Surreal continuing story: walking through doors and passageways

[NDP]

I go over to Alice and tell her I want a few private moments with her (but not for the reason she might think). We go over into a corner of the den and I tell her about what’s happened to Topp, that the name of the short man with the beard is Clell O’Houlihan, and that the guy is turning state’s evidence.

“Developments are coming faster all the time aren’t they?” Alice comments. “And Topp suddenly dying seems so strange. Any idea on a cause?”

“Not until they’re done with the autopsy,” I say.

As we talk, Buster jumps off of Jeanette’s lap and walks over to where we are. He seems to be listening closely to our conversation but can’t say anything lest everybody will know he talks. However, I just know he has something to add and will once everybody leaves.

“You know, the name Clell O’Houlihan does seem sort of familiar to me,” Alice says. “But I can’t place it right now.”

“Well, there’ll be time for that later,” I say. “Let’s get back over to the band and talk about what they’re going to do.”

We head back over to where the combo is sitting. Johnny gets up and hand us two small boxes. He says…

[dougie_monty]

“One of these is a special box of cigars. When you open them you’ll see what I mean. The other is a sealed message–sealed merely because Phil taped the lid on; there are copies of special papers inside. You will probably want to use scissors to cut the box open; Phil being a lefty the tape was wrapped around the box in the other direction.” He and Jeanette and Jerry and Phil say goodbye; we’ll meet them a few days from now in the Morpheus, when the rehearsals start and we start to prepare publicity for the event.
“I noticed Jeanette and Jerry had a different temperament,” comments Alice; “and I noticed their rings–”
“Yeah,” I answer, “but Johnny says they’re members of a Green Lantern fan club!”
“Who is Green Lantern?” asks Alice.
“He’s a comic-book superhero. Much like Superman, The Flash, Tommy Tomorrow, or J’onn J’onzz. He has super-powers against anything that is not yellow. Long story.”
Alice is not a comix fan so she doesn’t act interested. “I’m sure I know what those rings do represent. The DXM League.”
“Maybe; but perhaps they’re from a more secret branch of it–more so than Buster or Fred or Salbert.”
We inspect the boxes. Alice being left-handed herself she has no trouble tearing the wrapping tape off. One box is indeed full of cigars, whose bands say “Especially made for:” followed by a name: Victor Lemoyne, Clell O’Houlihan, Cyril Yates, and so on–all the remaining adversaries we haven’t bested yet."
The other box, somewhat lighter, turns out to contain certified, notarized copies of Sikes-Potter’s Last Will and Testament, and certain other legal documents. On top is a note: "Dear Alice and ______: I didn’t have your e-mail address so I asked Johnny Goss and Phil Ramirez to get these to you. See that Walter Fields gets them. I’m out of town right now but I will return with Samantha and Thalia [Samantha’s grown daughter] when you start setting up at Jack’s theater.
“Signed, George Galloway.”
Bingo! We wanted to ascertain what became of Sikes-Potter’s estate.
I’ve been inspecting the cigars, too. Among the other names on them are Carol Cott, Pula Kinlai, Rudolph Sparr, John Beach, and Kurt Todd, my cousin, although the name is slightly smeared. There’s also a slip of paper with the message: “R.I.P. Douglas Grover, William Marston, Mystic Randy James, Henry Sikes-Potter, William Urquhart Topp.” One more cigar remains–with no name on the band, but a picture of Alfred E. Neuman holding his fingers in his ears.
“Must mean it’s an exploding cigar,” Alice comments. “But then again–perhaps the others are too.”
“Well, I don’t assume Mr. Galloway expects us to give Lemoyne and the others the cigars!”
“Mr. Galloway’s mention of e-mailing reminds me,” Alice adds. “We haven’t checked my Inbox in a while. I have been waiting for my international contacts to send me information about Sikes-Potter’s and Lemoyne’s connections…”
So we go out to the catacombs. Sure enough, Alice’s e-mail Inbox is full of messages from her contacts–maybe three dozen, or perhaps more.
And she finds an impressive trove of such information in those e-mail messages:

[NDP]

Sikes-Potter turns out to have been an even more busy man than we thought.

Alice and I thoroughly read each and every e-mail message sent (and print them out just so we’ll have hard copies available). There is a common aspect to all of them: the contacts all mention that, at one time or another over the previous 23 years, they were contacted by somebody representing Sikes-Potter. For enormous sums of money and every legal (and illegal) fringe benefit possible, each of the contacts was offered the opportunity to go to work for one of Sikes-Potter’s companies. In return, their knowledge and expertise in the fields of advanced mathematics, metaphysics, cosmology, and theology was to be used for the company’s secret research projects and become their exclusive property. Alice’s contacts were suspicious about the offers and turned all them all down after doing some research on Sikes-Potter. However, they all did state that they knew of some colleagues who apparently accepted Sikes-Potter’s offers and who mysteriously disappeared shortly after going to work for him. And their disappearance was complete–all prior educational and occupational records would vanish along with any public records like birth certificates or marriage licenses. The fact that a few of people who e-mailed back kept items like personal letters or Christmas cards saved the memory of these employees of Sikes-Potter from total oblivion.

As for Lemoyne, he was mentioned in about half the e-mails as one of the people who was recruiting for Sikes-Potter. They all mentioned that Lemoyne tried to impress them with his wealth and his reputation in the business and financial communities–often bringing along articles about him from the Wall Street Journal, Fortune, and Business Week. Yet, Alice’s contacts all indicated the sense that they never heard of Lemoyne until a few days before they met him. It wasn’t as though he had prepared some fake articles to con them–a check through back issues going back to the 1970’s confirmed their authenticity–nor were Alice’s contacts ignorant of what was going on in the business world. It was just a vague mental sense that Lemoyne’s past and present existence as a prominent businessman and financier suddenly popped up out of nowhere.

"How long have you known Lemoyne? I asked Alice.

“I remember my family mentioning his name sometime in the early 1980’s,” she answers. “Of course, I had other things going on in my life then so I really did pay too much attention. I only got to know about him better when his son went to work for my father.”

