Surreal continuing story: walking through doors and passageways

[NDP]

“Chahhhmed to meet you all,” she says with a pronounced Southern accent. “Would anybody care for a sweet? I have two kinds.”

Everyone politely declines Ms. Warborn’s offer but I, needing a quick sugar fix, accept it. She then holds out to me with her slightly shaking hands a green crystal bowl and a blue crystal bowl. The green crystal bowl is filled with brownish-colored horehound drops–typical “old lady candy.” However, the blue crystal bowl is filled with a rather curious choice for a 106-year-old lady: Atomic Fireballs.

“It’s been awhile since I’ve eaten one of these,” I say to Ms. Wayborn as a pick up and unwrap one of the Atomic Fireballs.

“They’re mah favorite,” she replies as I pop the red hot cinnamon sphere in my mouth and immediately start to feel the candy’s sting on my tongue. “Now, if I may be to the point, what is your business here this afternoon?”

Dr. Clouse explains…

[dougie_monty]

“Ms. Warborn,” she says, “We’ve been at the Morpheus Theatre on South Bradford Street, rehearsing for the upcoming AIDS benefit.”
“Oh, that lovely old theater,” Forsaken says. “What were you rehearsing?”

“Cher’s song ‘Dark Lady,’ says Alice. “We finished the song and heard an ear-piercing shriek that scared the hell out of us!”
Ms. Warborn’s eyes widen.

“Did you-all know anything else about that scream?” she asks.
“Yes, Forsaken, we did,” says Jennifer. “We had a friend named Ulrica Werdin present, who suggested a person had died—or a spirit had been exorcised—by dint of a few lines in the song, which happened to be the same as lines from a magic incantation.”

“Really?” the ancient woman says. “And where did this exorcism, or whatever, happen?”
“We think it was at the north end of town, in the Old Grange Hall building.”

Forsaken Warborn smiles. “My daddy used to meet there, with friends—before I was born. I’ve been there lately—I like Southern Comfort and mint juleps, and that nice boy Zack Peters knows just how I like them made.”
I now feel the full effect of the Atomic Fireball.

“Yeeowww!” I scream. “That’s hot!”
“Here,” Ms. Warborn says. “Have a swig of this.” She hands me a bottle; I take a sip.

The fiery sensation is gone! I look at the label. It’s a bottle of tequila!
“I’m surprised, Ms. Warborn,” I say. “Usually, tequila creates a burning sensation! That’s why you sip a margarita after salting the edge of the glass—it’s in the book The Straight Dope.”

“That’s my Atomic Fireballs for you,” she says. “A dose of tequila douses the fire. How did you like the candy otherwise?”
“Well…it was pretty good,” I say. “Can you douse the fire with sherry as well as with tequila?”

“Especially with sherry.” Ms. Warborn reaches for a bottle of expensive Spanish sherry and hands it to me.
“Thank you,” I say. I’ll save this for our wedding night, Honey, I think to Alice. She blushes.

“Back to the point, Ms. Warborn,” says Joan. “So you’ve been to the Grange Hall in recent years.”
“Oh, yes,” says Forsaken. “Nice boy, that Randolph Short…those people upstairs are nice, like Jason Eccles and Larry Gutiérrez…” then she scowls darkly. “That miserable woman Janna Jamieson!”

“You know her?” asks Alice.
“Damn yes, I know her! I knew her when she ran a bawdy house 20 years ago in Phenix City, Alabama—and she’s been doing the same thing in Room 7 at the Grange Hall!”

“So you’ve seen the inside of Room 7,” I say.
“Yes,” Ms. Warborn says. I had been visiting Charlene Alton in the theatrical agency. I slipped and fell in the hall, just outside the door to the ‘J&J Pie Shop.’ Janna opened the door and asked if I needed help—I could see women inside in negligees, or naked, escorting men into rooms, and handling towels and bowls of water. Then she closed the door! That nice Jason Eccles helped me get downstairs. I stayed on a cot in Mr. Short’s office until I felt better.”

Do you know anything else about Ms. Jamieson?” asks Alice.
“Well, other than that she is the scum of the earth, I knew her when she was growing up near Phenix City,” Ms. Warborn says. “She lived on a livestock farm. Her daddy was a pig farmer and he taught all his young-uns to be hog callers.”

Hog callers! We all think to each other.
“And that probably explains the loud shriek you-all heard,” Ms. Warborn continues. “Of course, I don’t think she would have been in the Grange Hall at the time. I happen to know she spends the night in a room at the Mason Hotel, right off the street. You might want to ask that nice Jewish boy Chaim Z’Beard about her. He’s the hotel detective.”

We know Mr. Z’Beard is a DXM person. We mull this over.
“Ms. Warborn,” I say, reaching for the candy and the tequila again, “did you ever hear of a French fur trapper named Edouard Belmar at the Grange Hall?”

She looks around. She says, sotto voce, “I heard of a ghost named Edouard Belmar. He would only speak French. I had to learn French to communicate with him. And he left the Grange Hall about 1920. Then he moved to Oakland. The last I heard he was living in a villa in Piedmont.”
This gets our attention.

