the real receptionist came in and was there ever a wild scene there before they tossed her out! She glared at me–as if I were the one who caused the lawyer to come in and order her to leave. I idly thumb through a local phone directory, odd at this time of night…but I want to find out where Westfield Finance is.

And there it is. Westfield Finance and Trust–23 South 23rd Street!
Then I remember something else. When Eda called Alice and me into the house, just before our episode with the mystic down in the valley, Alice switched on the speakerphone and got a threatening message.
I snap my fingers. Of course! The woman who called was Carol Cott! Sultry contralto voice with an edge to it. And now Winifred is shooting at her…

Alice continues to listen. Then her eyes suddenly get wider and even I hear a shot and a clank of metal, and a low-pitched female scream. Then I hear Winifred’s voice shrieking, “Freeze, you bitch!” She also says some other things I won’t key in here. Alice lets me listen.
Salbert says, “Well, she shot Ms. Cott’s gun out of her hand! She has her in custody and we’ve sacked up the other two suspects.”

Then Winifred herself comes on the line and says wearily, “Alice, I’m all right. We were shooting at Cott for an hour but it’s worth it.” She and Alice sigh deeply. Winifred rings off and Alice stays in a close embrace with me, still shaken although somewhat relieved.
I wait until she appears fully composed before I tell her what I know. I spell it out. She seems relieved again.

“You know, there’s one thing we might have done sooner… Dad has some old phone books in the garage…”
I’m baffled by this but I watch. She puts a heavy woolen robe and slippers on and gets a key. She goes out to the garage and comes back with two phone books for Lodi–one very old and one current. She opens the old one to the Yellow Pages under Construction, and finds the agate line she wants…and shows me.

The line reads: LEMOYNE CONSTRUCTION 23 Skittou Street; ADams 4-9292.
Then she looks at the corresponding place in the newer book: LEMOYNE CONSTRUCTION 23 Skittou Street; 234-9292.

Now isn’t that interesting!

“'Twenty-three repeated in the address of the finance company Carol Cott tried to break into, and 23 x 4–92–in Lemoyne’s address. That phone number became more obvious–the 23 association–when they replaced letter exchanges with all-digit dialing.”
“And now Cott is in custody…along with Kinlai, Sparr, Beach, Yates, and Lemoyne himself; and that mystic, Sikes-Potter, Tigner, and Grover–God forgive them–are dead.”

Alice and I now have good reason to relax. We are not happy that someone has died–Alice and I sure came close in that valley, as did Howie Albert–but we’ve shed a tremendous burden. She doffs the robe and slippers and she and I return to bed–just as we glance out a window and see the first sign of daybreak.

---

We sleep again for a few hours. We want to get over to the Sharps in a while; Alice remembers she’ll want to call Gwen at 11 a.m., and does. We get dressed and ready; in a little while we’ll have the meeting with Lorna and Gwen and whomever else Alice invited.

At the door we are greeted by Fred Moreland, the Sharps’ butler. He looks a lot like the actor who played Bill Cosby’s father on the sitcom. We’ve known him for years, but he still maintains the formal demeanor as we approach the door.
“Good morning, Mahster _____, Miss Alice,” he says. Mrs. and Mrs. Sharp are wating for you in the Green Room."

“Thnaks, Fred,” I say, and we go there. Jack is seated at the table; Eloise meets us at the door to the hall.
“Alice, this is urgent. I’d like to discuss this with you privately.” Eloise doesn’t really sound worried, but rather concerned about something she believes Alice should know about right away. I wait with Jack until Eloise and Alice step back into the room. The four of us are now seated at the table.

I ask “Mrs. Sharp [they are of our parents’ generation so I follow protocol], what’s going on?”
With Jack and Alice and me listening,. Eloise says…

[NDP]

“We may have some problems with Gwen Berry.”

“Why’s that?” Alice asks.

“Well, when she arrived here about 20 minutes ago, she was in a very agitated and nervous state,” explains Eloise. “Like she’d been doing nothing but drinking espressos for last 24 hours. When I asked her what was bothering her, she said she couldn’t tell me and asked anxiously if you had come yet.”

“Is Gwen still here?” Alice inquires with concern.

“Yes, she’s in the library pacing back and forth,” Eloise answers. "I offered her a mug of warm milk to calm her down but she told me she was a vegan and never consumed dairy products. When I left the room, she started mumbling, ‘I can’t do this.’

“Can I please talk to her now before the meeting?” Alice requests.

“That’s what I was going to ask you to do,” responds Eloise as she gets up from the table to lead us back to the library. “Is there such bad blood between her and Lorna that she’d get so upset about meeting her in person?”

“That might be part of it,” answers Alice who gets up and begins to follow Eloise. “Although I have a feeling that there are other things that may be bothering her as well. As you may have noticed, Gwen shifts moods often.”

As Alice and Eloise talk, I follow them out the Green Room, down the hall, and into the library. There, we see Gwen walking around in a nervous circle. She’s wearing a pull-over blouse with narrow green, blue, white, and red stripes, faded blue jeans with holes in the knees, and Birkenstock sandals. To describle her mood as overwrought would be an understatement. Gwen breaks out of her circular pattern and hurries toward Alice.

“Alice, thank God you’re finally here,” she anxiously says. “I really need to talk to you and ____ right now.”

“I’ll leave you three to discuss things out,” Eloise says as she walks out the library door. "Join us in the Green Room when you’re ready.

Eloise shuts the door to protect our privacy. We then hear her footsteps get farther away as she walks down the hall.

I begin the conversation. “Is this about Lorna?” I ask.

“Dealing with Lorna is a cakewalk in comparison with this,” Gwen says. “I can’t help you with Lemoyne anymore.”

“Well, Lemoyne’s in custody after that incident at ____'s dorm,” Alice replies. “So, if you want to quit, we don’t have a problem with it.”

“I know Lemoyne’s in custody,” Gwen says. “He turned himself in–even before he knew the cops were coming for him.”

That was a detail we didn’t know about.

“He must’ve known that attempt to kill me at the dorm failed and decided to give himself up without a struggle,” I suggested.

“It wasn’t that,” corrects Gwen. “Although your murder attempt does kind of tie into it. It was something that happened last night that involved me.”

“What was that?” asks Alice.

“Well, I was with Lemoyne at his big house in Piedmont,” Gwen begins. "We’re standing in the living room by a big picture window that overlooks Lake Merritt. And, as you probably imagine, he knows about the events of that day is quite upset of how everything went. So, he decides to relieve his stress–so to speak–by groping me. He tries to kiss me and starts moving his hands all over my body. Of course, I’m taken by surprise when he starts doing this and just go rigid with the hope he’ll get a clue that I’m not in the mood. Unfortunately, he doesn’t the message and starts taking off my blouse all the while awkwardly trying to nuzzle my neck. I’m about to tell him to back off when he pulls himself right against my chest and reaches around my back to take off my bra. Yet, as he works he way down my shoulders toward the straps, he notices something that most women don’t have: retracted wings. Of course, he doesn’t yet know they’re wings and starts fondling them with a puzzled look on his face. By that time, I’m so upset I don’t care what the consequences are and, push Lemoyne away from me and take wing.

“As I angrily flutter to the top of the picture window, Lemoyne falls to the ground in silent terror–like he’s seen Satan. He tries to move away from me while he’s on his back but can’t because the wood floor’s too slick. As I glower at him from above, he sputters, ‘You’re one too! You’re all out to get me!’ He then turns around and quickly crawls out the living room on his hands and knees. I hear the front door slam and his Mercedes start up and peel out the driveway. Later, on TV that evening, I find out that he’s surrendered to authorities and has insisted on being kept in a cell by himself.”

“I don’t see why you should be upset,” I state. “Lemoyne is jail and you don’t have to put up with his busy hands anymore.”

“But what did he mean when he said, ‘You’re one too?’” Alice asks apparently aware there’s more to the story.

“Well, all during the time I was with Lemoyne, I noticed he was obsessed with the idea of magical beings like fairies, pixies, elves, and the like,” explains Gwen. "Everywhere in his house were books on mythology and fairy tales. I thought it was really creepy but didn’t make any connection between it and you until recently. It started when I suggested to Lemoyne that we go see **The Two Towers/b] because he seemed really interested in that type of stuff. He got so pissed when I said that to him–like I brought up a subject he was uncomfortable with. He said that he didn’t want to go see a movie about fairies (or ‘sidhe’ as he called them), elves, and wizards since he’d had enough of their lot in his real life. I asked him what he meant by that but he just mentioned something that happened to him at a court hearing with you and _____.

“Later, I saw Lemoyne briefly meet with a guy at the house and give him an iron sword. He made a big deal about it being made of iron and said to the guy, ‘you can only do it with an iron sword.’ At the time, I just the guy was a weapons collector and Lemoyne was selling the sword to him. Then, after the incident at ____'s dorm, I saw noticed that one of attempted assailants–I think it was Yates–was the guy Lemoyne gave the sword to. And wasn’t there somebody stabbed with a sword at the dorm?”

“Yes,” I answered. “A guy named Howie Albert who looks a lot like me.”

“Anyway,” Gwen continues. “Lemoyne in the days before the incident was talking about the sidhe almost constantly. How they flew with light gossemar wings and could blend into the general populace undetected. He also said that they could be repelled by iron just the way werewolves are by silver and vampires by garlic. I also noticed him cursing the name of Henry Sikes-Potter and that his experiments were the reason why the sidhe were now in our world and out to get him.”

“That does shed some light on his motives–and madness,” comments Alice. “But I still don’t see why you’re still worried.”

“I know about the arraignment coming up,” Gwen says. “And I just wanted to tell you to expect Lemoyne’s attorney to drop an insanity plea. They can say Lemoyne was clearly paranoid and delusional over the last few months and had no idea what he was doing. I’m afraid my little aerial display I put on for him is what really sent him over the edge.”

Alice and I sigh with this news. Lemoyne may still get over–albeit, if he does, it will mean time spent under psychiatric care. In any case, it’s something we’ll have to tell the lawyers about.

Just then, the library door knocks. Eloise enters and tells us Lorna is here and if Gwen is ready to meet with her.

Gwen nods and we head out of the library, down the hall, and into the Green Room where…

[NDP]

[Note: by use of the term “drop an insanity plea”, I didn’t mean Lemoyne’s attorneys would back off from using it. I meant that they’d submit an insanity plea. (I’m sorry about the poor choice of words here.)]