We continue reviewing the e-mail messages and find out some more interesting things. One of Alice’s contacts, an Israeli kabbalah scholar, relates an interesting encounter with one of Sikes-Potter’s representatives. It seems…

[dougie_monty]

…that shortly after the Six-Day War in 1967, Sikes-Potter, just getting started in business enterprises, wnated to get in on the quest for ancient artifacts, sensing a huge financial return on it; perhaps he could connect with a Dr. Ze’ev Shremer, known in Israel for his expeditions in the Sinai Peninsula and the West Bank.
“Maybe he thought they’d uncover some new Dead Sea Scrolls, or something else the governments of Israel or Jordan or Egypt would pay a high price for–like the Soviet Government wanted to do to buy those Faberge eggs.”
“Well, he must have succeeded to some extent,” I answer, “since with the businesses he went into, he would need lots of capital.” I’ve been looking at some of the assets the executor listed in his notes for the will.
“What did he invest in?” Alice asks.
I go over the list with her. “Men’s clothing stores…toys…educational materials…software companies, in the late 70s…pet stores…airlines…”
It’s quite a list.
“I didn’t know we’d be able to see those papers–why would the executor make them available?” asks Alice. She’s now sitting very close to me…
I look through the box of documents Goss gave me. “Hmmm… a letter from Bartholomew! I think we should have seen this first!”
The text of the letter reads in part:
“Sikes-Potter’s attorney took the will to probate about a week after the old man died. It’s been tied up in court. I attended the probate hearing, in the gallery. The court voided the will and is going to appoint an administrator to execute it. It seems Sikes-Potter willed $10 million of his $15 million fortune to an organization called the Foundation for Political Research–a fancy name for That Faction. [!] The Court recognized the name and ruled that a will, or a provision therein, could not be carried out of it involves illegal activities–and That Faction is such. Until the administrator rules, the $10 million, in the Bank of America, is frozen. The remainder went to his relatives in England, except for $500,000 for John McGowan, his grand-nephew.”
This startles Alice and me…McGowan was a relative of his! That clears matters up considerably.
"With a court-appointed administrator in place of the executor, it will take weeks before any of Sikes-Potter’s funds will be available, and Lemoyne is in jail so he can’t help. And his company is being liquidated.
“Signed, Edmond S. Bartholomew, Esquire.”
Alice and I react to That Faction and McGowan. Immediately I step out into the open–well, inside the wooden shed–and call Professor Fields on my cell phone. “I’ll be over within the hour.” he says. “And I’d like to discuss some other matters with you–and your feline friend.”
We ring off. We continue to read the documents, and from these and the e-mails it’s clear public opinion is mounting so strong against Lemoyne, Sikes-Potter, and That Faction that this seems to be their last gasp. “Obviously, whatever happens to us won’t save them…”
We’re done for now; so while we wait for Fields to arrive, we return, with the documents and the cigars, to the den. Alice and I have a nice necking session until we hear the approach of Walter Fields’ car in the driveway; we straighten up our clothes and hair and greet him at the door, holding the boxes.

[NDP]

After greeting us, he asks to see the box of documents starting with Bartholomew’s letter. He then sits down in the living room and, after accepting Alice’s offer for coffee (and insisting it’s especially strong), begins silently pouring over the documents.

As Professor Fields sits in the living room, Alice and I go to the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. Buster is there and is washing himself after polishing off a dish of liver.

“Fields is here huh?” the cat says nonchalently. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.”

“He decided to come here after I told him about the box of documents Galloway sent us and interesting e-mails Alice got,” I tell him. “He also want to discuss some things with you in particular.”

“Wonder what,” Buster says.

“Don’t you know?” I ask the tomcat. “I thought you were psychic.”

“I am,” he responds. “But I’m not ominiscient. If I was totally psychic and knew all about everything, there’d be no reason for Fields to see me. We could just constantly communicate by thought. I also wouldn’t have taken a bath on the last Super Bowl. ‘Silver and Black Attack Are Back’ my ass!”

From the living room, we hear Fields mutter, “Fifteeen million? Fifteen Million?”

“Oh, ____,” Alice says. “Can you tear yourself away from talking American football with the cat and get the silver serving tray from the top shelf. As you may have noticed, I’m not especially tall.”

“Sure,” I say opening opening the cupboard and reaching for the top shelf. I grab the tray and take it out but, as I do, an envelope falls out of the cupboard and onto the counter below.

Alice picks up the envelope before I can. I peer over her shoulder to get a better view. Buster is also curious and jumps on the counter to get a better look. We all see handwriting on the sealed envelope’s front stating, “Confidential–D.T.”

Buster is the first one with a comment. “If you ever wanted to prevent anyone from being curious about the contents of an envelope, the last thing you should do is mark it ‘confidential,’” he states.

“Who’s D.T.?” I ask.

“Most likely Daniel,” Alice answers. “He’s the only one around here who has the initials ‘D.T.’ and would think to hide something in the top shelf silverware cupboard. I remember a few years ago, when he had a bit of drinking problem, he used to hide his secret flask of Scotch there.”

“Do you want to open it?” I ask Alice.

“I have the urge to rip it open right now,” she says. “But I think we should wait a little while. We might regret it if act rashly.”

Just then, we hear the coffee-maker gurgle indicating Fields’ pot is done. Alice pours about half of the pot’s contents into a silver coffee server and puts it on the tray with a small pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl. I then take the tray out to the living room with Alice and Buster following.

“What were you saying about fifteen million?” I ask Fields while I put down the tray in front of him.

“Oh, I just couldn’t believe Sikes-Potter’s fortune was down to fifteen million when he died,” he answers as Alice pours him a cup. “I’m not saying fifteen million isn’t a lot of money but when you consider the scale of the operation he ran and all the monied people he had around him, fifteen million would’ve been chump change to him.”

“That ‘reality-shaping’ project he was involved in probably soaked up a lot of money,” Alice mentions.

“Maybe,” Fields responds. “But it’s also just as likely Sikes-Potter squirreled it away where only he–and perhaps a few confidants–knew where it was.”

“Or maybe a lot people ripped him off,” Buster suggests. “He wasn’t exactly involved with the most trustworthy folks.”

“That too is a possibility,” Fields states. “But what I find even more intriguing are these other documents and the e-mails Alice got.”

“How so?” I inquire.

"For one thing, this letter from 1992 states…

[NDP]

[BTW, that should be “nonchalantly.”]

[dougie_monty]