“”Ms. Warborn,” says Alice, “Did you know of anyone in Oakland or Piedmont named Lemoyne?”

“Oh, yes, I did,” says Forsaken. “That was about the time Edouard left the Grange Hall. I knew a wealthy importer named Armand Lemoyne. He inherited ten million dollars from an uncle. He was a great lover, but not so great in his own business. And he had a son named Victor who seemed to be up and coming. If you go to Lemoyne’s place in Piedmont you’re likely to meet Belmar—just ask Horace May, the butler, or Charlene Von Flotoe, the stately maid. They’ll tell you about Belmar.”

Now Joan Breastly, in her most businesslike demeanor, spells out our plan concerning Janna Jamieson—who may be dead now—and whom else we’ll need to contact, including possibly Chaim Z’Beard, and Gwen, who never mentioned a ghost when she was living in Lemoyne’s place.

[NDP]

I, however, am starting to feel the effect of downing two shots of tequila on a mostly-empty stomach. As Joan speaks, a warm sensation developes in the back of my head and spreads down my spine. At the same time, the front of my head feels like its full of helium. Then, the room begins to spin–slowly at first–like a merry-go-round gradually building up speed.

“Good Lord,” I think. “What brand of tequila was that anyway?”

Joan’s voice becomes higher-pitched and sing-song. I manage to make out her saying something about Chaim Z’Beard’s office being in the university district next to a movie theater called The Neptune. Unfortunately, that’s the last I hear for a while. The room is now spinning around faster and faster until I…

[dougie_monty]

…collapse to the floor.
Alice and the others turn to me. “Are you all right?” says Dr. Clouse. I don’t see anything…I pass out.

When I regain consciousness, I’m lying on a couch in Ms. Warborn’s room. Dr. Clouse attends to me. “He’s come to,” she says. Alice is already there, clinging to me.
“You may want to stay off your feet for a while,” the doctor says. “Ms. Warborn said that brand of tequila is quite potent.” I lie back.

“I feel all right now, Laura,” I say, but Laura isn’t convinced.
“You’re not quite all right yet,” she replies. I am calm.
“I just bit off more than I could chew, so to speak,” I say.

Dr. Clouse uses a thermometer, a stethoscope, and a sphygmomanometer. “Well, your vital signs are nearly normal,” she says.
“There’s a wheelchair in the side room that he can use,” Forsaken says. Dr. Clouse brings the wheelchair out; I climb into it with Alice’s help. Alice wheels me back to where Ms. Warborn is seated on the futon. I sigh and sit back. Dr. Clouse hands me a glass of ice water, which I sip furtively.

“Do you feel up to continuing with the plan now, _____?” asks Joan.
I smile. “Yes, Ms. Breastly,” I say, “but I’ll stay in the wheelchair for a while. I think I’ll stick with sherry.”

Joan now takes out her cell phone; she calls the Mason Hotel. “Security office, please,” she says.
“Hello…this is Joan Breastly. I’m representing the troupe performing in the Morpheus Theatre…oh, is this you, Hester? Over the river and under the dam…yes, that’s me. Is Chaim in? … Yes, I’ll wait.”

Joan covers the mouthpiece for a moment and says, “Hester Kralicek is Chaim’s secretary, and, like him, she is a DXM person.”
“I guess we’re everywhere,” I say.

Now Joan speaks again.
“Chaim? This is Joan…yes, that’s me…I’m calling about Janna Jamieson in 546…yes, that’s her…oh… I see… How did they find out? … oh… Bob Long was there… and I assume they took her to the morgue… yes… well, Laura Clouse is here… No, Ferruccio Luglio is at Kaiser Permanente… now you’re sure? … Very well, then… No, I’ll have to contact Mr. Short—he’ll call Marcus Saylor in San Ysidro … Yes… When? Well, we’re at the Astorbilts’ place, Burnished Oaks… We’ll be back at the Morpheus this afternoon… that’s fine… All right, we’ll see you then. Thumb to neck and waist. ’Bye now.” She switches the phone off and sighs.

“Well, that’s it. Janna Jamieson died of a heart attack in her hotel room. She fell to the floor; the tenant downstairs called the desk. They found Janna dead in the room. Bob Long made the dead-body report and Chaim has a copy. Bob and Chaim will meet us at the Morpheus later today.”
I’ve been quiet all this time, with Alice staying by my side. Dr. Clouse takes my vital signs again and says “Your signs are normal, ______—all you need is a few hours’ rest.”

Our business with Forsaken Warborn is over for now. We leave and bid her goodbye. Alice and I use the elevator. We get into Car; Jeeves retrieves the wheelchair; we have another one at the Morpheus. We bid Jeeves and the Astorbilts goodbye and leave.
Back at the Morpheus, we park in the private lot; Artie Brown brings a wheelchair out for me to use. I get into it. Inside, I fold up the wheelchair and take a seat on the aisle, in the front row; Alice sits next to me. Also with me are my Mom, my brother Grant, and Dr. Clouse. I smile and sigh, and fall asleep.

