The Filosmith : A Cozy Mystery Love Story

 Wally Carver set down his valise as he took his place at the end of the line of fellow train passengers who had left the Santa Fe Chief in Las Vegas, New Mexico and were waiting to register for a room at the Castañeda Hotel. He tipped his straw boater to the back of his head, revealing dishwater-blond hair slicked back with brilliantine, and whistled the chorus of Tip Toe Through the Tulips under his breath as he looked around the lobby. He could see Harvey Girls, in their black dresses and white pinafore aprons, moving through the restaurant dining room covering tables with white cloths and laying place settings in anticipation of the upcoming lunch-time rush. 

He shuffled forward as the line crept steadily toward the registration desk. It was warm in the lobby and he removed his sports coat and slung it over his arm, then loosened his tie. At least he’d changed to a clean shirt on the train this morning. He pulled the handkerchief from his coat pocket and mopped his neck with it, then stuffed it into his pants pocket. He polished the tops of his two-tone oxfords on the backs of his pants legs.

At last, only one dame ahead of him and a society dame at that. She was as straight and rigid as if she had a poker up her backside. She was wearing a fur collar around her neck, even in this August heat. He’d heard that old people felt the cold and she was old. Her gray hair was twisted up on top of her head in an old-fashioned bun and was topped by an equally gray, equally old-fashioned velvet hat with a large ostrich plume curling over the crown. Her outdated hat and dress reminded him of his grandma’s “best” that she kept for weddings and funerals.

“Young woman,” she demanded imperiously, “I am Mrs. Filosmith and I wrote for a reservation.” 

The desk clerk, who had bent over to retrieve something from under the desk, straightened up with a bottle of ink in her hand. She set the bottle in the empty ink stand, smiled politely and pulled a sheet of paper out of the registration book. She wrinkled her brow. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I didn’t quite catch your name.” 

The woman stood straighter, if possible. “Mrs. Filosmith,” she repeated tersely. 

The desk clerk shook her head. Wally admired the way that her shining chestnut hair swung with the motion of her head. She reminded him of Pru. She was about as tall as Pru, and as slender, with bobbed hair and a calm, professional manner. “I apologize again. I don’t see your name here. Perhaps if you could spell it?”

The woman took a deep breath, then spoke slowly and distinctly, as to a not-very-bright child, “Mrs. P H I L. O. S M I T H.” 

“Ah,” the desk clerk looked enlightened. “Here it is. We’ve put you in a room next to the bathroom, as requested. If you would just sign here?” She said as she turned the register to face the woman and handed her the pen from the inkstand.

Breathing deeply, the woman ostentatiously removed the grey leather glove from her right hand and took the pen from the desk clerk. She dipped it in the inkwell and wrote with a firm hand, then handed it back and made a show of pulling her glove back on with a series of firm tugs.

“Here is your room key, ma’am.” The desk clerk signaled to the porter, who stepped forward. “José will see you up. If you will just show him which of these bags are yours.” She indicated four bags standing near the staircase.

The woman pursed her lips. “That — and that — and that.” She pointed to three of the bags, then stepped forward and started up the stairs. “Come along!” she said testily without looking back. José picked up two of the bags. 

“I will come back for the third bag, señora,” he said as he followed her up the stairs. 

“May I help you, sir?” the desk clerk asked. Wally, who had been watching the drama unfold, jumped slightly, then picked up his valise and took a long step forward. 

He grinned wryly at the desk clerk. “I wouldn’t bet a plugged nickel that she tips him.”

The desk clerk looked down with a slight smile on her face. “I couldn’t say, sir,” she said, in a strangled voice. “If you would sign the register …” 

He took the pen that she handed him, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote his name and place of residence in the book. He finished with a flourish under his signature. 

“There you go, Clara,” he said and watched to see her reaction. It was all he could have desired. She stared at him in surprise, then looked down at the register. 

“How do you know …” she began, then read aloud, “Walter Carver, Cleveland …”A look of understanding dawned on her face. “Why, you must be Wally! Prudence spoke of you often!”

“Yep,” he said, grinning. “And she wrote us all about you and the other girls here. Let’s see if the old brain box is working. Your beau is John.” Clara nodded. “Martha and Anne are Harvey Girls at the restaurant.” Clara nodded again. 

“Mike is Anne’s intended,” he continued, then turned at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. José was just descending to pick up Mrs. Smith’s third bag. 

“Just a tic,” he said to Clara and stepped over to where the two bags stood. “Here,” he said to José. “Why don’t you take my bag up at the same time? I’m in room …” he turned to look at Clara. 

“Room six,” Clara called.

“Room six. Just set it outside the door,” Wally said, as he dug into his pocket. “And here’s for your trouble,” as he handed José a large coin. José took the coin and looked at it. 

“Oh, no, señor,” he said, holding out the coin. “This is a dollar. That is too much for just one bag.”

“Is it?” Wally said in mock surprise. He dug around in his pocket again, then pulled out another dollar. “Looks like all I have are dollars. Guess you’ll have to keep it.” He shrugged.

“Thank you, señor,” José said gratefully. He put the coin in his pocket, picked up the two suitcases and started back up the stairs. Wally returned to the desk and leaned on it familiarly. 

“Now, where was I? Oh, yeah, Pru. You wouldn’t happen to know where she is, would you? I got a couple of weeks off in honor of my promotion to staff accountant, and I thought I’d surprise her.”

Clara shook her head. “I’m sorry. She left with a Detour this morning.”

“Detour?” Wally wrinkled his forehead. “Oh, right, that’s what they call those auto tours she leads. Any idea when she’ll be back?”

“No, I’m afraid not. The Detour lasts for three days and ends in Albuquerque. From there she’ll probably go back to Santa Fe for her next assignment. Even if she’s assigned to another Detour from here, she won’t be back for at least five days or possibly six. The most I can suggest is that you write to her at the Alvarado in Albuquerque.”

Wally nodded. “Sounds like the best bet. Don’t suppose I could rent a self-driving crate, or even a jalopy, and follow her?” Clara shook her head, but before she could speak, Wally continued, “Nah. She’s on a job. Don’t want to get her in a jam with the bosses.” He straightened up. “Well, then, put me down for a week’s stay. What’s there to do in this burg, anyway?”

Before Clara could answer, the door to the lobby opened and a woman staggered in. She was dressed for a night on the town, in a wrinkled sleeveless dress of artificial silk, if he was any judge of fabric (and he was, with two younger sisters), with a ragged feather boa draped around her neck. Her hair was mussed and her headband tipped over one eye. He watched skeptically as she tottered forward on her spiked heels and grabbed the banister. She pulled herself up one step at a time. She was none too steady on her pins and he was surprised when she made it to the top without falling.

He turned back to Clara. “Looks like the local gin mill is still in business.” He laughed. “Bit early for me to be dipping the bill, though.”

“I rather think that was the morning after the night before,” Clara said dryly. “If you’re interested, John and Anne and Mike and Martha and I are all going out for a bit this evening and then to the pictures. You’re welcome to join us.” 

He pursed his lips and nodded. “That would be jake! By my count, you’re short one fella. I’d be happy to escort Martha, if you think she’d be willing.”

“Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Clara said and called across the lobby, “Martha! May I speak with you a moment?”

The Harvey Girl crossing the doorway turned and headed for the reception desk, her hands full of dinnerware. Wally saw a small, trim young woman with dark hair pulled neatly back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, with thick dark lashes, what they called “put in with a smutty finger.” She smiled tentatively at him, then looked at Clara.

“Martha, this is Wally.”

“Oh!” She looked at him again. “Prudence’s Wally?” He grinned and nodded. “It’s nice to meet you,” she said politely and held up the dinnerware in excuse for not offering her hand. “She didn’t mention that she was expecting you.”

“She wasn’t. It was supposed to be a surprise, but I’m the one who got the shockeroo.” He noticed that the top of her head only came up to the middle of his bicep.

“Since Prudence isn’t here, Wally’s at loose ends,” Clara interjected. “So I’ve invited him to join us tonight.”

Wally bowed from the waist toward Martha. “Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you this evening, madam?” He winked and grinned as he straightened up.