…for one thing, at this time Sikes-Potter, ostensibly in the name of science, had a number of international contacts from countries we wouldn’t consider friendly–Red China, Iran, Cuba, Iraq…this while he was still on the UC Berkeley payroll. In point of fact he missed by this much getting nailed by the FBI for allegedly abetting subversive activitites in other parts of the world.
"For another, his brother Cyril had been deeply involved in South America drug trafficking which, as we know, is a multibillion-dollar industry. Cyril wheeled and dealt for years and apparently squandered a huge share of Henry’s fortune on his own, and seemed to have a ‘brown thumb’–every time he tried to run a trafficking operation he got stung, either by the DEA or a foreign government. And he had a drug habit himself that sapped his health. The cartel in Medellín finally had him killed.
“Third, Henry Sikes-Potter was a soft touch to people in his businesses–even the lowest employee. Anybody with a sob story could expect Sikes-Potter to give him or her money. Remember how Howard Hughes used to give all his employees turkeys for Thanksgiving and Christmas?”
“I sure do,” I said. “My dad worked at Hughes Aircraft in El Segundo for years.”
"Well, Henry Sikes-Potter was like that. And, like Mozart, he was also a spendthrift. He bought huge houses in London, Paris, Montreal, New York–everywhere. Expensive cars, clothes–and he divorced six times and each wife got a fat settlement. And he had to pay child support for four kids, none of whom is still alive. Only one of his ex-wives is still living, and she married a solid man living in Rhondda.
“He was also a compulsive gambler and prostitutes’ customer. Squandered untold millions on his own. Whatever business acumen he started out with deserted him as the years passed.
“And the funding of That Faction and Lemoyne’s reality shifts just about drained him dry.”
Alice and I can’t help but sigh at all this; for her and me the saving grace is that with that mystic’s death That Faction was moribund anyway.
“So only one ex-wife living in Wales has survived him,” Alice comments. “And I guess she wants no part of her ex-husband’s life.”
“Remember, Alice,” says Fields, “He did have a few other relatives scattered throughout England he willed the rest of his fortune to now. And there’s John McGowan, whose only lucid trait was that he had earned a professorship–albeit with Lemoyne’s scholarship. And McGowan certainly doesn’t have Lemoyne’s, or Sikes-Potter’s, skill at evading punishment. That half-million he got from Sikes-Potter’s estate won’t do him a damn bit of good.”
“Well, what’s next?” I ask.
“Next week, the Appellate Court in Stockton will want the both of you to testify about Lemoyne’s improper plea-bargaining in Judge Shagnasty’s court. The justices there are as stalwart as Isidore Cantrell. You’ll have a similar procedure giving deposition about Lemoyne obstructing justice, along with the slew of criminal charges we pressed against him in the first place.”
Buster trots into the room and hops onto a chair; his tail touches a picture of a pink elephant.
“You don’t have to pantomime, Buster,” I say. “I know you want to remind us about that envelope with ‘DT’ on it.”
“‘DT’?” asks the Professor.
“Yes,” answers Buster. “They found an envelope up on a high shelf in the kitchen with those initials on it. Could refer to Daniel, however obliquely.”
“Obliquely indeed,” comments Alice. “Especially since he hasn’t been drunk himself in years. Hermione has been such a good influence on him.”
“Well, that’s really a personal matter,” points out the professor. “In any case, don’t assume that an envelope for Daniel is the only one. There may be envelopes for you, Alice, and Arthur, and perhaps even for Paul and Eda…”
“Someone called?” asks Paul, coming into the room with Eda. Buster sees them and reacts acxcordingly.
Now we discuss other matters.
Professor Fields says, “I heard you got Jack Sharp to let you use the Morpheus for that AIDS benefit. That should be interesting. The Morpheus is a historical place. I was there years ago after Jack first bought it.”
“Go on,” I say.
Eloise told us her kids claimed the place was haunted. Owen was in kindergarten at the time and even the assurance of fifteen kids wasn’t enough to overcome Eloise’s skepticism. But the place was remodeled, of course; it had had a fire and for a while Jack did not consider it economically feasible to make repairs–until the city insisted he do so; so he shrugged and had the work done. The rumors about the ghost seemed to stop after the fire–but some people in city government seem to think the ghost is still there.”
Alice, Paul, Eda, and I dismiss this as improbable–we’ve all heard such stories before and we all view www.snopes.com often.
We spend the next half-hour or so with small talk, including the Professor’s jibes about Alice and me not being married–after all, we’re both well set financially and with planned careers, not to mention the DXM League. Alice and I laugh off Walter’s comments (echoed by Buster’s facial expressions and postures) but there’s no question she and I believe we were meant for each other…

[NDP]

Buster suddenly straightens up as though something just came into his mind. He jumps off his chair and runs into the den. There, he starts yowling pawing at the television as though he wants it turned on.

“What is with that cat?” Paul inquires. “He’s acting like he’s missing his favorite program.”

“I’ll look into it,” I say as I get up and walk into the den. Buster’s paw is on the remote and, with clenched teeth, he quietly mutters, “Turn on the TV to the local news channel.”

Curious, I follow Buster’s instructions. The second I flick over to the local cable news station, an interesting news story begins.

“Police are investigating the suspicious deaths of four suspected Hell’s Angels gang members,” the blonde anchorwoman says. “The bodies of Thomas Boerwinkle, 44, Ned (Turkey) Jones, 41, and Henry (Tito) Fuentes, 37, were found this morning in the pool room of Steelballz Tavern on 23369 South 23rd Street in _______. Less than one block away, witnesses also saw Sebastian (Sibbi) Sisti, 45, suddenly fall over dead onto the street from his motorcycle while he stopped at an intersection.”

File photos of the four dead bikers appear on the screen. I recognize them instantly as the four bikers who tried to attack Fred and I during the parade.

“Alice! Professor Fields!” I yell out into the living room. “Can I see you?”

Alice and Fields join me in the den as do Paul and Eda. On the TV, the anchorwoman mentions that no signs of violence or consumption of controlled substances were found at the scene. She also says that autopsies will be conducted on the four bodies.

“The four guys who tried to assault me were found dead this morning,” I tell them while pointing to the TV screen.

“When did this happen?” asks Eda.

“At that parade the other day,” I answer. “They were in a blue Nash Rambler.”

“What parade?” Paul asks. “I don’t remember seeing anything about any parade.”

"Well, it did seem sort of unplanned–

My cell phone rings. I know who’s calling. I immediately answer it.

“______,” says the voice. "Sgt. Long. I’m just calling to tell you that–

“I know,” I tell him. “The four bikers are dead. I just saw it on the news.”

“So you do know already,” Sgt. Long states. “Funniest thing. No signs of any fight, drug O.D., or anything. Just a vacant smile on the four guys’ faces.”

“I didn’t hear anything about the expression on the bikers’ faces,” I say. “Sounds just like how they found Topp.”

“Right,” he continues. “We also got back some of the results of Topp’s autopsy and there’s nothing.”

"“Nothing?’” I inquire.

“Nothing,” Sgt. Long repeats. “No sign of a heart attack–Topp’s valves were clean; no sign of stroke; no sign of poisoning; no sign of any controlled substances–legal or illegal; and no sign of violence. It was like someone just flicked a switch and turned him off.”

“That is strange,” I comment. “Are they going to do any more tests?”

“Probably,” he answers. “But we’re not going to bet the results back for a little while. Oh, you’re not planning on leaving the Terwilliger house soon?”

“No,” I say. “Alice and I are reviewing some things with Professor Fields.”

“Fields is there?” says Sgt. Long. “Good. I’ll be over to the house within the hour. There’s some things I want to discuss with you. Also, there’s one thing I want you to get for me before I arrive.”

“What is it?”

"The…

[vl_mungo]

things… you know…" he said, giving a meaningful look.
I was flummoxed. The things? Feverishly I racked my brain. I did have some things. Some important things. But now was not the time or place to pull them out.
In order to play for time, I started rummaging around through my desk drawers. Perhaps I could foist him off with that package of so called “magic” beans I’d been stuck with for the last little while. Nah, even he wouldn’t fall for that.
Then a came across something I didn’t even know I had

[NDP]

–a lipstick applicator.

Then I remembered why I didn’t know I had it–this was Alice’s desk.

I shut the desk drawers and rummaged my brain to figure out what Sgt. Long was talking about. After a few minutes, it hits me: the things are…

[dougie_monty]

…the mysterious box of cigars.
…the remaining papers Johnny Goss gave me from Mr. Galloway.