When I wake up, it’s late afternoon. Alice, her face stained with tears, kisses me. I snicker, and get up out of the seat; feeling much better, I wrap my arms around her and kiss her with enough passion to produce smoke from her ears! She sheds happy tears; I hold her close.
Now Bob Long and Chaim Z’Beard come in. Chaim is rather short; he’s about forty; he wears a full beard and mustache. He’s Orthodox Jewish, and wears a plain yarmulke, as well as a DXM ring.
Bob Long tells us as much as he is allowed to about Janna Jamieson’s death.

“We’ve contacted Marcus Saylor,” Says Bob. “It looks as though this is the end of the line for the J&J Pie Shop.”
“Have they ascertained the cause of death?” asks Alice.

“Not completely,” says Chaim. “The coroner’s office ordered a check of the hotel room, 546, in case something else was involved.”
Chaim continues. “Parker has already contacted me about Lemoyne’s house. He’s cleared it with Philip Greenwood, and butler May and maid Von Flotoe, for any of us to go to Lemoyne’s villa to find evidence against him, or Sikes-Potter’s minions, or Threshold.” And Chaim adds, “And to look for the ghost of Edouard Belmar as well.”

[Gadfly]

Somewhere, a donkey brays.

[NDP]

“Did anybody hear that?” I ask.

“Hear what?” Chaim replies.

“A donkey braying,” I say. “Salbert and Loochy aren’t around here are they?”

Bob Longs informs us that…

[dougie_monty]

“In fact, they are. Salbert has finished a long prospecting tour and made a successful strike in Placer County, not too far away.”
Salbert now comes down to the stage area. He is dressed much the way Lyndon Johnson did when he was President, at the LBJ Ranch—suit with string tie, cowboy boots, and Stetson hat. He approaches Alice and me, with a “howdy” for Mom and Grant.

“Loochy is sensitive to death reports,” Salbert says. “I did my own ESP scan, of all of you here, and I found out about Janna Jamieson.”
Alice tells Salbert what happened here in the Morpheus at the time of Janna’s death.

“Good God, Janna must have had a really powerful voice! Where did she grow up, anyway?”
“Around Phenix City, Alabama,” says Alice. “She grew up on a pig farm.” Salbert nods.

Now we see two people approaching, coming down the aisle. It’s Claudia Hart and Brian Brown, walking with arms linked.
I hum, “Here comes the bride…”

The others laugh, including Alice, Salbert, and Chaim.
Claudia sees this. As she approaches us, she signs to Brian, *What are they laughing about, anyway?

I don’t know,* he signs back.
I’ve fully recovered from Forsaken Warborn’s tequila. I stand up and say to Brian, “I was humming ‘Here Comes the Bride.’”

Brian snickers. He signs to Claudia. She laughs, silently, and makes facetious gestures to me.
I say, “Chaim, this is Claudia Hart and Brian Brown. Brian’s Mom is that short woman Louise, who looks a lot like Alice—you saw her sitting up near the door with her husband Stan, the guy with the beard and the lumberjack clothes.”

I turn to Brian and say, “This is Chaim Z’Beard, the security chief at the Mason Hotel.” I explain to Chaim, “Claudia is deaf-mute, but she can read lips. She also knows telepathy.”
Now Bob Long speaks. “Claudia, we know about Edouard Belmar staying in Lemoyne’s house. We’re going to ask Gwen Berry to assist us in searching for evidence in the house.”

Brian signs to Claudia.
I’ve heard about that place, she thinks to us, as she signs to Brian. *Lemoyne has as much bric-a-brac and furniture there as there was in Maris Crane’s place on *Frasier.”
[For those not familiar with that sitcom, the wealthy Maris was the former wife of Niles, Frasier’s brother.–d.m.]

“Well,” I say, “We’re going to want to discuss this, to decide who goes out there with Gwen and Claudia.”
“Why Claudia?” asks Salbert. “You’re going out there to search for evidence, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” says Alice. “But we’d also like to locate the ghost of fur trapper Edouard Belmar, who died in 1908 at the Old Grange Hall and moved to the home of Armand Lemoyne in Piedmont about 1921. Belmar will only speak French or use ASL—his wife Thérèse was deaf-mute—and we’d rather be able to communicate with him, if we find him there, without having to use French.”

Salbert accepts this. “Well, let me know when you’re ready to go—I can appear in Lemoyne’s house as a skeleton.”
Now Lorraine Adler and Myron Skagg come in. They’ve heard about Janna’s death, of course; Lorraine spoke to Hester Kralicek—Chaim’s secretary—yesterday. All Hester would tell her was that Janna was 67 years old and she was a business proprietor in The Old Grange Hall. “I went out there,” says Lorraine, “and I spoke with Mr. Short. I’m fairly certain that the ‘J&J Pie Shop’ was no more a food-service place than was the ‘Bear Flag Restaurant’!”

“I’ve read Steinbeck myself,” I say. * I bet Janna’s neighbors in the building won’t be too broken up over her demise,* I think to Alice.
Lorraine, with Myron’s approval, produces a blow-up of the galley proof for a short article with the title “Proprietor of Pie Shop found Dead in Hotel.” We read it.