Martha laughed in response. “Oh, the honor would be all mine.” She curtsied as best she could, then looked toward the dining room. “I’d better get back to work. I’ll see you this evening.” She smiled again as she left. He watched her walk away. He could really go for her, if he weren’t practically engaged to Pru. That was his real reason for visiting, to convince her to finally accept his proposal. She was bound to have got this tour guide stuff out of her system by now. So what if she had turned him down more times than he could remember in the past five years? She wasn’t getting any younger. 

He turned back to the desk to find Clara holding out his room key. “We’re meeting across the street at the restaurant in the Meadows hotel at six o’clock. We’ll go on to the Coronado Theater from there.”

“Shouldn’t I pick up Martha?” he asked as he took the key. Clara shook her head. 

“We’re all going home from work to change and then meeting at the restaurant.” She smiled as she added, “The speakeasy is entered from the alley in back, if you want to get there a little early.” 

“Right-o!” Wally said, saluting. “See you all then! Don’t take any wooden nickels.” He bounded up the stairs, two at a time.

***

Wally looked at the two couples walking ahead of them to the theater. John and Mike were wearing clean blue jeans, plaid shirts, and cowboy hats and boots. He felt like a real mug in his white “Oxford bags.” The wide-legged trousers might be the latest thing back east, but they pretty obviously hadn’t made it this far west. His blue and white striped jacket, two-tone oxford shoes, and straw boater all made him stick out like a sore thumb. He looked down at Martha walking next to him. “Sure hope I don’t embarrass you, dressed like some kind of dandy.”

“Oh, no,” she said, looking up at him with her bright eyes. “I think you look just swell!” She smiled and took his right arm. He smiled back and patted her hand. Martha was a real doll. 

“That steak I had for dinner was pretty swell, too,” he said. “It was so fresh, it was still mooing!” 

Martha laughed. Before she could reply, the four people ahead of them crossed the street and stopped in front of the building on the corner. They turned around and waited while Wally and Martha caught up with them. 

Wally looked at the ornate two-story building and whistled. “If that isn’t the cat’s pajamas! It might be small, but it’s the equal of any picture palace in Cleveland,” he exclaimed. He gazed at the elevated statue of a herald, holding a horn to its lips, directly above him. It was standing between two columns to the right of the two-story semi-circular carved arch that framed the entry way. “Hey, there’s another one of these birds on the other side,” he said, pointing to the left of the arch as they approached the entry way. 

“We’re rather proud of it,” Clara said. “It’s even been converted to sound, so they can show talkies here. And it’s not so small. It has more than 700 seats.”

Wally nodded. “Not too shabby. So, what’s playing?” he asked, as he looked around at the posters in the entry way, then answered his own question. “Show Boat. And it’s got songs and singers from Ziegfeld’s Broadway play. I call that first-rate! Closest I’m likely to come to Broadway, anyhoo.” 

The men pulled their wallets out of their back pockets, then walked up to the ticket booth and purchased two tickets each, while the women waited to one side. The men escorted their dates into the theater, where they were able to find six seats all together in the center section. Within a few minutes, the house lights went down and the curtains over the movie screen were pulled back. 

***

Wally did a little two-step at the bottom of the stairs on his way to the hotel dining room. He felt even more cheerful than usual this morning. Last night had been a real pip! Dinner and a movie, then walking Martha home. She’d agreed to go out to dinner with him again tonight. And he’d be seeing her at breakfast.

He entered the dining room and stopped. Martha was there all right, but her lips were trembling and tears were starting in her eyes. She was standing at the table where that Mrs. Smith was sitting with a plate with the remnants of her breakfast in front of her and a meal ticket on the table next to it. A man in a dark business suit was standing on the other side of the table, wringing his hands. 

“I tell you that it was in my pocketbook when I came down this morning, but it is not there now,” Mrs Smith said to the man. She turned and pointed a finger at Martha. “That young woman must have taken it when I went to the powder room. I thought that Fred Harvey only hired the best, but I see that I was wrong.”

The tears spilled out of Martha’s eyes and down her cheeks as she shook her head. “I did not touch your purse,” she said. She looked toward the man, “You know that I would never steal from a customer.”

Wally stepped forward and put his arm around Martha’s shoulders. “Hey! What gives?”

“Who are you, young man?” Mrs. Smith demanded at the same time that Martha explained, “Mrs. Smith’s gold fountain pen is missing from her purse and she claims that I stole it. But I didn’t!” Martha turned her face into Wally’s chest. 

“I’m Martha’s friend,” Wally answered Mrs. Smith. “What’s your beef? And who’s this bird?” he asked, pointing with his chin at the man in the suit. 

“I am the manager of the restaurant,” the man answered. “I am certain that some mistake has been made. Our Harvey Girls are of the finest character.” He looked at Mrs. Smith. “Is madam certain that the pen is not in her pocketbook? Sometimes these little items can fall to the bottom and be missed. I know that my wife has often …”

“Of course I am certain,” Mrs. Smith cut him off. “Since you doubt my word, let me prove it.” She opened her old-fashioned drawstring tapestry bag and dumped the contents onto the table. “You see? My handkerchief, my coin purse,” she poked at the items on the table, separating them, “a theater ticket stub, but no fountain pen.” She glared at the manager as she returned the items to the bag. 

“Is it possible that madam left the pen in her room?” the manager asked politely. 

Mrs. Smith jumped to her feet, pushing her chair back. “Are you suggesting that I am losing my mind? I never took that pen out of my bag! I am leaving now, and when I come back at noon, I expect you to return my pen to me or compensate me for its loss. It was a gold Waterman with a gold nib worth sixty dollars. And,” she turned to Martha, “I expect to hear that this young woman,” she said the word in a sneering tone, “has been turned over to the proper authorities as the thief she is!” 

The three people watched her stalk out. The manager turned to Martha, “Miss Morgan, my apologies. I know that you would never steal from a customer — or anyone else. I will investigate this matter thoroughly. Do you think you can continue with your duties?”

She nodded and sniffed. Wally handed her the handkerchief from his coat pocket. “Dry your tears, now,” he said. “And don’t worry! I’m on the case. I’ll find that pen or die trying! Now, show me to a table. I’m hungry after all this hullabaloo.”

Martha dried her eyes and handed back his handkerchief. “Right this way,” she said, smiling bravely. Wally followed her to a small table laid for two and took a seat. Martha handed him a menu. 

“Would you like coffee?” she asked. He nodded.

“No need to rush off,” he said, “I know what I want. Two eggs, sunny side up, bacon, white toast, and fried potatoes. Same thing I’ve had for breakfast since I was in high school.” He grinned at her as he handed the menu back. She smiled in return, more brightly this time. 

“I’ll put this order in and be right back with your coffee.” He watched her as she walked off. If only he weren’t practically engaged to Pru …  

***

After he finished his breakfast, Wally sauntered nonchalantly up to the registration desk and leaned back against it, his hat again on the back of his head, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in the corner of his mouth. He stared forward and, without looking at her, asked Clara, “Any idea where the Filosmith is?” 

Clara pursed her lips in a wry smile and, continuing to stack brochures, said quietly, “I don’t know where she went, but I saw her leave about twenty minutes ago.” 

Wally nodded, straightened up, and, slapping the desk, said, “What I was hoping.” He strolled across the lobby to where José was sweeping under the staircase. 

“Say, José,” Wally said out of the corner of his mouth. “How’d you like to make another dollar?” He slid a coin up in his hand so that just the edge showed.

“For doing what, señor?” José asked, politely but guardedly. 

“You hear about what the Filosmith accused Martha of?”

“Yes, señor. And I know that it is a terrible lie. Miss Morgan is a very honest young lady. And always very polite, very simpatica.”

“Simpatica?” Wally asked.

“Kind, caring, a very nice young lady,” José explained. 

Wally nodded and smiled dreamily. “Yeah, she’s a real peach. Told me at dinner last night she’s studying to be kindergarten teacher. I think that’s jake.” 

“Did she also tell you that her brother was murdered just a few months ago?” 

“What? Murdered? No! The poor thing. She’s really behind the eight ball.” Wally shook his head. “Well, you could help me prove that Filosmith is lying — or at least, mistaken.”

“How could I do that, señor?”

“You could just happen to leave your master key on that little table over there for ten minutes or so.”