Some CRD-RW’s of Alice, concerning the sidhe, the Tlingit, and related matters.
…a personal letter from Lorna McManus to Mary Blonda, which Mary had probably dropped from her purse when she visited with Mark and Theodore, and we must have forgotten to return to her. So far as I know nobody else has so much as seen the letter since then.
…a contact of Alice’s in Atlanta, concerning rare diseases.

I also get a call from Jack Sharp. He wants us to be ready to go to the Morpheus tomorrow and start rehearsals, so I call Johnny Goss, Lena Martinez, and Louise Brown.
I tell Alice, “Amy is staying with Jeanette right now; apparently she and Jeanette are sharing beds with Jerry and Johnny: Jeanette is the tramp but ‘she can sleep with only one man at a time.’”

Sergeant Long arrives. He says that on the way he got a radio call about some forensic experts coming from Sacramento, who believe it is a rare disease that shows no immediate symptoms and is genetic—that is, it strikes only people who are related.

“Related to Sikes-Potter?” I quip.
“That’s possible,” he says. Only he, Professor Fields, and Buster are with us in the living room now.
“Then this could get John McGowan as well,” comments Alice—with not a sign of vindictiveness or happiness in her voice. I wonder if I should swallow my pride and try somehow to warn him about it…

“That’s possible,” Bob says.
He also says, “When we examined the bikers as they were brought in, we found papers ‘dispatching’ them to go after you and Fred Moreland—and the papers were signed Carol Cott.”

Carol Cott!
The woman who impersonated a receptionist in that law office in 1998.
The woman who called Alice just before our near-execution by whammy in front of the mirrored circle.
The woman whose gun Winifred shot away in a bungled burglary.

“We have moved Cott from the regular jail cell she was in to a maximum-security cell in the facility at Tehachapi,” Bob adds.
Just then we hear a rumble, like a thunderclap, and I see, out the window, near the horizon, a distant feeble flash of lightning.

I mention the call to Jack Sharp and suggest to Bob and Walter that we can visit Fred, and Salbert, too; he is staying with the Sharps for a little while. Salbert, in particular, may have a line on the mysterious disease.
Buster speaks up. He has jumped onto Bob’s lap.

“I think I’ve heard of this disease. Only Don Martin, a Mad artist, gave it a name, about 1958—‘recalcitrant plebney.’” (In a cartoon of Martin’s a man, allegedly suffering from plebney, suddenly turned stiff as a board and died on the spot—but from “plague,” not plebney.)
“Well, that takes some of the mystery out of it,” the professor says.

Alice and I would like to get the ball rolling. I think of one other thing: My sister Janet, who does genealogical research. I write down an e-mail address for her and give it to Alice. “Maybe Topp and those bikers are related to Sikes-Potter,” I say.
Sergeant Long gets a call on his portable radio and steps into the hall.

He comes out in a few minutes. “The forensic experts from Sacramento called on the way out here. They agree it’s some kind of neurological disorder that’s shows no immediate symptoms and it seems to be genetic-linked, if that makes sense. And—I don’t understand this—I asked Lieutenant Don Clay about that thunder; he says he’d been watching TV, for weather news, and no mention was made of thunderstorm activity anywhere in California.”
Curiouser and curiouser, I think.

Professor Fields and Sergeant Long are done here for now, but I know we’ll be hearing from them. They go on their way. Hermione and Winifred come back, off-shift; they visit briefly with Bob outside before coming in. They meet Arthur and Daniel in the kitchen and, apparently deferring to Alice and me, close the kitchen door.
Buster alone remains with Alice and me in the living room. Alice and I are overwhelmed by the recent events and have stayed on the couch, side by side, all through the visit by Fields and Long.
Buster watches us.
“Aw, cut out the mushy stuff!” he moans.

[NDP]

I want to make a snide remark to Buster about his being fixed is why he’s so crabby but I decide not to. Instead, I make some banal comment about the weather.

“There usually aren’t that many thunderstorms in this part of the country this time of year,” I say. “Still too cold.”

“Oh, they’re more common than you think,” Alice says. “Especially now–what with global warming and everything.”

“I’m still having trouble trying to believe all the people who’ve been suddenly dropping dead are somehow related and that they all had some type of genetic-linked neurological disorder,” Buster comments. “I just get the sense there’s more at work here.”

“Well, it does seem to be the best explanation so far,” Alice says. “Occam’s razor.”

“Maybe,” Buster continues. “But I’m getting the feeling that this theory is about to get blown out of the water real soon.”

As he talks, I glance out the window and notice that large dark clouds are gathering outside. Although it’s still the afternoon, streetlights are flickering on and it’s getting as dark as midnight. I turn on the tiffany lamp next to the couch to counter the growing gloom.

“Man, it’s dark outside,” Buster says noticing the weather. “Those are some scary clouds out there.”

“They look like the ash clouds that came out of Mt. St. Helens when it erupted,” I add. “Except they’re darker.”

“How do you know that?” asks Alice. “Were you there?”

“Sort of,” I tell her. “When I was a kid, the mountain blew and spread ash over hundreds of miles of the Pacific Northwest. I didn’t live near the mountain but I did live in the path of the ash cloud. It was like a gray snow that didn’t melt–a real freakin’ mess. However, on the upside, the schools were closed for a week.”

“Well, I didn’t hear anything about Mt. Lassen or Mt. Shasta going off, so I don’t think we have to worry about an ash storm,” Alice says.

“Yeah, those clouds aren’t from a volcano,” agrees Buster. “But they do look dark enough to spawn a tornado.”

“They don’t have tornados here,” I say trying to quell any fear in Buster, Alice, and myself. “Besides, there’s no wind out there.”

“True,” Buster says. “But you have to admit there’s a lot of moisture in those clouds. If you ask me, I think we should build an ark.”

“I think you should both go outside and walk the streets with signs reading ‘The End Is Nye,’” Alice sarcastically retorts.

“Do you have a sound and unscary explanation for those mysterious ominous clouds out there?” Buster inquires.

"Well, I’m sure it’s just…

[dougie_monty]

…plain old rainclouds.
Something is stirred in the back of my mind. On New Year’s Eve 1965 I rode my bike on a street in Hermosa Beach and a huge raincloud passed overhead in a matter of minutes, drenching me and everything else in sight. And in the late 1980s I had driven over to my attorney’s office near LAX, and watched clouds gather; when I left the clouds were even thicker and by the time I reached my next destination, downtown Los Angeles, there was a downpour. Granted the climate in Southern California is different from the region the Terwilligers live in…
Sure enough, the rain comes down, a regular cloudburst, complete with thunder that rattles the windowpanes and lightning that almost makes the sky as bright as it had been during daytime.
And in half an hour it’s over. The clouds don’t disappear, but they thin out and the sun shines again. On an impulse I go outside, and find only one dark cloud, very small, directly overhead. And something falls from it.