[NDP]

*Janna Jamieson, proprietor of the ‘J&J Pie Shop,’ was found dead ___day morning in her room at the Mason Hotel. Details of Ms. Jamieson’s death, who was 67, are unknown and the matter is being investigated by the police. According to law enforcement officials, other tenants of the Mason Hotel reported strange noises coming from Ms. Jamieson’s room just before her body was found. Also, in her room, police found *…

[dougie_monty]

*…a series of letters received from reputed counterfeiter Paul Litwhiler, postmarked in Terre Haute, Indiana. According to police lieutenant Donald Clay, the letters had been sent to Jamieson at the hotel over the last three months.
Ms. Jamieson had opened the J&J Pie Shop in the converted Old Grange Hall in the Greenland Park neighborhood. According to caretaker Randolph Short, the business had been opened in late October 2003.

Police also found missives from two other persons named Thurman Stout and Myrtle Fife who, according to Clay, were associated with Litwhiler in Indiana. Stout and Fife had attended the wedding of John “Jock” Dumfries and Lorna McManus at St. Aloysius’ Church in the University District, but left the premises before the ceremony was completed.
Besides the letters, a mahogany box, like a file box, the size of a PC monitor, was found in the room, on a table. Police carefully removed the box to an isolated spot on hotel grounds to ascertain its nature and contents, Lt. Clay said.

Efforts to locate next of kin have been unsuccessful. A telephone number Jamieson left with hotel staff was called, but it was found to be disconnected. Short, the Grange Hall caretaker, had the same number for Ms. Jamieson. Police are currently making efforts to contact the principal owner of the Old Grange Hall, Marcus Saylor of San Ysidro.*
“Well, that’s all we can do now,” says Chaim. I notice that Sylvia Goldstein sees Chaim, from a distance, and approaches.

“Where did they take the box?” I ask.
“They took it outside—to an isolated spot in the rear parking lot,” he says. “They still don’t know what’s in it. Who knows—it may have been a kinky sex device or an old TV set.”

“I sure didn’t know about her being connected with that counterfeiter Litwhiler,” says Alice.
“Well, that hasn’t been established,” replies Chaim. “Don will go today to the D. A.’s office and a judge to petition for a search warrant—a few of the letters from Litwhiler and Stout and Fife are still unopened. As for the mahogany box—well, you know how security is these days: Hotels are allowed to scrutinize items abandoned when guests check out, or are incapacitated or die.”

Now Jennifer Elster approaches. She greets Chaim, Brian, and Claudia.
“I overheard a little of that,” she says. “I think I can assist Lieutenant Clay in securing that warrant—as a private investigator in Indiana, I can attest to a connection between Janna Jamieson and Paul Litwhiler.”

“And Mr. Short asked about getting a search warrant for the J&J Pie Shop,” I say. Jennifer nods.
While we’re discussing this, we meet another couple we haven’t seen in a while—Jock and Lorna. We give them a cheer.

The newlyweds hold each other close. They wear similar white polo shirts; Jock wears a comfortable pair of jeans, while Lorna has on a denim skirt.
“You know,” she says, “We never did get around to throwing the bridal bouquet or the bride’s garter. I kept the bouquet in the refrigerator in the lounge so it wouldn’t wilt.” The bouquet, still fresh, is a cluster of lovely white carnations.

Jock and Lorna greet Jennifer and Chaim.
These are very nice people, Ms. Elster thinks to Alice and me.* I probably shouldn’t have put down marriage to you.* This, I believe, is the first telepathic message we’ve had from Jennifer.

Chaim tells the newlyweds about what happened to Janna. Jock suggests that we “ask Leo or another such member” of our group to accompany Chaim to the district attorney’s office, when Mr. Z’Beard goes to the D. A.’s office to attest to what was found in Janna’s hotel room. (Lorraine is present and we won’t discuss ghosts around her.)
“We still haven’t called Mr. Short about this—or Mr. Saylor. They’ll have to locate Janna’s kin.”

“She could be related to Litwhiler—who knows?” asks Lorna.
“Well,” says Jock, looking around at our group, “I guess all the wedding party is still present except for two persons we hoped would not be.”

(I’m sure he means Thurman and Myrtle, and doesn’t want to upset Lorna.)
We all gather within throwing distance of the footlights. Jock and Lorna go on stage, to throw the bridal bouquet and Lorna’s garter.

[UncleBeer]

Moderator’s Notes:
Can you guys wrap this story up soon? You’re the only two still participating - and probably even reading it. Perhaps if you wish to continue it, you could do it via e-mail. Kinda like those cross-country chess games people used to play through the mail.

Thanks.

[NDP]

Lorna tosses the bouquet in Alice’s direction and, for a second, it looks like she’s going to catch it. However, somebody who nobody expected to see suddenly steps in front of Alice and catches it.

It’s Red Nicholas.

Astonished, I ask him, “How did you get out and what are you doing here?”