José shook his head. “No, señor, I could not do that.” He paused a moment, then continued slowly. “But, if señor were to have locked himself out of his room, perhaps I could accompany him to his room, to unlock the door for him with my master key, and perhaps we might mistake the door to his room …” 

Wally dug in his pants pockets, then patted his jacket pockets. “What do you know? I must have lost my key!”

José stood the broom up against the wall. “Do not concern yourself, señor. I have a master key. Allow me to accompany you to your room and unlock the door for you.”

When the two men reached the first floor, José asked, “Which room did you say was yours, señor?”

“The room next to the bathroom,” Wally said, heading for the room on the near side of the bathroom.

José shook his head. “No, señor, your room is here.” He unlocked the door on the far side of the bathroom, at the end of the hall. 

“How silly of me!” Wally exclaimed. “Of course this is my room.” He pushed the door open just enough to slide into the room, handed José the coin and said, “Come back in about ten minutes.” José nodded and turned toward the staircase as Wally closed the door as silently as possible. 

He stood for a moment and looked around the room. A pair of stockings hung drying on the towel rack over the wash basin. A pair of slippers stood on the throw rug next to the bed and a dressing gown was draped across footboard. He stepped over and lifted the pillow. As he expected, a nightdress was folded tidily beneath it.  

There weren’t many places that the pen could be. From where he stood, he could see that it wasn’t on the floor under the writing desk or the bureau or the nightstand or the armchair. He got down on his knees and looked under the bed. It wasn’t there either. Next, he opened the drawers in the writing desk, but they held nothing except the hotel writing paper and envelopes. The only pen on the desk was the dip pen provided by the hotel, along with its bottle of ink in the ink stand. 

He opened the wardrobe and was surprised to find only a single dress hanging from the rod. It looked like the one the woman had been wearing yesterday. The gray velvet hat of the day before stood on the shelf above it, with what looked like a knitted shawl folded next to it, but there were no shoes standing on the floor of the closet. He felt along the shelf. No pen. It only took a moment to look through the few pairs of darned stockings and the intimate items in the top drawer of the bureau and determine that there was no pen. A pair of mended cotton gloves, but no pen. The remaining two drawers were empty. He paused, with his hands on his hips. Something wasn’t right. The woman had arrived with three suitcases of clothing. They were standing right next to the wardrobe. 

He picked up a suitcase. It felt heavy, as if it were still full of clothing. He laid it on the bed and opened it. It was half full of folded newspapers. The second was the same. The third was empty. That must be the one that had held the clothing that was now in the wardrobe and the bureau. He shook his head. Something wasn’t right. 

There was a soft knock on the door. He quickly closed and latched the suitcase and returned it to its position next to the other two, then smoothed the bed. He opened the door a couple of inches and peered out to see José standing in the hall. He squeezed out of the room, pulling the door closed behind him and stepping out of the way so that José could lock it. 

 José looked at him questioningly. Wally shook his head. “No pen, but … something isn’t right. I can’t put my finger on it, but something isn’t right. Maybe a walk will help clear my head.” 

The two men walked down the stairs together.  José returned to sweeping the lobby while Wally headed for the door to the street. He walked aimlessly along the sidewalk into the center of the city, thinking back to the first time he had seen Mrs. Phil O. Smith. She certainly gave the appearance of having money, but the contents of her room suggested otherwise. How would a woman with only two dresses and one pair of shoes afford a gold pen worth a month’s wages? He pondered the question. It might have been a gift. Or maybe she had fallen on hard times and this was her one keepsake from better days? Or … he stopped and stood still as the thought came to him … or maybe she didn’t have any such pen. Maybe she was a scam artist! He snapped his fingers. That would explain everything — the empty suitcases, the mended stockings, the refusal to allow anyone to search her room for the pen. But how could he prove it? He had learned in college that it is impossible to prove a negative. He shook his head. There had to be a way to at least cast doubt on her claim. 

He heard the church bells ringing the hour. It was already eleven o’clock and Filosmith had said she’d be back at noon. He turned and retraced his steps to the hotel, his mind running over and over the incidents of the previous day. There was something, if he could just remember what it was.  

As he entered the hotel, Clara was replacing the empty ink bottle in the inkstand, just as she had done the day before. Wally stood stock still. That was it! He finally remembered. He grinned broadly and headed for the dining room. Martha was just finishing laying a large round table. She smiled brightly at him as he entered the room. He grabbed her by the waist and swung her around, saying, “Chin up, kitten! Everything is copacetic! Your white knight has come to the rescue!” 

Martha laughed. “Oh, stop, Wally. You’re making me dizzy.” She stood for a moment holding onto his arms. “What have you found out?” 

He shook his head. “Not until we confront the Filosmith. In the meantime, I’d better let you get back to work. Wouldn’t want to get you into hot water with the boss.”

“All right, Wally. I trust you,” Martha said, beaming up at him. 

“Speaking of the boss, I want to have a word with him. Where is he?”

“In his office over there.” She pointed toward a door with the word “Manager” stenciled on it.

“And what’s this bird’s name? I can’t keep calling him “Manager,” Wally laughed. 

“Mr. Martin,” Martha replied.

“Right-oh. See you at twelve o’clock.” Wally patted her on the shoulder and headed for the door. He knocked, then turned and gave her a thumbs up sign.

As Wally entered the office, Mr. Martin looked up and asked, “What can I do for you?”

Wally sauntered up to the desk and sat in a chair facing it. He pushed his hat back on his head and leaned forward. “My name’s Carver. Wally Carver. You may remember that I was around this morning when the Filosmith,” he paused as Mr. Martin furrowed his brow in confusion. “I mean, Mrs. Phil O. Smith, accused Martha of stealing her fountain pen.” Mr. Martin nodded. “You and I, we know that Martha is innocent.” Mr. Martin nodded again. “Well, I’ve been doing some thinking, and I think that I can prove it.” No point in confessing to an illegal search. It would just muddy the waters. 

“Indeed? That would be a relief!” Mr. Martin responded. “But how?”

Wally shook his head. “I don’t want to spill the beans. You just bring Martha in when the Filosmith gets here and let me handle it from there.” He looked at his wristwatch. “She’s due any minute now.”

Just as he finished speaking, there was a knock on the door. Mr. Martin opened it to find Mrs. Smith standing with pursed lips and a determined look on her face. 

“Well?” she asked before he could say anything. “Will you be returning my pen or do you have the sixty dollars?” 

He stepped back and waved her into the office. “Please have a seat. I’ll get Martha.” He walked out, closing the door behind him. Mrs. Smith glared at Wally, then took the chair next to his and stared ahead of her, clasping her purse in both hands on her lap. Wally leaned back and examined her, grinning. 

The door opened and Martha walked in nervously, followed by Mr. Martin. He pulled a third chair up to his desk for Martha, then walked around and sat in his chair. Martha sat on the edge of her chair, twisting her hands in her lap.

“Well?” Mrs. Smith asked again. 

“Mr. Carver has indicated that he would like to ask you a few questions.” 

Mrs. Smith humphed. “I don’t know why I should answer questions from this person.”

“Nevertheless, I have given him permission to conduct this inquiry. He may be able to resolve this mystery.”

Mrs. Smith raised her eyebrows at the word “inquiry,” but said nothing. 

“Just a couple of questions and we can put the matter to rest to everyone’s satisfaction." Wally leaned forward toward Mrs. Smith. “Tell us, when did you discover that your pen was missing?” 

“This morning after breakfast when I wanted it to sign the check for the meal.” 

Wally nodded and leaned back. “I was hoping you’d say that. Tell us, do you always carry this pen with you?”

“Always.” She nodded firmly.

“And do you always use it to sign such items as checks, order forms, registers?” Wally asked cunningly.

“Always.” She nodded firmly again. 

“Then why,” Wally asked, pointing an accusing finger, “didn’t you use it yesterday morning when signing the hotel register? I was standing behind you in line and I remember distinctly that you took the dip pen that Clara handed you and used that to sign the register. You then handed it back to her.” He paused for effect, then continued triumphantly, “I submit that this is all banana oil. That you do not own any such pen. That you are simply trying to scam the Harvey Hotel of sixty dollars!”

Mrs. Smith stared at him, wide-eyed. She stiffened in her chair and opened and closed her mouth several times without saying anything. She turned to face Mr. Martin. “I … I have never … this is an insult! I shall be writing to the Fred Harvey Company. Accusing me … of … of … dishonesty.” 