A small slip of paper—or parchment, or papyrus-?? wafts down from the sky, and lands on a nearby bush. I go get it; it’s like a shred torn from a larger sheet, rather crudely. It’s blank on one side; on the other is hand printed simply, “Joe Btfsplk,” the name of the hapless character in the “Li’l Abner” comic strip, who had a raincloud over his head all the time. I puzzle over this—and then look up and see the cloud drifting eastward, as if nothing had happened….

I go back inside and tell Alice about this. She remembers “Li’l Abner” and Joe Btfsplk, too; but we can’t quite make this out.
Then the phone rings. It’s Professor Fields again.
“I thought of something we might try before you go to Stockton next week,” he says. “I brought it up to Erika Thallwood [Lemoyne’s attorney] and she did not object.”

“What’s that?”
“You said Lemoyne was sure you and Alice and Gwen Berry are ‘sidhe’ and he tried to repel or kill you with iron—the sword used on Howie Albert and the daggers he had when he chased you on the street.”
“Go on.”

“He’s being held at the federal detention center in Hayward. I thought maybe if you three went there, and confronted him, with that iron cell he has, it could make or break the matter. I’m in the process right now of contacting the office of the psychiatrists who handle insanity pleas by federal suspects, and they will prepare a report; obviously Ms. Thallwood and Mr. Gingerich can’t simply say ‘We enter a plea of insanity’ and expect the judge to believe it. If Lemoyne sees the three of you touching the iron bars, for example, without dying :D—it’ll weigh heavily against him when the justices hand down a ruling.”

“All right…when you get the okay from the psychiatrists let Alice and me know and we’ll arrange to go to the facility in Hayward.”
“Say hello to Buster for me.”
We ring off. I tell Alice and Buster what the professor said.
“Well, we don’t want to scare him,” Alice says.

“Hey, if he sees you’re not affected by the iron bars and such, he’ll lose a major cop-out. But didn’t Fields bring some medical records already?”
“Yes,” Alice answers. “But those were physical, not psychiatric.”
“In any case,” continues Buster, “You don’t want to aggravate the matter by giving Lemoyne yet another cop-out, especially since he seems to have a heart condition. So if you go ahead with this, let him and the jailer and the doctor decide what you do, and how and when.”
We agree.

Alice and I—Buster doesn’t like to go outside when it’s wet—have a look at the aftermath of the quickie thunderstorm. We go around and set up trash cans the wind knocked over—and once again I see the wooden ladder, on its side, left out. I sigh and shake my head.
“That Daniel…he should know better than to leave it out like this!” says Alice sourly.

I fold the ladder up and carry it around to the back, where at least it’ll be resting under the overhang along the back of the house, beneath the fascia board. I don’t see any more hammer marks, or split or loose rungs, on it.
Alice and I spend the rest of the day hitting the books; Alice also sends an e-mail to my sister Janet, in Utah, asking for genealogical information on Henry Sikes-Potter and who he is related to and how, in case more people contact the “recalcitrant plebney” Bob Long mentioned. We also prepare to go to the Morpheus tomorrow morning; Alice and I make some calls. Gwen is slightly cool to the idea of confronting Lemoyne, but when we tell her Professor Fields suggested it she quietly agrees. She also agrees to be at the Morpheus tomorrow. Alice and I have another necking session, in the den; I go use the bed in that room and Alice retires for the night in her own room.

---

The next day Alice and I get to the Morpheus bright and early. As we reach that part of town we notice no sign of rain the previous day. We park in the private lot adjoining the theater.
The Morpheus is indeed an ancient landmark, perhaps built near the end of the 19th Century, and lovingly restored at Jack Sharp’s direction. The exterior is lightly ornamented; the marquee is big and majestic. We go inside with Jack and Eloise, and Prester John’s Aunt, The Cigar Band, and the other four married women—Mary Blonda, Loora Oranjeboom, Louise Brown, and Jane Bradley, arrive, with their husbands and the older boys bringing equipment in. Gwen, Amy, and Lena are wearing tight jeans and simple blouses—Gwen’s completely hiding her wings. The Cigar Band is wearing jeans and old sweatshirts; except for Eloise, in a fancy dress, the other women are wearing slacks and cardigans. As always, they look attractive and smart. The husbands dress much like lumberjacks; Joe Bradley and Stan Brown, both with full beards. We meet in a large conference room off the lobby.

Jerry Britton, the irreverent, pudgy drummer, sees Alice and me, dressed in similar checkered shirts and light blue slacks, and asks, “Which twin has the Toni?” We answer with oh-you’re-so-funny-Jerry grimaces.
Then Jerry asks Jack, “Hey, Mr. Sharp, we hear there’s a ghost here.” This gets some laughs.
I start to have the same feeling about the well-heeled Jack and Eloise Sharp that I had about Mr. Bartholomew.
Jack answers Jerry about the alleged haunt. “Well…”

[NDP]

I wouldn’t necessarily say the theater’s haunted by a ghost but there have been some strange unexplainable events here."

“Like what?” Jerry asks.

"In the back of the theater past the old dressing rooms, there’s a private lounge, Jack begins. “Theater employees, visiting performers, and various guests used to go there before or after shows to eat, relax, and socialize with one another. Nothing fancy–just a few small tables, a TV, a pinball machine, a half-kitchen, a couch, a refrigerator, and some vending machines. One of the machines was one that sold bottles of Nesbitt’s soda. (Of course, I don’t know if any of you remember Nesbitt’s.)”

“I do,” I mention. “When I was a kid, I used to guzzle bottles of their orange and grape sodas all the time. I haven’t seen Nesbitt’s in over 20 years though.”

“Anyway,” Jack continues. “They had this Nesbitt’s machine for the longest time–over 30 years. Then, one day in the late 1970’s, it was gone; either they stopped distributing Nesbitt’s locally or the machine just gave out. It was replaced by a Coke machine. … But, every so often, somebody would press the button for a can of Coke, Sprite, Mr. Pibb, Mello Yello, or whatever and out would come a bottle of … Nesbitt’s Pink Lemon Drink.”

“That’s … interesting,” I say.

"And this would happen even after they put in new Coke or Pepsi machines every few years, " Jack states. “Bottles of Nesbitt’s Pink Lemon Drink would on rare occasions be dispensed.”

“Never orange or grape?” I ask. “Those were Nesbitt’s most popular flavors.”

“Nobody ever got an orange or grape,” Jack replies. “It was almost always the Pink Lemon Drink but there are stories that sometimes it would be Nesbitt’s Fruit Punch or Creme Soda.”

“Wow. If that’s not convincing proof of the supernatural, I don’t know what is,” comments Jerry.

Jack furtively looks around and beckons with his hand to draw closer which we do.

“It happened to me a couple times,” Jack whispers. “Both times it was the Pink Lemon Drink.”

“Did you drink them?” Jerry asks.

“I didn’t know whether I should,” he answers. “So I put both bottles in the back of our old refrigerator in the basement. They’re in a gray lunchbox with a lock on it. I show them to you the next time you’re over.”

“Do you still have a pop machine in the lounge?” I ask.

“We just put a new Coke machine in,” Jack says. “But nothing odd has happened with it yet.”