Red takes me aside and says…

[dougie_monty]

[To the moderator: Your point is well taken. However, I would like to be able to continue the story up to the benefit, since I’m sure those who are reading it—if the ‘number of visitors’ data for this thread is any indication—have been waiting for that event to arrive. I suggest that perhaps a poll be posted in the In My Humble Opinion forum, to ask the Message Board’s visitors whether they would like to see the thread continued. Maybe it shouldn’t be just up to NDP and me, but I figure I would abide by the sentiment such a poll would express. Perhaps NDP and I can e-mail about this matter back and forth.—dougie_monty]

“I think you people are running out of time. You still have your benefit to present.”
Stan and Joe approach, with Parker.

“I authorized Messrs. Brown and Bradley to release Nicholas,” Parker says. “The League will keep him under surveillance.”
Red is wearing an ordinary sport shirt, brown slacks, and comfortable walking shoes. He steps up on the stage and hands the bouquet to Lorna. Then he returns to the seats and calls out, “Go ahead, Mrs. Dumfries.”

The unmarried women gather. Lorna throws the bouquet again—and Alice does catch it this time! I embrace her.
Before Jock can throw Lorna’s garter, however, Joan Breastly comes in.

“It’s about time I brought you some good news,” she says. “The Piedmont Police secured a warrant to search Victor Lemoyne’s house. They found a box of papers hidden in a false bottom in Lemoyne’s dresser. According to these papers, there were four principals in Threshold—Bullruss, Ellison, Coulter, and Paul Litwhiler. I just read an item in USA Today that said that Litwhiler was seriously injured when his car was struck by a freight train at a grade crossing. He is not expected to live.”
“So it is likely that Threshold has finally collapsed?” asks Alice.

“It is,” says Parker. “In fact, we finished reading and decoding all of the books and disks you provided us with, Ms. Terwilliger. We pored over a long series of texts, including Lal Thakkar’s Jubbulpore manuscript, about Sikes-Potter’s empire, and those four people directing the operations of Threshold—especially the ‘Herring Recipes’ volume. There were prophetic descriptions in that book that tally exactly with those four Threshold people.”
“But just because Threshold is moribund now doesn’t mean we don’t still have adversaries,” I say.

“Of course,” says Parker. “But what you and Alice and the others have done has routed your organized opposition.”
“What do we do now about Lemoyne?” asks Fred.

“We’ve been discussing that,” says Joan. “Some time back, you discussed with Professor Fields, the idea of visiting Lemoyne in the jail and touching the iron bars to prove to him that you aren’t sidhe. You may want to do that now, or just drop the matter. Other than that, it’s all over but the benefit—and your wedding.”
Alice and I embrace.

Now Jock throws the garter. There is a mad scramble, but I snag it. Alice and I high-five—and we get a cheer from the group.
And finally, the day of the benefit has come. Harry Rudolph and his son Laurance put up posters and otherwise advertise the event in the area. We’ve dolled up the Morpheus and polished our routines. Red has returned to the Hellmouth, and practices contacting us with his plasma TV and the camera and sound equipment that Arthur and Daniel and the others installed down there.

To accommodate the people who will be attending the benefit, we’ve parked our own cars elsewhere, and opened the private lot between the Morpheus and Kerrie’s Coifs. Even the unused lot between the Morpheus and Guzman’s Body Shop, long since reinforced and paved, is opened for parking. Galloway’s annex, however, is still off-limits.
The college has sent people over from Community Services to oversee the benefit. The money for the tickets has long since been collected. Louise Brown and Eddie Sharp share duty at the door, taking tickets. (The benefit has long since been sold out.)

Our families are all present. All of us performers are in our dressing rooms; we can hear the hubbub out in the seats of people talking before the show starts. Jack Sharp’s Pinkerton people, and the college security force, are on routine duty, replacing Artie, Mike, and Cornelis (it’s just as well, since Hannah is about due).
Curtain time approaches. Prester John’s Aunt—along with quite a few others who will play and sing the opener, “Another Op’nin’, Another Show”—tune instruments and otherwise prepare, before the curtain comes up. Leo, Luigi, Ulrica, and the other ghosts inspect the lighting grid and other parts of the Morpheus’ infrastructure.

George Galloway and Eloise Sharp, along with Professor Herbert Stollwitz, the Dean of Community Services, prepare to come out in front of the curtain to open “An Evening Becomes Eclectic.” All three are in formal clothes, and they wait for the house lights to go down. I happen to know Professor Fields, Edmond Bartholomew, Arthur Terwilliger, and Matthew Adler—Lorraine’s father—are in the front row at one end. Lorraine, Mary Blonda, Sylvia Goldstein, and George Stanhouse sit at the other end of the front row. Then with Daniel shining the spotlight on the curtain, George, Eloise, and Professor Stollwitz come on stage to open the show.

[NDP]

The audience and Professor Stollwitz steps in front of the microphone to welcome the crowd and introduce the Sharps. George and Eloise step forward to make a few short statements about where proceeds from the show are going and then…

[dougie_monty]

…someone in the second row snarls, “Queer!”
“I beg your pardon?” says Professor Stollwitz.