Wally laughed. “Go ahead. I’ll write to them as well and I’ll get Clara to add her statement.”

Mr. Martin held out his hands, palms down, and made a quieting motion. “Now, now, let’s all calm down here.” He looked at Wally. “Your testimony certainly suggests that Mrs. Smith did not have the pen with her when she arrived at the hotel.” He looked at Mrs. Smith. “Is it possible that you lost the pen on the train? Perhaps when you signed for one of your meals during the journey?” He looked at her hopefully. 

She swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yes … yes … that is entirely possible.” She seemed relieved. “Yes, that must be what happened.” She tightened her jaw. “I shall contact the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway immediately. And hope that one of their employess has not stolen it.”

Mr. Martin nodded. “And, of course, you withdraw your accusation against Miss Morgan, with an apology.” 

“Yes,” she replied curtly. “Of course.” She stood and strode out without another word, pulling the door forcefully behind her.

“Oh, Wally,” Martha said, tears in her eyes, as she leapt up and grasped his hands.

“Told ya’ I’d rescue you,” Wally replied, staring into her eyes. 

Mr. Martin coughed. “Now, Martha, no one is more pleased than I to see your innocence established, but it is the noon hour.” 

“Yes, of course. I’ll see you later, Wally.” She hurried from the room.

Mr. Martin walked around his desk and held out his right hand to Wally. Wally grabbed it and shook it vigorously. “Thanks for letting me handle the Filosmith. It’s not often I get to be the hero!”

“It is I who should be thanking you! You saved the reputation of both Miss Morgan and the Castañeda hotel.” He paused. “I suppose I should warn the other hotel managers along the line. I imagine this is not the first time she’s pulled this scam, and it won’t be the last.” 

Wally shook his head in agreement. “She seems like she’s got it down pat.” He stopped, remembering her scanty wardrobe. “I can’t help but feel sorry for her. She seems to have come down in the world. Likely she did own a pen like that once.” 

Mr. Martin nodded. “If she hadn’t accused Miss Morgan of stealing it, I’d probably have paid her the sixty dollars just to keep her happy.”

“Welp,” Wally said, “Glad to be of service! And now, I’m off to see my favorite Harvey Girl and get a famous Harvey House lunch!”

***

Wally entered the lobby of the hotel with a dreamy look on his face. He paused inside the doorway, reliving the last hour or so, when he had walked Martha home from dinner for the third night in a row. He remembered how her hair shone in the moonlight as they stood outside the gate to her parents’ home, and how soft her hands were in his.

“Martha, I think you’re the bee knees. What say we make this official and permanent?” 

She gazed up at him. “You mean, get married?” He nodded, hopefully. “I think you’re pretty swell, too, Wally, but” she looked down at the ground, then back up at him. “I still have a year to go before I graduate, and I do so want to be a kindergarten teacher, Wally, at least,” she blushed in the moonlight, “at least, until I have children of my own.” 

He squeezed her hands. “I could wait. It would give me time to get the dough together to buy us a little cottage for two,” he grinned, “or three.”

“Could you?” She asked hopefully. “There’s another reason. My brother, Tom, was murdered just a few months ago and ...” She broke off, crying softly.

“Oh, you darling!” He enfolded her in his arms. “How tragic for you and your family.” 

She nodded against his chest and said, in a tearful voice, “I don’t want to leave Mother alone right now.”

“Of course you don’t! A girl should think of her mother!” Just another way that she was different from — better than — Pru, leaving her mother alone to go gallivanting after Indians.

“Hello, Wally.” He was suddenly jerked back into the present. For a moment, he thought he was imagining things. He’d just been thinking of Pru and there she was, standing in front of the registration desk, smiling at him. 

“Hello, Pru!” Hoo boy. Was he in a jam! The girl he was practically engaged to was … he stopped. Who was he fooling besides himself? The last time she’d turned him down was just three months ago and in no uncertain terms.

“Clara tells me that you’ve been seeing a lot of Martha.” She smiled again. “I think that’s wonderful!”

Wally drew himself up. “Yeah, well … wait until you two hear the latest!” 

I slept in a Wigwam! And was overwhelmed by the Painted Desert.

 The Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, AZ, that is. A survivor from the glory days of Route 66, we made the trip to celebrate this centennial year and also my 69th birthday -- entering my 7th decade (what is that supposed to feel like?). And because, as a kid, every time we drove into Holbrook to visit relatives, I would beg to stay there. It's only taken me 60 years, but I made that childhood dream come true! 

Yeah, ok, it's a concrete replica of a tipi, not a real wigwam (or tipi, for that matter), but it appeals to the child's imagination. Would I stay there again? Probably not, but only because they, as with most Route 66 roadside motels, are designed for a quick overnight stay. We were there two nights, and the lack of a closet and dresser was noticeable -- as well as the modern amenities of coffee maker, microwave, and mini-fridge. They have installed space heaters and air conditioners, so you can adjust to your preference. The furniture is of the period -- a small Formica topped table and night stand, a small bathroom with functional toilet, sink, and shower, all designed for the smaller silhouettes of the 1960s. The flat screen t.v. is laughably tiny -- around 20 inches? Why it's attached to the wall and not sitting on a small three-drawer dresser is something we don't understand. 

 But it was FUN! Sleeping in a round room that tapered toward the top (there is a ceiling that cuts it off at about 8 feet) and reminded me of Jeannie's bottle in I Dream of Jeannie (doo doot - doot doot di doo doot). It was nostalgic, small bathroom and all. It was worth it. Oh, and it is dog friendly. The numerous vintage vehicles add to the nostalgia factor, but they could do with getting rid of about half of them. There's a great gift shop at registration -- open only 3:00 p.m.-9:00 p.m. It's directly across from a Safeway and next door to the Butterfield Stage Co. Steakhouse (well, there's a Dollar General in between -- but, hey, there's a Dollar General right next door!). 

My DH bought me a set of Wigwam salt & pepper shakers for my birthday. Aren't they adorable?

And don't they make a perfect little retro vignette? 

On our way in, we stopped at the Painted Desert -- the part of the Petrified Forest that is north of I-40. Actually, the entire Petrified Forest is within the 7500 square miles of the Painted Desert, with most of the logs found in the portion south of I-40. North of the freeway are the staggering vistas of the Painted Desert. Neither words nor photographs can convey how utterly overwhelming and humbling the views are. Endless vistas of reds and pinks and purples and greys and blues, with snow-capped mountain peaks in the far distance (more than 100 miles away). It really puts everything into perspective -- how small and transitory humans and their creations are. And how transitory the earth is. The buttes and mesas and tipis with their layers and bands of color were formed -- are being formed -- by erosion and one day they'll have worn away and been replaced with ... who knows what? 

All photos taken from the NPS Petrified Forest website

The Painted Desert Inn is one of those human creations that is worth visiting, as well. Now a museum and gift shop, it was built as a private enterprise in the 1920s, the government bought it in the 1930s and set the CCC to rebuilding it in Pueblo Revival Style. 

Skylights in Trading Post Room

Then, in the late 1940s, the Fred Harvey Company bought it added furniture by Mary Colter and murals by Hopi artist Frank Kabotie. You can read more about the history and see more photos at the link above.

Lunch Room Booths

Kabotie Buffalo Dancers 

We entered the Petrified Forest from the south on the second day. There are two vintage kitschy gift shops/trading posts just outside the park, which we'll hit the next time we visit. This time, we were in search of the real thing, and we found it. Hundreds of thousands of logs, chunks, blocks, fragments of fossilized tree trunks in all of the colors of the Painted Desert, lying there for tens of millions of years.

Petrified Logs at Blue Mesa

Treme was in her element! Sniffing and tracking and jumping up on the short brick walls, looking for whatever it was that was making those entrancing smells! And marking it as hers -- all hers!

We'll be back next year, after Mike's second knee replacement, so that we can walk the longer trails. The plan is to stay at La Posada in Winslow ... it will be research for a future novel, of course.