At that point, I see Lorna McManus enter the theater. She’s wearing blue jeans, black Chuck Taylor All-Stars, and a red sweater that matches her hair. She’s also carrying some music sheets for the numbers she wants to perform. She walks up to me and says…

[dougie_monty]

… “Alice told me you’d want to look my music over, in case you’d like to do singing.”
“Well, I know she said you’d be singing.”
“Yes, I will,” Lorna answers. “I guess she didn’t say that I also play the electronic keyboard.”
“I guess she forgot to mention it,” I answer. I’m impressed; with Lorna, as with Alice, I have found little that was not praiseworthy. Both women have shown considerable talent and expertise in—well, in just about anything they’ve tackled. Lorna hands me copies of sheet music; some folk stuff, a few rock tunes, and older-style American ballads.
Then she beams with delight. That is, she seems really happy about something. “Get all the others to come in here—oh, wait, I’ll do it. I also play the bugle.”
She opens her bugle case and fits a mouthpiece into a shiny nickel-silver bugle with a tartan cord hanging from it. She plays the military assembly tune.
Everyone runs in, including Alice, Jack and Eloise, and the four other married women. When we gather there, she gives us the big news.
“Jock and I are getting married.”
Everyone cheers. Alice has stepped next to me; we snugly clasp each other’s hands. Lorna shows us an expensive engagement ring Jock gave her.
I say, “I thought you already had a ring.”
She smiles. “Well, I guess you could call that a ‘friendship ring.’ Jock gave that to me a few days before you met us. He has been so nice…”
Jock himself comes in, a moment later. He stands next to Lorna and we congratulate him.
She turns to Alice. “And I’d like you to be my Maid of Honor.”
Alice’s eyes are swimming with tears. “Oh, yes, I will be…” she and Lorna embrace tearfully. I am hard put to hold tears back myself. Even the burly Stan Brown, in full beard and lumberjack regalia, gets teary.
As the other women crowd around Lorna and Jock, I excuse myself. I go to the lounge area with Stan, Joe, Jack, Bob Blonda, and Pete Oranjeboom, and George Galloway, who just came in. Samantha and Thalia are here as well, and they join the happy crowd with Lorna.
We just sit there for a little while. Jack put a SMOKING PERMITTED sign on the wall; Pete lights a cigarette and Joe Bradley a panatela.
I decide to go over to the drink machine. I take a dollar bill and slip it into the slot, and look at the selections. I notice Nesbitt’s Cream Soda as one of the offered flavors—and I start to ask Jack about that; but instead I just push the button.
I don’t get a drink—but I hear a strange moaning sound coming from a point above the ceiling, which has the old-fashioned sound-deadening perforated tiles on it. None of the other guys present react.
The same thing happens every time I push the button for Nesbitt’s. Finally I shrug and select Squirt instead, and a bottle of Squirt tumbles out to the dispensing port. I take the bottle and sip it. Now the guys in The Cigar Band—Johnny Goss, Phil Ramirez, and Jerry Britton, come in and we all talk about Jock and Lorna.
Meanwhile, I miss Alice. I finish about half the bottle of Squirt and walk back to the conference room. On the way I see a picture on a wall, almost affixed to the ceiling, which, on close inspection, appears to be TV actor Robert Vaughn, from the 60s, wearing a fancy top hat which has a sprig of holly pinned to it. In the vague background of the picture I also see the likenesses of David McCallum and a St. Bernard dog, along with a short chain and a book resembling a ledger. I didn’t remember seeing the picture when I went to the lounge.
I return to the conference room, where Alice is still talking to Lorna, along with the five married women, and Samantha, Thalia, Gwen, Amy, Lena, and Jeanette Strong; all of the women are in more or less modest attire, even Jeanette. I step up next to Alice; she decides to sit down and she and I go to a large overstuffed loveseat across the room and sit there, arms around each other’s waists. Alice is still emotional about Lorna’s announcement; I take a hanky and gently dab her cheeks where tears have stained them; I even remove her glasses and wipe them dry of tears.
“I am so happy for Lorna,” she manages to say. “She and I have known each other since we were about in sixth grade. All the time we have given each other moral support when we needed it.” She and I cuddle as we continue to talk about the matter. We even slip our hands under each other’s shirts and lightly stroke each other’s wings.
I know I want to tell her about the soda-pop machine and the picture I saw in the hall. But I don’t want to spoil the moment—this is a matter commanding her immediate attention, and the legend originally relayed to Eloise by her fifteen kids is not important to Alice right now. So I just sit quietly with Alice, and defer to her as she savors the moment.
In a few minutes all of the people I’ve mentioned are back in the conference room; we all mingle. With Alice by my side I talk to George Galloway and Jack Sharp about the vending machine. George guffaws slightly and Jack, who told Jerry and the rest of us about the machine in the first place, is baffled.
I also tell them about the picture. Jack doesn’t remember it offhand, but Mr. Galloway says…

[NDP]

“Back in the 60’s, they used this theater for tours by TV stars to publicize their shows. That photo of Vaughn and McCallum is probably left over from the time they were in town promoting The Man from U.N.K.L.E..”

“Yes, but I didn’t see it when I was heading back to the lounge,” I said.

“You probably just didn’t notice it,” Mr. Galloway says. “It’s kind of in an out-of-the-way place.”

For now, that sounds like as good an explanation as any. Our attention turns to the music sheets Lorna handed us on her way in. We review the somewhat eclectic variety of music she wants to sing: new wave (Blondie’s “Call Me” and “Atomic,” and The Pretenders’ “Brass in Pocket”); classic rock (The Who’s “Acid Queen” and the Stones’ “Under My Thumb”–with, of course, a gender switch); American pop ballads (“My Funny Valentine,” “Look of Love,”); country-folk (“Angel from Montgomery”); and some songs by the Velvet Underground (“Femme Fatale”) and Garbage (“Stupid Girl”)–which is fitting because Lorna could be that group’s lead singer’s indentical twin.

“That’s a challenging set Lorna has,” I tell Alice. “So many styles.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “I just thought she’d sing a few songs but I guess our asking her to perform has reawakened her dream of a music career.”

“‘Reawakened?’” I ask Alice. “Did Lorna used to be a singer.”

“For a few years she was the lead singer of a band that mainly did shows in bars and pubs around Scotland and northern England,” she explains. “Then she quit and went back to school. Like me, she’s her in the U.S. trying to earn a graduate degree.”

“Was she any good?” I inquire.

“Actually she was,” Alice answers. “Maybe not as talented as Gwen but she had a strong voice and a definite presence. Had she stuck with it, she would’ve probably gotten better and perhaps even got a recording contract. But you never know. The music industry is so unpredictable.”

“So what are you and the rest of Prester John’s Aunt planning for the show?” I ask.

“We were thinking of doing an acoustic version of The Clash’s ‘London Calling,’” Alice states. “Gwen also has some of her material.”

I’m about to respond when I hear a moaning sound coming from the direction of the lounge.

“What’s that?” Alice asks. “Pipes?”

It’s time for me to tell Alice the tale about the pop machine in the lounge. I say…

[dougie_monty]

All I know is that Jack Sharp had told us about the Nesbitt’s Pink Lemon people could get from the soda-pop vending machine in the lounge near the dressing rooms. When I went in there with Jack and Stan and Joe and the others a little while ago, the new machine had a button for Nesbitt’s Cream Soda. I pushed it and I didn’t get a bottle of cream soda—all I got was a moan coming from beyond the ceiling.”

“That’s bizarre,” says Alice. “What—oh, I saw the bottle of Squirt.” We excuse ourselves and head back to the lounge. I haven’t told anyone, but I still pack the Magnum, not that it would be effective against a ghost…
“I wondered about the picture of Robert Vaughn on the wall in the hallway…”

“Oh, I saw that myself. Remember, when we first came in I had to go use the loo, and that’s a little ways farther down. Nothing scary—after all, the Sharps did restore the Morpheus thoroughly. I wondered about the picture, too.”
We both go look at the picture. I’ve been puzzling over its elements and I have an idea about it.

We go into the lounge and look the machine over thoroughly. Alice takes a dollar bill from her purse and slips it into the slot, then pushes the Nesbitt’s Cream Soda slot.
We hear the moan again. Now there’s nobody else in the lounge with us, and we are startled by the apparition we see.

Sure enough, a ghostly figure appears in front of us—the image of a very old man with long beard and mustache, long white hair, and cadaverous body covered with an old-fashioned nightshirt, carrying chains that are fastened to cash boxes and books I believe are ledgers. Alice and I stiffen with fright—but we hold our ground.
Suddenly I feel the impulse to speak. “I had a hunch it was you!”
The spirit is puzzled, apparently, by my courage to speak. “Do you recognize me?” he asks.

“Yes, I do,” I answer, regaining some composure. “You bear a resemblance to the character of Jacob Marley, the deceased partner of Ebenezer Scrooge in A Christmas Carol—as played by Leo G. Carroll in a movie made in 1938.”
Now Alice manages to speak. “Oh, I remember too—Carroll played Mr. Waverly, the superior of Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin on The Man from U.N.C.L.E. And Carroll also played Cosmo Topper on the TV series Topper—only he wasn’t the ghost in that series.”

Although Alice and I have shown some courage in confronting this ghost, he now starts to move toward us, with a look of menace in those wide, dark eyes. I remember a book I have with me and suddenly, to the bewilderment of Alice and the ghost, I stand up and declaim:
“It is 0509 hours, the month of February, the Year of the Sheep, or Goat, 4700, and the day is Saturday the twenty-second!”
There is a pause. The ghost stands stock-still for a moment, then looks at me in a puzzled manner, then changes temperament altogether. Now he smiles and assumes a dignified and cordial pose.

“A thousand pardons to you!”
Alice is still apprehensive. “Why did you give the year in its Chinese version?”

“That was a stab in the dark, if you’ll excuse the expression,” I say. I show Alice the book: The Addams Family by Jack Sharkey, from about 1965. “In the story, the family moves into their new house and Thing acts like a poltergeist. [I notice the ghost attentive and nodding.] Gomez gives the time, with the year in its Chinese version, and Thing now knows how much time has passed since the departure of the last owner.”
“Who owns the Morpheus now?” asks the ghost, no longer in a threatening stance.

“Jack and Eloise Sharp. They had the theater renovated. We plan to use it soon.”
“I understand,” says the apparition. Until I knew how much time had passed since the former owners left I could only consider you to be vagrants or prowlers, especially after all the work that was being done. I feared the building would be razed or stripped.”
“Stripped?” asks Alice. “Do you mean there are treasures here?”
“Indeed there are,” the ghost answers. “And you may call me Leo. I am not the late actor Mr. Carroll, but I know I resemble him as he appeared in that old movie.”

Alice and I no longer have any fear. The ghost, Leo, now seems to be as cordial as Salbert is. In fact I think we’ll take the matter of the ghost up with Salbert when we go back to the Sharps’ mansion.
“Leo,” I ask, “would you tell us, to satisfy our curiosity, about the ‘treasures’—and the soda-pop machine? From what Mr. Sharp said there seems to be a connection between you and the Nesbitt’s Cream Soda button in the new machine, and the Nesbitt’s in the old one.”

The ghost spells it out for us:

[NDP]

“The history of the free market is littered with defunct products,” Leo starts in a voice that’s beginning more and more to sound like Christopher Walken’s. "Products that companies had high hopes for only die quick deaths or products that managed to stay on the shelves for a long time before slowly fading away. Whenever a product is discontinued, it doesn’t just disappear into oblivion; no matter how short-lived the product, it’s essence remains and goes onto the Limbo for Discontinued Items.

"In the Limbo for Discontinued Items, there’s always a place on the shelf for the defunct product. The New Coke, the Edsel, and the McDLT all live on in perpertuity waiting for the rare chance that some corporate executive will suddenly feel nostalgic and try to bring the product back into markets in the earthly realm. Sometimes it does happen–like with Black Jack chewing gum–but mostly defunct products remain in their limbo.

“That’s … interesting,” I say not sure I believe what Leo’s saying. “So Nesbitt’s went under?”

“No, Nesbitts is still around,” the phantom answers. “Barely hanging on but still around. But, alas, they no longer make the Pink Lemon Drink and Creme Soda.”

“But what’s the connection with the soda machine in the lounge?” asks Alice.

“Just like human souls, dead products occasionally stray back into the world of the living,” Leo explains. “Because that Nesbitt’s machine had been in the lounge for so long, it formed a path to the Limbo for Discontinued Items after it had been removed–kind of like a star forming a black hole when it collapses and dies. That enabled bottles of the Pink Lemon Drink, Creme Soda, and Fruit Punch to come back and be dispensed.”

“But the new machine has a button for Nesbitt’s Creme Soda on it,” Alice mentions. “You told us it was discontinued.”

“It is,” the ghost says. “That button should not be there. It’s a manifestation of another discontinued product crossing over. And that, by the way, is where I come in.”

“How?” I ask.

“I am the Ghost of Discontinued Items,” he declares. “I should explain though that it’s not like I was a consumer product while I was still alive. I just oversee the defunct products and make sure they stay in the Limbo for Discontinued Items–kind of like a gatekeeper. For example, do you remember a breakfast cereal called Sir Grapefellow?”

“Actually, I do,” I tell him. “It came out in the early 1970’s with some kind of ‘Red Baron’ strawberry cereal. I remember both seemingly consisted entirely of food dye and sugar.”

“And marshmallows–don’t forget the marshmallows,” Leo adds. "Kids would eat that and be bouncing off the walls for the rest of the day. And God forbid if one of the hyped-up, no-neck monsters decide to add sugar to it. Well, a few months ago, there was an outbreak of Sir Grapefellow sightings in a Safeway in Jefferson City, Missouri. Sure enough, another defunct product crossed over. It took me three weeks to block that path.

“Anyway, this problem with the Nesbitt’s Pink Lemon Drink and Creme Soda has gone on for years. Everytime I think I’ve finally stopped the crossovers, another Nebitts’ Pink Lemon Drink gets unexpectedly dispensed out of another new pop machine in the lounge and I have to come back again. That’s how I got to be familiar with the goings-on at the Morpheus.”

“And the moans when the Creme Soda button was pushed?” I ask.

“I’m just moaning in irritation about the existence of the button for a defunct product,” Leo says. “I have to make sure that these products stay out of the view of the living. That’s why when one crosses over, I’m compelled to try to stop it ASAP.”

“That’s certainly one aspect of the supernatural I’m not familiar with,” I comment. “Now, I don’t want to sound greedy or anything, but you also mentioned something about 'treasures?”"

“Oh … yes,” the ghost say. "The ‘treasures’…

[dougie_monty]

“The Comstock Lode in Nevada was not the only silver strike at that point in the state’s history. Many disappointed gold prospectors, coming to California after failing to strike it rich in the goldfields, settled for silver. And indeed the prospectors who found silver did better than many who sought gold in California. But the mystique of San Francisco, and central California in general, along with the need for accessibility to the Pacific, caused many silver prospectors who struck it rich to return to the Golden State with their fortunes.”
“I understand, Leo,” I say, “but where does the Morpheus fit in?”
“The original Morpheus was built on this spot. Several rough-hewn fortune-seekers decided being rich meant being refined, so several of them got together and built a theater out here, so they could stage Shakespeare plays and such. The theater thrived until a fire in 1889. About three years later the current Morpheus opened, and stayed in business until the Depression.
“The heirs of some original owners, who had also bankrolled the rebuilt Morpheus, had stored silver ingots, silver artwork, silver jewelry, and silver coinage in some hidden storerooms in the basement, which made sense because of the metal’s weight. It is fortunate that Jack Sharp did not consider the flooring—partly oak decking and partly concrete—worth tearing up or his workmen would have seen the silver. I doubt even he and Eloise know about it, but there are documents describing the silver treasure in a hidden compartment behind the toilet in the restroom abutting the manager’s office.”
“Well, with the magnanimous attitude of Jack and Eloise, I doubt he would crave the chance to get more riches,” Alice comments. “He and Eloise reared fifteen kids and they pay their household staff well. He sunk about $3 million into the restoration!”
It is possible that the mention of silver made little lights go off in Alice’s head, and in mine. Lemoyne, no stranger to greed, had planned to repel Alice, Gwen, and me, as sidhe, with iron. The prospect of repelling sidhe with silver as well seems plausible…
“Well, Leo, I think you have the right idea. I’ll take your word about this; and you would be sort of a security guard for the silver, though from your story about the Discontinued Products it’s clear that you have other business here.”
“And I assure you I shall not disrupt your rehearsals here,” Leo says. “I consider it an honorable goal to raise funds for something as important as AIDS research and I will not scare you or the others here.”
“You know about AIDS!”
“Leo has a smug look. “You’d be surprised how we ghosts keep current about things. There’s no comparison between us and kids’ ghost characters such as that sickly-sweet Casper of the comic books.”
“You are certainly different, Leo,” answers Alice. “We had dealt with such as That Faction—”
Leo winces. “Oh! Don’t mention them! I know about your episode in that valley with Randy James. I assure you he was the last gasp of That Faction—and your mirror sure sealed his fate. He was lord and master of That Faction and without him the minions are scattered. And I know about what happened to Henry Sikes-Potter as well.”
Alice and I would love to continue talking with Leo, but we have to return to the stage, to assist with organizing the rehearsals; and I’m sure Leo has other ghost stuff to do. So we say ‘goodbye for now’ and head back to the conference room, as Leo floats away whistling the Casper theme.
“Now that was an experience!” says Alice; we walk back with arms around each other. She says, “Stop that!” as I lower my hand to pat her buttocks while she walks.
“What do we tell Jack and Eloise about Leo, the Discontinued Products situation, and the silver trove? Especially since we don’t even know where it is ourselves!”
“I haven’t puzzled this out myself,” I answer. We return to the conference room; Jock and Lorna are still surrounded by a crowd of well-wishers.
I ask George Galloway, “Where are Jack and Eloise?”
He says, “They took a sleeping bag and went off to a dressing room across the hall a few minutes ago.”
I step out to the door and look at a door across the hall. It now bears a sign JACK & ELOISE. I start to hear moaning and squealing sounds inside.
I go back and tell Alice and Mr. Galloway what I heard. He smirks; Alice giggles and blushes. “They seem to have made a hobby of screwing each other!” Mr. Galloway chuckles. I know he and Jack Sharp have been friends for a long time and George would know about some of Jack’s foibles. But then so do Alice and I.
Now Alice and I mull over what Leo has told us and how to break the news to Jack and Eloise—after they’ve finished with their canoodling…

[NDP]

I first try to delicately broach the subject to Galloway.

“What do you know about the history of this theater?” I ask.

“Well, I know the Morpheus was built in 1892, that it withstood the 1906 earthquake, and that it was primarily used for plays, concerts, operas, and ballet until it went bankrupt in 1934,” he answers. “I also know that–after a little remodelling–it was reopened mainly as a movie theater in 1937 and remained so until it finally closed in 1992.”

“Have you heard anything about valuables hidden or buried in the theater?” I further inquire.

“I’ve heard some stories about a treasure trove of silver stashed away somewhere below the theater,” Galloway answers. “But I never gave them much credence.”

“How about Jack?” I ask. “Does he know?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s heard the rumors too,” he responds. “But he’s probably aware that even in the off chance that they might be true, the price of silver is still too low to justify tearing up the oak floors of the theater. Which reminds me–some people actually did try to do that once.”

“I’ve never heard that story,” Alice says.

“Yeah, back around late 1979 and early 1980, the price of silver shot up to about $50 per ounce (mainly, by the way, due to market tampering by the Hunt brothers but that’s another story),” Galloway states. “Anyway, this young guy named–I think–Mike Petty who had heard the rumors about the silver treasure got together with one of the theater ushers–I believe his name was Paul Rougeouvrier–and ransacked the place after hours in search of it. However, the police got an anonymous tip from someone and they were arrested before they did any serious damage. I think the worse they did was tear out some drywall in the bathroom near the manager’s office.”

“What happened to them?” I ask.

“They were found guilty of first degree burglary and each got ten years,” he answers. “But they only served four. I have no idea what happened to them after they were released.”

“Does Jack know about that?” I inquire.

“I’m sure he does,” Galloway responds. “They did a shoddy job repairing the damage those two kids did so he saw to it that the bathroom was restored.”

“Do you think Jack would mind if Alice and I discussed the silver treasure story with him?” I ask.

“I don’t see why not,” he answers. “But why do you? He probably couldn’t tell you any more than I could.”

“Well, we’ve come across some interesting info about the treasure from a rather unusual source,” Alice explains.

“What is it and who told you?” Galloway asks. “If it’s something new, I think Jack would also like to know about it.”

“It’s this,” Alice begins. "A short time ago…