“Why are you raising money for perverts?” asks the heckler, a heavy-set scraggly-haired woman.
“Madam, we are raising money for medical research to fight a disease,” says Professor Stollwitz.

The heckler apparently just wants to stall the proceedings. Meanwhile, I have noted the appearance of Loora Oranjeboom just inside the curtain, holding a bleach bottle without a label.
To us on the stage, Loora says, “This bottle contains dieffenbachia sap. All it does is take your voice away for a while.”

Doris Sharp, in costume, approaches Loora. They speak; then Doris doffs her costume shirt. She’s wearing a T-shirt underneath, with holes for her wings.
“Take the bottle up to the lighting grid,” says Loora. “The heckler is in the middle of the second row, wearing a red dress. Take the cap off the bottle. I’ll do the rest.”

Doris unfurls her wings and flies up to the lighting grid with the bottle. She takes the cap off. Loora taps her neck three times.
I use ESP. The heckler is now silent. I also sense the annoyance of the audience around her, because of her wasting our time.

I pick up the words of George Galloway, Eloise Sharp, and Professor Stollwitz—
“On with the show!”

I glance toward the wings. Stan Brown pulls a lever. The curtain rises and the audience applauds.
Conductor Irene Short stands at a podium and bows to the audience. Prester John’s Aunt is at center downstage; they are flanked by The Cigar Band, me on string bass, Jane Bradley on steel guitar; and several other musicians. Doris has flown back down to the stage and redonned her costume shirt. She stands off to the side, in the wings, with her brothers and sisters, all in costume like Mary Martin as Nellie Forbush in South Pacific.

Irene gives the cue.
We start to play “Another Op’nin’, Another Show.” The fifteen Sharp kids, all in identical sailor costumes, dance out on stage. We all sing the lyrics along with the Sharps—except for Latonya Moreland, playing an oboe, and Louise Brown, blowing a trombone.

Another Op’nin’, Another Show
In Philly, Boston or Baltimo’,
A chance for stage folks to say “hello”…

And we reach the end of the song.
The overture is about to start
You cross your fingers and hold your heart
It’s curtain time and away we go,
Another op’nin’ of another show!”

The audience gives us a rousing ovation. We acknowledge.
Somewhere I hear a voice—with my ESP—saying, “We have really goofed. I don’t want to mess their show up.” I’m baffled by the voice, but I accept it.

Now we clear the stage, with the lights down. When they come back up, only a black grand piano remains on stage. We watch from the wings as little Jack Sharp II strides on the stage to the audience’s applause.
He sets up his music and plays the Mozart sonata, and gets enthusiastic applause from the audience.

The next number is Jane Bradley playing her C&W numbers. And after that will be Joanie Werdin Sharp performing “The Typewriter.” Meanwhile, Jane gets whistles and catcalls from the audience with her figure and her sexy red dress, which accentuates her deep cleavage and shapely legs. She plays “Rusty Old Halo” and “Biggest Parakeets in Town”; of course, I join in with the string bass on the second title.

Meanwhile, I look upstage and see, in the distance, Hannah Goes Oranjeboom sitting in a large overstuffed chair. She suddenly appears quite distressed and so does her husband Cornelis, realizing what’s going on. He speaks to Dr. Clouse, who is nearby, while Jane’s performance continues.

[NDP]

Unfortunately, since I’m in the middle of a performance, I can’t hear what he’s saying. I next try to focus my ESP on Cornelis to find out what’s on his mind and get one single thought: “THEY MUST NOT PLAY THOSE NOTES!”

Who must not play “those notes” and what notes are they? I try to mentally signal Alice with this question but I have to perform my solo on “Biggest Parakeets”. For some reason (inexperience?), I can’t play an instrument and send telepathic messages at the same time.

I finish my solo and, before notifying Alice, quickly scan Cornelis’ mind to find out if there’s anything new to add. There is. He’s now thinking…

[dougie_monty]

“…in Dorian mode!”
This baffles me. So far as I know nothing remaining on the program is in Dorian mode. I shrug, and, in fact, I look at the start of my string-bass sheet music. No “mode” is mentioned.

I finish my part. The audience has laughed heartily at the words of Jud Strunk’s song. We finish with a flourish and get a good round of applause; we bow.
There is a pause. The curtain goes down. Before I do anything else, I send out a general telepathic message to all of our group: Cornelis said, “They must not play these notes”!

Dr. Clouse pauses. Then she approaches me.
“You sent that message?” she asks. I nod. She’s an old hand at this.

“Well, Lorna comes on soon. I don’t know offhand that she’ll sing anything in Dorian mode, but I think she’s checking her sheet music about that.” We start walking over to Cornelis and Hannah.
I ask Cornelis, “What’s wrong with someone playing ‘these notes’?” But I can tell what’s going on. Cornelis has spread two thick quilts on the concrete floor backstage and put a heavy mattress and pillows down on the quilts; and some old sheets on top of the mattress. Hannah lies on the sheets, wearing a heavy old nightshirt that looks like one Stan Brown or Joe Bradley might wear, or even bigger. She writhes, lying on her back.