New Beginnings : A Love Story for a New Year

Jane pulled into the garage, turned off the engine, and sat, staring straight ahead. She dreaded going into the house. Dick would be home, as he always was since he’d retired a year ago. She wasn’t afraid of him. Dick was never violent, never nasty. It was just that he’d be in there, sitting in front of the t.v., watching some old detective series from the 1990s, waiting for her to get home and fix dinner. He’d come to the table when she called him, he’d eat whatever she put in front of him, he’d tell her that “It was good,” and then he’d go sit in front of the television until it was time to go to bed. Where had all of their passion gone? What had happened to the romance? Or even just the fun? They were both still young; she certainly was. Far too young to just give up on life. He still did the yardwork and took care of small repairs around the house and could be counted on to get the cars serviced regularly, but she could pay someone to do all of that. What she needed was some of that old spark, but it had slowly extinguished itself. She knew that she couldn’t face twenty more years of this. She’d felt the dread growing on her for months, but she hadn’t said anything. What was there to say? “You’re starting to bore me?” 

She smiled to herself as she thought about John, the new supervisor she’d met in an administrator’s meeting a month before. John was anything but boring. Not only was he fit enough to wear those slim suits that were in style, he sported cowboy boots and a Paul McCartney hair cut. Dick wore nothing but t-shirts and baggy shorts these days. Whenever John looked into her eyes and smiled, which he did frequently when they were together, she felt a small shiver of excitement run up her spine. There was a time that Dick would look at her in the same way, but these days, he looked mostly at the television. 

She remembered how John had leaned over at a meeting and whispered a sarcastic comment about the speaker in her ear. She’d had to hold her breath not to laugh out loud. Dick’s conversation, such as it was, revolved primarily around the plots of the t.v. shows he was streaming and what they were going to have for dinner the next day. He told the same jokes over and over. She found herself tuning him out more and more lately. 

She and John had started going to lunch together a couple of times a week after he’d made her laugh in the meeting. He always insisted on paying, saying that it had been his idea. It was almost like a date. She and Dick hadn’t been on a date night in, well, something like six months. She couldn’t remember why they’d stopped. It wasn’t a conscious decision, they’d just let it slip away from them. Dick had said something about not having a schedule or a structure making it difficult to plan … What did the reason matter? They’d stopped.

She was pretty sure that John had started making up excuses to stop by her office. He was always “on his way” to or from some other part of the floor and just “stopped by to say “Hi.”” She knew that she looked for any reason to pass by his, even if it meant going the long way around the floor. She let her mind wander to what might happen if they both were working late, alone … 

She shook her head and sighed. No point in sitting here any longer. It wouldn’t change anything. No matter how long she sat here, Dick would still be inside waiting for dinner. She opened the car door, picked up her purse from the passenger seat, and entered the house. She stopped, confused. It was dark. And quiet. No light or sound from the television in the living room. Had something happened to Dick? She felt a cold hand grip her stomach. He might be boring and getting a bit flabby, but he was still her husband. She took a few steps forward in the dark, then heard footsteps in the hall. The lights suddenly came on, and there was Dick. She stared in disbelief. He was wearing a tuxedo — where did that come from? He didn’t own one — with a crisp white shirt. The suit fit perfectly and camouflaged his incipient paunch. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine, he was freshly shaved, and his hair was cut and brushed back in a way that she had told him made him look like Pierce Brosnan. He held a martini glass in each hand.

“Forgive me for not meeting you at the door, Madam. I was otherwise occupied,”  he said in a lightly teasing tone, as he handed her one of the glasses. He looked into her eyes and smiled beguilingly, the way he used to.

“Oh, that’s, um, that’s ok,” she said in confusion. She sipped the pale green cocktail and beamed at him. “A gimlet! My favorite! You remembered.” 

“Of course.” He offered her his crooked arm and walked her down the hall toward the bedrooms. “Now, if Madam would like to freshen up and slip into something more … comfortable … dinner will be served in the dining room in fifteen minutes.” 

She smiled tentatively at him. He bowed to her, and walked back to the dining room. She set her purse down on her dressing table and slipped her shoes off. What was going on? Dick had never done anything like this before. She once again felt that cold hand of fear grip her. Was he planning to leave her? Was this his way of softening the blow? Had he heard about John? 

“Stop being silly,” she muttered to herself. “There’s nothing for him to hear. Nothing has happened … yet.” Still, other employees had seen them leaving for lunch together and it was unlikely that no one had noticed how often they were in each other’s office. Or had Dick met someone else? He was alone from the time she left for the office until she got home at night. He must do something other than watch television and mow the lawn when it needed it. Some younger woman in a coffee shop or at the grocery store? He would do the shopping if she left him a list. Is that why he was so willing to do it? 

She hung her jacket on its hanger in the closet and clipped the slacks to the hanger’s crossbar. Her blouse and socks went into the hamper. She went into the bathroom and, smiling at the phrase, “freshened up.” Coming out, she looked through her closet for something to wear. He’d said, “Something more comfortable.” But he was wearing a tux, so surely he didn’t mean her nightgown. What did she have? There, at the back, the dress she’d worn for their twentieth anniversary party five years ago. Dick’s eyes had widened when  he’d seen her in the floor-length royal blue velvet with the plunging v-neck that showed off her still-attractive cleavage, while the elbow-length sleeves hid the developing “bat wings” of her upper arms. With its high, Empire waist, it was surprisingly comfortable for such an elegant gown. As she slipped it over her head, she hoped that it would remind Dick of their years together and give him second thoughts about turning her in for a younger model. 

She debated wearing pantihose, but decided that knee-highs were more “comfortable.” Dick was wearing his dress shoes, so she pulled out her navy blue pumps. She took a moment to brush her hair back into place and freshen her lipstick, then fastened the sapphire pendant that Dick had given her for that anniversary around her neck and hung the matching earrings from her lobes. She wasn’t going down without a fight. 

Taking a deep breath, she strode down the hall to the dining room and whatever awaited her there. If this were one of Dick’s detective shows, it would be murder. She was smiling to herself at the absurdity when she entered the dining room. Again, she stopped in disbelief. The table was set with their best white linen tablecloth, the one they only used for holidays and birthdays. A floral arrangement with candles stood in the center of the table. Two places were set with their best china, their silver (plate, but still, it was shiny), and their crystal wine glasses. A bottle of champagne rested in the ice bucket on a small side table. Dick stood with his hands on the back of one of the chairs, smiling as he looked her up and down. The dress seemed to be having the effect that she had hoped it would. 

“If Madam would care to sit here?” he said, while pulling the chair out. She nodded, speechless, then stepped over to the chair. He slid it in just until it touched the backs of her legs and she was able to sit down gracefully. He must have been practicing, she thought, He never could get that right before. And then wondered With whom?

Dick poured filled their champagne flutes, then sat across from her and raised his glass. “To new beginnings,” he said. She raised her glass in return and gave him a wan smile. New beginnings? It IS another woman! She sipped at the champagne. Well, she wouldn’t ask. She wouldn’t make it easy for him. 

She set her glass down and picked up her soup spoon. At the first taste of the pale green soup, her eyes once again widened. “Where did you find sorrel soup?”

“I’d like to be able to tell you that I made it myself, but it’s from that new French bistro that opened in the mall. I often go there for lunch.” 

She swallowed. Is that where he met her? “I didn’t know that you went out for lunch.” 

“Occasionally,” he said, looking down at his soup plate.  And now he won’t meet my eyes, Jane thought. They finished their soup in silence. 

“That was lovely, dear,” she forced herself to say. No, she wasn’t going to make it easy for him, no matter how much she wanted to demand an explanation. She would be bright and cheerful and charming.

Dick rose and picked up his soup plate, then hers. “I’m glad you liked it. Do you remember when we first had sorrel soup, on our honeymoon?” She nodded, holding back the tears. “I’ll be right back with the main course.” He left for the kitchen. 

She remembered their honeymoon — and their wedding — and their courtship. And all the years since then. No, she would not give up all of that without a fight. No new woman, however young and attractive, knew Dick the way that she knew him. No new woman had weathered the storms with him that they had weathered together. She just had to show him what he would be giving up. She sat up straight and pasted a smile on her face as she heard his step in the hall. 

Dick slid a plate in front of her, then set one at his place. He picked up a bottle of wine from the sideboard and filled both of their wine glasses, then sat down, putting the bottle on the table between them. She stared down at the filet mignon, glazed carrots, and fondant potatoes. 

“Did you get this at that bistro, too?” she asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

Dick shook his head and laughed slightly. “No, these I made myself. You know I was always good with a steak and I learned how to make the carrots and potatoes on one of those cooking shows.” 

She looked at him in surprise. “You didn’t tell me that you’ve been watching cooking shows.” What else don’t I know?

He grinned wryly. “I did, but I don’t think you were listening … tell me what you think of this wine.” She sipped at the garnet fluid and nodded, grateful that he’d changed the subject. He was right. She hadn’t been listening.

She praised the wine. “It’s smooth and has just enough tannin for steak.” Neither she nor Dick were exactly wine connoisseurs, but she did enjoy a red zinfandel. 

“The man at the wine store assured me that this was a particularly fine zinfandel.” 

She stopped herself from asking when he had started frequenting a wine store. He might already have told her. No doubt his young woman from the bistro had introduced him to it. 

He sliced into his steak and held the piece up for her to see, turning it slightly to show both sides. “It’s a perfect medium rare, if I do say so myself.”

Jane cut into her steak and smiled brightly at him. “Yes, a perfect medium rare, as your steaks always are.”   

She chewed a piece and swallowed, feeling as if she were choking. She managed to get down a bite of carrot and potato. “The vegetables are wonderful. I’ve never had better glazed carrots and the fondant potatoes … well, Gordon Ramsay himself would be envious.” 

“Thank you, my dear.” He smiled at her as he continued to eat his dinner, apparently oblivious to her struggles. Jane forced herself to follow his lead, making occasional comments on the sweetness of the carrots and the creaminess of the potato, and how well the wine complemented the meat. 

Suddenly, she could tolerate it no longer. She dropped her knife and fork onto her plate, placed her hands on the table, and cried, “What is this all about? What brought this on?” She felt tears starting up in her eyes. “Stop this torture and tell me!” 

Dick stopped eating and stared at her in surprise, holding his knife and fork in the air. He looked down at his plate, took a deep breath and looked back up at her. “I saw you,” he said in a flat voice. 

“Saw me?” Jane shook her head. “What do you mean?”

“The two of you,” he replied. “I was in town getting the car serviced, so I went to your office to invite you to lunch at the French bistro and I saw the two of you leaving the building together. You and that young man.” 

“I … we … “ Jane gasped. She didn’t know what to say. She wouldn’t insult him by lying. “It was only lunch.” 

Dick set down his utensils and shook his head. “You looked so … happy. You were smiling up at him and laughing. And the way that he was looking at you …” He shook his head again, then looked directly at her. “I followed you. You went to that gastropub. I’m sure you know the one I mean.”

She nodded. “I didn’t see you.”

“I took care that you didn’t, and that place is so dark, I almost lost track of the two of you.” He laughed shortly.  “I had sensed that you were drawing away, and now I knew why.”

Jane shook her head. “No … He’s just … just a friend. A colleague.” Her excuse rang hollow in her ears.  

Dick looked at her wryly. “He may be that now, but believe me, he wants to be more. I was relieved when you headed back to your office afterward.”

He sat back. “I was angry, at first. And hurt, of course. But it gave me a lot to think about.” He looked directly at her again, “And, after I got over the anger and the hurt, I realized that I had been taking my beautiful, interesting, accomplished wife for granted. And that if I didn’t change things soon, I could lose her to a man who clearly does value her.” He reached across the table and took her hands in his. “Can you forgive me?” 

“Can I forgive you?” Jane laughed breathlessly. “I thought you were going to tell me that you’d met another woman.”

Dick sat back, astounded. “Another woman? What would I want with another woman?” He leaned forward and took her hands again. “You’re the only woman I could ever want.”

“I thought you’d found someone younger and … “ she looked down at the table, “And less critical, more attentive. Someone who laughed at your jokes.” She looked back up at him questioningly. 

“I haven’t been easy to live with lately,” Dick said, smiling. “And I have been telling the same old jokes. Even I don’t find them funny anymore.” He patted her hands. “We’ll say no more about it. I meant it when I said, “New beginnings.” Now, one more surprise.” He collected the plates and silverware and walked out of the dining room. Jane followed him with her eyes. He really was still a fine figure of a man and with the grey in his hair … it wouldn’t be a stretch to call him a “Silver Fox.” 

He returned shortly with two of their crystal dessert dishes piled high with rich, creamy chocolate mousse and a bottle of port under his arm. He set all three on the table, then pulled his chair around to her right. He set the mousse at each place and poured the port into the dessert wine glasses, then sat at an angle to her side. Holding the glass in his right hand, he placed his elbow on the table. Jane smiled in remembrance and, holding her glass in her right hand, wrapped her forearm around his. They bent their heads toward each other as they sipped from their glasses. They kissed softly.

Dick murmured, “I’ve always loved you in that dress, but I like you even more out of it.”  

“Well, then …” she murmured in return. 

“Well, then,” Dick replied. “But first, …”

“The mousse,” they said in unison and picked up their spoons. 

Here's to the beginning of a new calendar year!

Yes, it's an arbitrary day with no real meaning as far as the cosmos is concerned, but it’s as good a day as any to celebrate new beginnings. Ours started with mimosas and 

cheese blintzes courtesy of Trader Joe's (I forgot to take photos until after we had consumed it all!)

followed a few hours later by a cheese fondue (TJ's FTW) in my vintage electrical fondue pot (bought by me in roughly 1975). Notice the nod to healthy eating there behind the pot -- another 1970s special, crudite. 

 

Then a couple of hours in front of the t.v., watching "His Girl Friday" while allowing the cheese, etc. to digest enough for dessert -- chocolate fondue with pound cake dippers. Isn't this the cutest little pan and pound cake you've ever seen? Recipe from America's Test Kitchen Complete Cooking for Two Cookbook. 

Approaching the end of the year and of the book

 I am within a few thousand words of finishing "Cold Vichysoisse Cream." The murder has been solved, the murderer has been arrested, and Prudence is reflecting on the experience. I always find the ending the hardest to write, as it has to tie up the themes and events without feeling overly repetitive AND, given that this is a series, it needs to foreshadow the next book at least a little bit. Which means that I have to start thinking about the next book (!). So, I sit and stare at the screen and struggle to find the motivation and inspiration.

So, I left it all behind (including the laptop) for a three-day trip to Alamogordo and White Sands National Park. 

Nothing clears the mind better than getting away from the familiar, the usual, the mundane. 

We left on December 25 after lunch, because "there won't be any traffic." Oh, how charmingly naive! It felt like half of Albuquerque was heading down to Belen for Christmas dinner. Traffic did thin out considerably between Belen and Tularosa, where we ran into the GIs hustling back to Holloman Air Force Base. 

The Classic Desert Aire hotel was our base for the next two nights. 

Clean, comfortable, with appallingly bad wifi. Complimentary breakfast from the menu in their restaurant, though. And just 15 minutes from the park. The parking lot was full when I took Treme out for her last walk of the evening. That should have been a clue. We innocently thought that we'd have the Park to ourselves, as everyone would be at home with the family, etc. HAH! It is their busiest time of the year. 

Serendipitously, we arrived at the Park shortly after it opened on December 26, but should have made a point of getting there precisely at 9. The parking lot was full, except for one Handicap space, and the visitor’s center crammed, but the line at the entry kiosk was short and, with our senior lifetime pass, we were allowed to go around the cars waiting to purchase passes. 

We drove to the farthest point on the loop, where there were very few others, wandered the dunes (which our doglette anointed most assiduously), took in the vistas, wondered at the cold, moist “sands," and SAW A CAMEL (no, it wasn't wild, it was being led by a handler, but a girl can pretend, can't she?). It really is a magical, mystical, wonderous place, and would be even more so at night with the moonlight reflected off of the dunes (don't forget your sunglasses during the day!). We headed back earlier than planned, as it was starting to get crowded and noisy (and not so magical and mystical) only to drive past a line of cars from the entry kiosk back to the main road — about half a mile — and lines of cars at least another half a mile in both directions. The hotel parking lot was practically empty when we arrived and stayed that way until late that night. 

All other plans were put on hold, as it was obvious that every touristy thing would be packed. Even Google Maps showed them as "Busier than Usual." We just hung out and relaxed and read and walked the dog and made plans for our next trip down there. It will NOT be near a holiday of any kind. We might just manage to attend an evening stroll. We'll leave much earlier and stop at Valley of Fires Visitor Center and Pistachioland on the way in, make time for the New Mexico Museum of Space History and the Tularosa Basin Museum of History while in Alamogordo, and stop at the Three Rivers Trading Post and Petroglyph Site on the way back. 

Regardless, the trip had the desired effect. I know how to end this book AND have decided on the setting of the next one! 

Boxing Day : A Christmas Tale

 If you’ve read O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi, you’ll recognize the characters. If you haven’t, you might want to before you read this. It’s available full-text online from many sources. When I was much younger, I often wondered why Jim didn’t make the practical suggestion given here. When I got older, I understood exactly why. I think you’ll agree with me.

The weak, gray light of a winter dawn slid down the narrow passage between the tenement houses as Jim Young opened his eyes. He took a deep breath. Was that bacon? How had Della managed to afford bacon two days in a row? First for Christmas morning and now for the day after? She was a marvel, that young wife of his!

He threw back the covers and, shivering in the cold, washed quickly in the icy water from the pitcher on the washstand. He pulled on his clothes and, bending down to peer in the mirror, slicked his hair back. He smiled wryly at the jeweled combs lying on the top of the dresser next to the brush that Della no longer needed for her once long beautiful hair. He shook his head as he tucked the platinum fob chain into the empty watch pocket of his vest and went into the kitchen.

“Oh, Jim, you’re up, my darling,” Della spun around and danced over, throwing her arms around his neck. He returned the hug and added a kiss.

“Something smells good, my sweet,” he smiled down at her, his hands on her waist. “Bacon twice in one week?”

“Oh, I know how you love it, and I still had that eighty-seven cents left from selling my hair,” she paused and brushed a hand sadly across her cropped head, then smiled bravely. “What else could I do but buy my beloved his favorite breakfast! Now, sit down while I serve you.”

Jim sat and Della poured coffee for him, then placed a plate of bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast in front of him.

“Eggs, too? And butter on the toast?” Jim exclaimed. “Such riches!”

Della smiled again as she sat across from him, her plate of food before her. What if her pile of eggs was smaller and she had only one slice of bacon and no butter to her bread? Her Jim was happy and that was better than butter.

Jim took a forkful of eggs and bacon, followed by a bite of toast and a swig of coffee.

“The very best eggs and bacon I’ve ever eaten. What’s your secret, my angel?”

“Why, they’re made with love, dearest!” Della beamed at him.

Jim finished his food, then sat back, sipping his coffee and watching as Della tidied the kitchen.

“You know, I think I like your hair better like this,” he mused.

Della forced a smiled. “It is ever so much easier to manage,” she said, putting on a brave face. “And it does bring out the curl.” She shook her head so that the curls bounced.

“You look like a adorable, mischievous house sprite,” Jim said as he set his empty cup on the table. He pushed back and stood up. “Well, I guess I’d better be off to work. This isn’t England where people get Boxing Day as a holiday as well as Christmas.”

Della followed him into the main room and helped him on with his old coat and wrapped his threadbare scarf around his neck. He held his shabby hat awkwardly in his hands.

“There’s something I wanted to ask you, honey,” he said.

“Yes, my love?”

“Well … it’s about those combs I got you for your hair…”

Della’s eyes narrowed and a creased appeared between her eyebrows. “Yes, what about the combs?” She asked suspiciously.

“Well … I wondered if maybe … well, if maybe I could return them to the jeweler and get the money back and get my watch out of hock.” Jim spoke in a rush, as Della’s eyes grew wide with astonishment.

“You want to do WHAT?” she demanded.

“Well, it’s not like you can use them right now, but I could use the watch with the chain that you got me, and isn’t that what you want, my dearest darling?” Jim hurried through his justification, backing slowly toward the door, as Della began breathing harshly through her nose.

“I know you’re hair grows awfully fast,” he continued, feeling for the doorknob behind his back, “but it will still be months before you can it will be long enough for you to use them — you might even decide to keep it short, it’s so becoming — and by that time I’ll have saved up the money and I could buy the combs …”

Della cut him off. “You want them back?” she snarled as she turned to the dresser and snatched up the combs, then advanced toward him, waving her fist holding the combs under his nose. “”The only decent things you’ve ever given me and you want them BACK? My mother was right! I should never have married you!”

Jim heard this last as he slipped out the door and closed it behind him. He had only taken a few steps down the hall when the door flew open and Della appeared, her arm raised above her head.

“You want them?” she shrieked. “They’re yours!” She flung her arm forward and the combs flew out of her hand and landed on the floor in front of him. She stepped back into the apartment and slammed the door.

Jim stood staring at the door for a moment, then slowly bent down and picked up the combs. He looked at them in his hand and was relieved to see that they were undamaged. He sighed gratefully as he slipped them into his pocket and headed down the hall to the stairwell.

Old Sins : A Couriers Series Short Story

 For fans of the series who would rather not join Substack (yet another social media outlet!). I will be posting one story about the 15th of every month. This was the story for November. 

Yes, there are spoilers, so if you haven't read Fried Chicken Castaneda yet, you might want to do that first. 

Liz Kearney Parkinson waved away the dish of bacon that the uniformed Mexican housemaid was holding out to her. She hadn’t kept her figure all these years by indulging in such fare. Between her daily horseback riding and her careful diet, she could still fit into the wedding dress she’d worn 18 years before. Her blond hair might be due to artifice, but she had no intention of squeezing herself into a tight girdle to give the illusion of a flat stomach. 

She looked at her son sitting on her right, put her hand on his, and smiled. Then she looked down at her husband sitting at the foot of the table. 

“You know what today is, don’t you, Gene?” she asked rhetorically. "Besides Thanksgiving Day, I mean.”

Gene looked up from his breakfast plate. The years had not been as kind to him as they had to Liz. His bright red hair had faded to a pale pink, what little there was left of it. His freckles had been joined by age spots, and they had spread across his scalp as his hair had thinned. Like his father before him, he was tall and lean, almost cadaverous. 

He nodded. “Yes, I haven’t forgotten,” he said dully. 

Liz turned back to her son. He had her eyes and mouth, and his thick, black hair was slicked back with Brylcream in the latest style.

“And you know what today is, don’t you, Tom?” she asked in a loving tone of voice.

He nodded and looked at her quizzically. “My eighteenth birthday, but aside from the fact that I can now buy cigarettes, I don’t understand why you’re making such a big deal of it. I’m still not old enough to drink.”

His mother smiled at him adoringly. “Today, my darling, you have something special to be thankful for. Today is the day that you come into your inheritance.”

“What do you mean, my inheritance?” Tom continued to look confused. 

She laughed a tinkling laugh. “I didn’t tell you earlier because I wanted it to be a surprise. This ranch, my dear! This ranch. As of today, it is all yours! Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Tom shook his head. “What do you mean, it’s all mine?” He looked at Gene, who was once again staring at his plate. “What’s she talking about, Dad? How can it be mine? Isn’t it yours?” He looked between his parents. “Both of yours?”

His mother laughed again. “Oh, no, dear, the Kearney ranch has been mine entirely, and today, I am giving it to you as the only other living Kearney!”

“Dad?” Tom looked again at the man at the foot of the table.

Gene stood up and threw his napkin on his plate. “I’ll be in my office.” He turned and headed for the dining room door. 

“You mean, Tom’s office, dear, ” his wife said as he left.

***

Gene looked up from the paperwork he was reading as the office door opened. Tom stood in the doorway, hesitating.

“Can I talk to you for a minute, Dad?”

“Of course, son.” Gene laid the documents down on the desk and sat back, expectantly. He was dwarfed by the massive desk and throne-like chair that he had inherited from his father-in-law.

Tom closed the door and sat on the overstuffed sofa that faced the desk. The leather was soft and smooth from years of conditioning. He laughed shortly, as he leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, and stared at his clasped hands. “But that’s just it, isn’t it? I’m not your son.” He lifted his eyes briefly, then dropped them again.

“What makes you say that?” Gene asked, guardedly. 

“Oh, come on, Dad,” Tom said in frustration, leaning back and gesturing with his hands. “I worked it out years ago. Just look at us. I have Mother’s eyes and mouth, but … but I have nothing from you. No red hair. No freckles. I sure don’t have your height.” He laughed bitterly. 

Gene shook his head. “You’re my son in every way that matters.” He leaned forward, almost begging Tom to agree.

“That’s what makes this so hard!” Tom lifted his head and stared into Gene’s eyes. “No son could ask for a better father. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to hurt you, but now …” He shook his head. “This ‘birthday present’,” he spit the words out. “It’s like she’s rubbing your nose in it.” 

Gene toyed with the pen in the inkstand. “Well, son, it is the Kearney ranch,” he finally said.

“Oh, stop it, Dad! Stop making excuses for her! Ever since I was old enough to understand, I could see that she … she …” He trailed off. 

Gene looked up, a wry grin on his face. “She despises me?” Tom put up a hand to stop him. “Oh, I’ve come to accept it. At first, I thought I could win her over but …” He shook his head. “I’ve come to accept it,” he repeated. 

"So why do you stay with her? Is it the money?”

Gene leaned back in his chair. “Well, son, I’d be lying if I said that didn’t come into it, but, no, that’s not the primary reason.” He looked straight at Tom. “I stayed because of you.” He smiled nostalgically. “The moment they put you in my arms … you were so small and fragile and helpless. You looked up at me and waved those tiny little hands and I knew at that moment what the purpose of my life was. It was to protect you and care for you.” 

“Even though …?” Tom asked softly.

Gene shook his head. “That thought never crossed my mind. I loved you from the moment I saw you.”

Tom nodded. “I always knew that.” He smiled wryly, “Even when you were sending me to bed without supper or making me wipe down and curry my horse.” He laughed softly. “I don’t know where you got your patience.” He leaned back and stared at the corner of the room. “When I look back, I know that I was lucky that Mother didn’t want anything to do with me until I was old enough to parade around in front of her friends.” He shook his head. “I couldn’t wait to get out of those Little Lord Fauntleroy suits and back into my real clothes.” He flipped a hand on his thigh to indicate the jeans he was wearing, then smiled at Gene. “And back to you and the hands and my horse.”

He looked down at his clasped hands again, then raised his head. “And you know I love you, don’t you, Dad?” Gene nodded. “Then, know that this is nothing to do with you. Do you know who my … my sire is?”

“Yes.” Gene paused. “I guess if you’re old enough to ask … he was my best friend, Tom Morgan. He died before you were born.” 

Tom wrinkled his brow. “I think I’ve heard of him. Wasn’t he murdered in some shootout with a gang of bootleggers during Prohibition?” He nodded slowly. “So that’s why he didn’t marry my mother.”

Gene nodded in agreement. He didn’t feel the need to correct him. It was close enough to the truth. 

Tom stood up and walked to the window. He stared out at the mesas in the distance as he said slowly, “That means that Dan and Sarah Morgan are my grandparents. And Martha is my aunt and her husband is my uncle and her kids are my cousins.” His hands closed into fists. 

“Yes,” Gene said softly. 

“And they’ll all be crowded in at the Morgan’s today for a big family Thanksgiving dinner,” Tom continued bitterly. “While you and Mother and I will sit around the dining table that seats ten, choking down our silent meal.” 

Gene got up from his chair and walked over to stand next to Tom, placing a hand on his shoulder. Tom didn’t need to know that he had at least two older half-sisters living in Las Vegas, at least not yet. 

The two men stood silently gazing out at the dry desert landscape under a leaden gray sky. Gusts of wind whipped the bare branches of the scattered trees and shrubs. Dark clouds heavy with snow obscured the distant mountain peaks.

Tom turned to Gene with tears in his eyes. His face was twisted with pain. “I have to get away, Dad. I have to go somewhere, alone, figure out who I am. What I want to do with my life.” 

Gene nodded. “Of course. Where do you want to go? Chicago? Los Angeles? New York?”

Tom stood silently for a moment. “No … no, there’s something I’ve been dreaming about for a while now. I hadn’t really planned on doing it, but … now it seems like a good idea. I want to enlist in the Navy.” His lips twisted into a wry grin. “I want to be a sailor. I’ve wanted to ever since I read that poem about ‘a tall ship and a star to steer her by.’ And now that the war’s over and there’s no draft, I hear they are looking for a few good men.”

They both turned as the door crashed open behind them. Liz stood rigidly just inside the room, her jaw clenched. 

“Who is looking for men?” she demanded. Gene opened his mouth to reply, but Tom shook his head. 

“This is my fight, Dad,” he said softly, then raised his voice. “The Navy, Mother. I’m going to join the Navy.”

Liz blanched. “No … you can’t … you can’t leave me.” She held her arms out. 

“I can and I am,” Tom replied, not moving toward her. He smiled softly. “It won’t be forever, Mother. It’s only four years, and after that … who knows? I may even come back here to help Dad run the ranch.”

“When? When?” She choked out the words as she shook her head in disbelief. 

“I’ll go to Santa Fe after Christmas. I imagine I’ll report sometime after the first of the year.” 

Liz quivered with rage. She pointed at Gene and nearly shrieked, “You! You did this! You did it to hurt me!”

Gene’s shoulders slumped as he shook his head, looking at the floor.

“No, Mother,” Tom said calmly. “It was my idea.” He paused. “Right now, I’m going to introduce myself to the Morgans as a member of their family.” Liz inhaled sharply. Tom nodded. “Dad did tell me that, Mother.”

“How dare you?” she spit the words out at Gene. Again, Tom answered. 

“I asked him, Mother. I have the right to know.” Tom stepped around his mother. He stopped in the doorway and turned his head to speak over his shoulder, “I’ll be back in time for dinner, unless my grandparents invite me to join them.” 

He continued walking through the door. The two people in the office stared at each other until they heard the front door close. 

Liz walked closer to Gene, raised her hand, and swung at his face. He reached up and grabbed her wrist in a tight grip. 

“Not this time, Liz,” he said quietly. “Not this time. I only put up with it for Tom’s sake, and he doesn’t need me to protect him anymore.”

“Let go of me,” she growled. Gene loosened his grip. “You pack up your things and get out of my house,” she continued. 

Gene grinned wryly and rubbed his chin with his hand. “Don’t you mean Tom’s house?”

She drew her breath in with a hiss.

He shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ll be leaving, Liz,” he said. “Not unless you want a divorce.” He paused and looked at her. “And I know you don’t want that scandal … added to the others.” 

“What ‘others’?” she demanded.

“Who Tom’s real father is and what really happened to him. Where did your father go that night, Liz, after he announced our engagement? The night that someone shot Tom in the head out on the Kearney range?” 

Liz’s lips trembled, but she said nothing.

“And,” Gene paused, then stared Liz in the face, “And the truth about that hunting accident, when you tripped and fell and shot your father in the back.”

Liz’s breath hissed through her teeth. “It was an accident! And no one — not you — not anyone — can prove otherwise.”

Gene chuckled bitterly. “Yes, you made sure of that. I wouldn’t have to prove it, Liz. Just a few words, dropped in the right ear, after you threw me out… people have never really stopped wondering about it. Just as they’ve never stopped talking behind their hands about how much Tom favors the Morgans. They’ll look for reasons why you threw me out, on Thanksgiving Day no less, and they’ll find them. True or not.” He paused and stared into space. “And I wonder what Tom would think.”

“You wouldn’t,” Liz whispered. She had turned pale.

“No, I wouldn’t,” Gene agreed. “I wouldn’t have to. There are plenty who would take great delight in bringing down the lofty Liz Kearney.” He shook his head. “They say old sins have long shadows, Liz.” He paused to let the import sink in. “Things will be different around here from now on, Liz.”

Her eyes widened as she took in his words. Her lips formed the word “No.”

Gene chuckled again. “Don’t worry. I have no desire to share your bed. I haven’t for years. But, you will not ever hit me again. And my name will go on the deed to this ranch, as it should have done when we got married. Don’t worry, I’ll write a new will in Tom’s favor. And you will smile when you say good-bye to Tom when he leaves for his ship.”

“What … what else?” she choked the words out. Gene shook his head. 

“Nothing else, Liz. That’s all I want.” His lips twisted again into a wry smile. “There was a time I would have wanted more — a smile from you, a kind word, a kiss even — but that time is long gone. Now, I’ll settle for freedom for Tom and not being shot in the back during a rabbit hunt.”