It’s obvious: Hannah is about to give birth! :eek:
I send out a message to our entire group. Then Alice, Eloise, Betty Galloway, and Buster come running. Of course, so does the whole Oranjeboom family.

Dr. Clouse, about to assist in the delivery, says: “There’s no time to get Hannah to the hospital. I’d like all people available—who aren’t on the program—to come backstage.
“Furthermore, I think Cornelis’ message has to do with Hannah’s dental work.”

“That’s it,” says a nervous Cornelis. “She has bridgework on both jaws. I think some notes cause painful vibrations in her mouth.”
The writhing Hannah listens to her husband’s words. She says, “Hannah Oranjeboom, go out for two minutes, re bridgework!” She looks at her wristwatch and passes out. She’s quite a sorceress in her own right.

Dr. Clouse examines Hannah’s bridgework. She takes two sets of small forceps and manipulates something in Hannah’s mouth.
“That’s it!” says Laura Clouse. “Her bridgework was loose and would vibrate if those notes were played. You’re right on top of this, Cornelis.”

Hannah has already regained consciousness: the two minutes have passed. She’s still in the first stage of labor, and she heard Dr. Clouse’s last sentence. She manages a smirk and says, “That’s how this got started!” She and Cornelis clasp hands and speak to each other in Dutch.
Only a few minutes have passed. Now Arthur, Andrew, and Joanie Sharp set up on stage for Joanie’s number, “The Typewriter.” The curtain goes up. Johnny Goss goes to the piano. I look at a backstage monitor; I nod, as I see the overhead projector show, its screen mounted just beneath the proscenium arch; it’s ready to display what Joanie will be typing.

Johnny plays the opening “vamp.” Joanie, in her prim secretary outfit, sits at the little table and bats out the Gettysburg Address, on her father-in-law’s ancient typewriter.
She gets applause and bows, maintaining the prim secretary demeanor.

Now the curtain goes down again. Back in the wings, Joanie gets embraces from her husband and their son.
Then Jock Dumfries, in a modest suit, comes on stage in front of the curtain, his wedding ring glistening. He has an introduction to give, for Lorna’s songs and the act that follows, Lloyd Werdin’s “queen-is-dead” routine. Lorna, with her sheet music, and Lloyd, with his chesspiece, wait in the wings; Lorna blushes as her new husband appears on the stage. Eloise has also asked Jock to give an announcement concerning the incident backstage. In a voice not made indistinct by his Scottish burr (perhaps due to Loora’s intervention), Jock speaks:

[NDP]

"Before our next act–my new wife Lorna McManus Dumfries–I must announce that there is a bit of a situation backstage that might require the assistance of an obstetrician. It seems…

[dougie_monty]

“…a young woman is about to give birth!”
The audience gasps slightly.

Then a heavy-set woman, carrying a large leather bag, hurries down the aisle, as if this were The Price Is Right and Rod Roddy had just told her to “Come On Down!”
The woman approaches the stage, and Eloise comes out to speak to her.

“My name is Dr. Donna Gideon,” she says, showing Eloise cards in her wallet that identify her as an obstetrician.
Eloise talks with her some more. She and Dr. Gideon disappear behind the backdrop—the curtain is still up. Meanwhile we roll out the piano for Alice to play, while Lorna arranges her sheet music in the wings.

A few minutes pass. The audience waits politely. Then a slight slap is heard, followed by the faint cry of a newborn baby.
The audience applauds and cheers, just as paramedics—apparently called by Professor Stollwitz—come down the aisle with their equipment.

Then Cornelis comes out on stage, tears staining his cheeks. He stammers, but manages to say, “My wife is doing fine.” Then he sobs a little and the audience reacts appropriately.
“And the baby is a boy—and he’s just fine too!”

Cornelis breaks down. His parents, Pete and Loora, run up on stage to embrace him. Loora breaks down too, with Cornelis in her arms.
The paramedics emerge from the wings. One carries a basket Hannah had apparently brought, now containing her newborn baby. Dr. Clouse motions to Fred, who brings a wheelchair that Don Clay had used. Drs. Clouse and Gideon carry the weary Hannah, still in a nightshirt, down off the stage; another paramedic helps her into the wheelchair. He wheels her up the aisle, flanked by the doctors. The audience cheers.

Now the ambulance siren fades into the distance. Eloise, George Galloway, and Professor Stollwitz return to the stage.
When the audience—delighted at the birth of a baby in the theater—quiets down, I hear two unknown male voices that I don’t recognize and can’t locate offhand.

“So do we do anything now?”
“Hell, no! You heard their reaction! If we try anything now the audience will tear us apart. Leave them alone.”

So now Lorna McManus Dumfries sings what she has picked out—including “Stupid Girl” by Garbage, and “The Look of Love.” It’s only now that I remember whom Lorna is supposed to resemble, as others see her: Shirley Manson, the lead singer of “Garbage.” To me, she still looks like Julie London.
Lorna finishes her set, and the audience gives her an enthusiastic round of applause. Jock comes back up on stage and kisses her; the audience cheers. I embrace Alice and try to figure out whom she is supposed to resemble.

Now Lloyd Werdin appears on stage, in a tweed suit complete with flat cap, doing his chess-piece skit “The Queen Is Dead.” Most of the audience is puzzled; but the senior Werdin is such a trouper, with the right kind of charisma, timing, and poise, that he gets an ovation too.
The curtain now descends while The Cigar Band sets up. Dr. Clouse and Cornelis return. He keeps wiping his face with a hanky; Laura explains that Cornelis will go right back to the hospital in a few minutes. Eloise, herself getting teary, tells Alice and me what Dr. Clouse told her:

Hannah bore a ‘breech baby.’ He came into this world backwards but he’s healthy and handsome!” Alice and I break down.
Apparently the audience heard Eloise’s statement too—they cheer.

“Mr. Oranjeboom has an announcement to make before he returns to the hospital,” says Dr. Clouse.
Meanwhile, I sense the approach of Leo backstage.

“Yes, mother and baby are fine,” says Cornelis, still struggling to hold back the tears. “And his mother and I have named him…”

[NDP]

Harold Cecil Oranjeboom."

“Well, congratulations are in order,” I tell him. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Leo signal to me downstage. I excuse myself and walk back.

“I’m sorry to interrupt the blessed event,” Leo says, “but I think you should know about something.”

“What is it?”

"I don’t know if you noticed them, but there are two men in the audience who are…

[dougie_monty]

“…handcuffed together.”
I look at them. They see me. One of them notes that he has caught my eye. He says something briefly to the other, and they both make their way out of the seats and up the aisle. The audience ignores them.

They approach Dr. Clouse, Cornelis, Leo, Alice, and me. I recognize one of them as FBI Agent Steptoe. Both men are balding and portly.
“Let’s step up into the wings,” Steptoe says.

We go back. Fred, George Galloway, Bob Long, and James Parker join us.
Steptoe speaks. “This is I. Loomis Knattey, one of the minions of Henry Sikes-Potter. The RCMP released him when we told them the U. S. Government and the State of California charged him with crimes. They asked that he be extradited. He has waived his Miranda rights and agreed to talk to us.”

“I’ll sum it up,” says the gruff Knattey. “I took up the gauntlet after Victor Lemoyne was first arrested and Sikes-Potter died. I’ve been masterminding the plots against you all here at the Morpheus—O’Houlihan, Litwhiler, Foraker, Donoho, and others are in my hip pocket. I’m not connected with Calley or Kalp—I haven’t contacted them in a while. But when I saw that squib in a California newspaper that said that Paul Terwilliger was not to blame for the death of Lemoyne’s son Alexander, I resolved to get the matter off my chest.”

I use ESP on Knattey. He doesn’t appear to have the slightest amount of guile.
I ask, “Do you know anything about two men who were going to disrupt the benefit? I heard them speaking to each other a little while ago.”

Knattey sighs. “Yes—that was Cyril Yates and Ole Lindqvist.”
That rings a bell!

Yates was one of the two men who stabbed Howie Albert with a sword, in my dorm building. Douglas Grover, his partner, was killed. Yates disappeared. Ole Lindqvist was one of the brawny men Randolph Short mentioned as having carried stuff in or out of the J&J Pie Shop for Janna Jamieson.
“So what has happened to them?” asks Alice, clinging to me.

“Colfax [Steptoe’s partner] has them in custody,” says Knattey. “I was granted some immunity for identifying them—”
“But he still has plenty of other charges pending,” says Steptoe. “He sent those parathion and pink-paper “fraud” envelopes to you and Ms. Terwilliger and Ms. Berry.”

“And I heard through the grapevine that Sikes-Potter’s money—$544 million in all—was seized by the British Government and awarded to the decedent’s ex-wife in the Welsh city of Rhondda,” says Knattey.
“I remember that,” says Alice. “And I know that woman herself has died…”

“Without issue,” adds Steptoe. He now has a wide smile. “Ms. Terwilliger, I have the honor to inform you that you have been given an invitation to appear at the British Consulate in San Francisco, in two days. You’re going to get some really delightful news.”
Alice and I use ESP on the envelope Steptoe hands Alice, but not on Steptoe himself. We think we know what the G-man means. Steptoe bids us goodbye, and leaves the theater with Knattey, who also waves as he leaves.

Alice takes out her cell phone and makes a call to the British Consul office, after reading the envelope, to confirm the appointment and ascertain the time of day. She rings off; she and I high-five.
The Cigar Band has set up now. I’m to come on after they do, and next will be Prester John’s Aunt, followed in turn by Claudia Hart and the Contralto Quartet. Alice and I are walking on air.

The Cigar Band musicians come out on stage and take their positions. They light up panatelas, except for Johnny, who will sing the first number; all have ash trays.
Then Fred Moreland steps on stage, apparently with a quick routine announcement, just before Jerry gives the downbeat. Fred reads from a page of his house stationery: