There’s a place, where I can go… (Beatles song lyric)

The past, an interesting place to visit, just don’t live there

People come into your life for a reason, a season, disruption or cohesion

It was more a coming to than a waking up for Finn, who groped the nightstand for a bottle of fizzy water. He’d been out for 2 ½ hours. The last page he read in the diary was Dea relating a long ago meeting with her grandfather in the library at Eire Indigo. He was apparently the person who’d educated Dea about brandy. Sebastian had returned from a business trip and discovered Grandee had brought Dea home for the ceremony, but Dea had thwarted her schemes. He was angry at his wife and profusely apologetic to Dea.

He told her he’d always look out for her, while acknowledging that sometimes we have to do unpleasant tasks. He asked if she recalled visiting Bally Cois Dara with her gumpy and Aubra. They sat next to a peat fire and recounted the exploits of Aonghus, son of the Dagda, and Caer, daughter of Prince Ethal Anbuail. Dea indeed remembered stories he told her, especially the one about the Irish God of Love. He’d had to do many terrible things. She also recalled feeling lightheaded from the cigar smoke. Gumpy placed his paw of a hand on her shoulder and said she couldn’t escape what flowed through her, darker than blood and stronger than all her families’ wills combined—this urge to love and be loved—and fulfill a grand purpose.

Dea had written swan’s mate for life because of Aonghus and Caer. When the two morphed from human to swan form, their love manifested physically into a heart shape when they brought their heads close together. Her mother thought at the core of love was an ability to recognize beauty, to see it no matter what others saw. She said love was indestructible if it was planted deep enough. Nothing could uproot such a love. She was right, tragically so. 

He was struggling to continue to read the materials in the order she’d specified—one that didn’t seem particularly logical. The next journal in queue mostly covered the mid 70s to late 80s, with no note regarding missing years. So much remained unanswered regarding what had happened to the wild, impetuous women he’d fallen in love with on a wintry evening in Washington DC. She disappeared from his life in New Mexico—as if she’d never existed—abandoning him in Santa Fe—after saving his life.

Finn had hired detectives, retraced steps, and grilled strangers who might have known her. He spared no expense to find the woman he’d lied to—and so it would seem—had lied to him. His lie had cost him the only woman who awoke his soul, could make it leap. He would do as she had asked. He would trust her—still. Finn moved the table lamp closer and flipped through its bound pages. These entries were written in rainbow colors of ink. Some of the words were smeared, and doodles and celtic symbols filled the margins of several pages.

He understood in part what drew him to her that first night. They’d both spent their teen years in boarding schools and universities in England. Both had graduated years before their peers, and developed kitschy, sophisticated tastes by associating with those five or more years older. In Finn’s case, his friends and acquaintances were financially secure. Some had lineages that stretched back into the misty ledger books of peerage. Though both his parents were gone now, they’d had a close and loving bond. Dea, according to her journals, had been summoned home irregularly, and often excluded from traditional family holidays and celebrations. Her mother had loved her; he wasn’t so sure her father had.

Nor was he sure he agreed with her regarding the importance of names. Granted names were often an indicator of status, and both birth names and stage names could make a difference. She had mentioned the letter J was important. He tried to think of book and movie heroes named John, Jack, James, Jason—James Bond, John McClane, Jack Reacher, James T. Kirk, Jason and the Argonauts, John Connor, John Rambo, Jack the Ripper … A few years ago, Dea’s production company, PB&J, had done a special on the magic of names. Whose name or surname began with a J? He couldn’t think of a single action hero with a first name of Griffin or Finn, though Dea had told him there was famous Irish hero named Finn.

Though well trained to endure marathon business meetings, stretching from early morning well past the evening rush hour, Finn felt a gnawing impatience, a strong desire to do something now he understood more about Dea’s early life. But there was more she insisted he know before he faced the world again, a world where she said people were hunting him. He decided to test that theory.

For a rather exorbitant price, the concierge brought him a mobile phone with several 100 prepaid minutes. He used it to call Marsha, who wasn’t home. Then he called a uni chum, an occasional tennis and squash partner, who some folks said bore an uncanny resemblance to him if the light was just right. He told his friend he wanted to play a prank on someone. He asked his friend to sign into their club using his name, have a few drinks, then leave. His friend said no problem as long as the drinks were on Griffin. He’d call him next week and let him know if the prank worked.

On several sheets of hotel stationary, he’d scribbled notes to keep track of the early events in Dea’s life. Barely a year after her mother had died, Mitchell Brentain re-married. He chose a French woman who never stopped talking about her native country, but had no desire to return to it. A year later, Dea’s step mother Caresse gave birth to a baby girl, whom they named Chantel. Dea had never mentioned she had a half-sister. Finn would have liked to have had a sibling. Perhaps he could have shared with him or her his great need to succeed. Together they could have split the enormous amount of effort it took to be successful. If it hadn’t been for his ambition, he would never have married Meredyth, he would never have . . .

And who were these daimons or demons—imaginary guardians, or had she been involved with someone else all these years, whose name she didn’t want anyone to know—not even him? The word had been used by a branch of psychotherapists, the Jungians perhaps. A daimon was some sort of inner guide. From all he knew, she did need a trusted ally.  This Order of Brigida’s his wife and Dea’s grandmother belonged to was surely nothing more than a fancy social club with political aspirations. Dea, why? What have you done? What was done to you that made you run from me, from anyone who pursued you?

Back he plunged into the journals. It was strange, almost as if those two weeks existed in a three-dimensional reality outside of time. Details were sparse on her marriages. She was apparently already divorced from husband #1, the Philadelphia lawyer she’d grown up with, when she met Finn. He sounded like someone safe and familiar, so did they divorce because they’d married too young? Did this man raise his child? Was Langley his daughter—or mine? In any case, the first marriage didn’t survive long enough for them to celebrate an anniversary.

When the snow stopped and airports reopened, he had no excuse for putting off his business trip to San Francisco. She didn’t ask. She told him she was coming with him to the Barbary Coast—to protect him from pirates. He didn’t question the wisdom of her accompany him, only the difficulty of booking a seat given the short notice. He offered to pay for her ticket, but she hushed him, said she already had a ticket waiting for her at the airport, thanks to a travel agent friend.

He’d never been to America’s West Coast. He would adore the city by the bay, she said. He joked he’d heard Tony Bennett sing about this Pacific city where people forget their hearts, while another chap sang it never rained there—it poured. Could she guarantee there would be no earthquakes? She gave him a sly smile and said sort of, she promised to make the earth move just for him—and she had.

Dea couldn’t wait to show him her favorite places, Coit Towers and the Mission District, Haight Ashbury, Fisherman’s Wharf and Lombard Street, the City Lights Café and haunts the Beats inhabited. We’ll eat Chopino and Sour Dough bread, she said, and wash it all down with their great local wines. For dessert, they’d indulge in sundaes topped with Ghirardelli Chocolate Sauce and clouds of whip cream.

She asked rhetorically if she should pack a bag. Then claimed she didn’t need luggage. She’d buy what she needed once they were in San Francisco. He recalled a fragment of conversation right before they left the hotel room where they’d been camping out for the last two nights.

“Finn, what’s that you’re doing with your tongue? It feels . . . ummmm; if we keep this up we’ll never make that plane.”

“Shuddup.”

***###***###***

The lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel in Georgetown ushered you into a world of cool, understated elegance. Beyond the lobby, one descended a few steps into a lush, sunken garden that housed a grand piano, plush, overstuffed sofas with silk embroidered pillows, brocade upholstered chairs, and waxed, polished tables wide enough to hold an entire afternoon tea service for six.

On Monday, Deandra, Sebastian, Martin and Geneva, family lawyer Milton Kiminski, and a woman Viv had never met sat sipping tea from delicate, translucent cups. Sebastian and Milt had also ordered tumblers of fine, aged scotch, double shots. They were seated in plump wing backed chairs next to a banquette sofa in a choice corner of the room. A round table held a triple tiered silver sandwich and pastry stand, laden with small cakes and crustless finger sandwiches, oozing with creamy pink and fern green fillings. Spode bowls of clotted cream, jam, sugar and lemon slices sat next to a small porcelain pitcher of milk. A sweating silver bucket held a magnum of champagne. Viv realized she was hungry. She’d hadn’t eaten since breakfast, when she’d only hurriedly popped a buttered slice of cold toast in her mouth, barely chewing, washed down with mouthfuls of coffee. Gov had left it in the kitchen for her. He’d departed their condo very early Monday morning.

She watched Langley walk over to her great grandparents, lean down and give each of them three kisses, on alternating cheeks, continental style. She moved on to her aunt and uncle and repeated the ritual. Then she gave Milt a big bear hug, which was heartily returned. Viv followed suit, greeting Deas’ grandparents, brother and wife, and Milt. A rich blend of a musky scent (was that Abramelin oil?) and a hint of jasmine wafted from Deandra. She introduced the woman seated in the Duncan Phyfe chair as Christina MacGiolla, the director of the Healing Arts Foundation of Philadelphia. She would be assisting the family with funeral arrangements.

Milt motioned for Viv to sit near him. He poured her a glass of champagne. Sebastian reached over and patted the space on the sofa next to Deandra, and Langley parked herself there as requested. They made polite small talk for a few minutes, how had the flight been, help yourselves to tea, champagne, a scone…

Langley interrupted the reveries. “My, what big drinks you and Milt have. Ummm, scotch—smells like 15-year old Glenlivit? Were you planning on sharing?”

Grandee wasn’t quick or close enough to intercept Langley from picking up the tumbler and swallowing its remains.  Her hand brushed her great-granddaughter’s sleeve. “Langley dear, you’re looking chic and self possessed—considering, though I would think you might find a more flattering hair style than that silly ponytail so many young people your age have adapted. Years from now, you’ll . . . ”

Sebastian signaled the waiter to bring more scotch and sat forward. “Langley, we received the devastating news of her disappearance—of the body found in your mother’s garage. Police incompetence or something more sinister? We want you to return home with us. Ms. MacGiolla has graciously offered to help—with the arrangements. We want the investigation to continue—quietly. My dear, it’s best the public—and the person responsible for this—abomination—think the worst has happened. They need to see the family united and grieving over the loss of a beloved family member. Are you with us macushla (my darling, Gaelic)?”

The waiter delivered two new tumblers of scotch. “Grand Sebastin, I suspect you’ll be needing several more of these.” She put down the empty glass and signaled to the waiter. “I’m going to be unflatteringly unladylike here. You bet the damn investigation is continuing, though I wouldn’t be so sure the police screwed up—it’s much bigger than that. And I guess you weren’t informed—there won’t be a funeral after all because it seems the body, whomever it belonged to, has gone missing.”

The entire entourage sat in abject shock. Langley seized on the opportunity. Sebastian whispered in a waiter’s ear. Grandee remained still as a statue. Langley grabbed Sebastian’s refill and swallowed the fiery liquid, then swiveled round to face her great grandmother. “Grandee, do whatever you feel must be done. Just count me out of anything that involves acknowledging my mother’s demise—real or majestically staged. Considering all the brain power and special forces this family can summon, I’m amazed that once again, it seems mother has bested us all. I don’t know what she’s up to, but I’m going to find out. Don’t worry, I will find her.” Langley laid her hand lightly atop her great grand’s cool hands, which was resting in her lap, palms up, as if waiting to receive a gift. 

“Uncle Martin, I’ll visit granddad tomorrow. I don’t know where I’ll be staying, but I’ll let everyone know, I promise. Now if everyone will excuse me, Vivvy and I have an appointment with a detective.” Langley placed the empty glass firmly on the table, waved, and walked towards the lobby. The waiter arrived with an entire bottle of Scotch.

Christina raised an eyebrow and then busied herself pouring another cup of tea. Geneva swallowed a tea sandwich whole. Sebastian grabbed the tumbler meant for Milt and debated going after his great granddaughter. Now was not the time. He refilled the glass for Milt and passed it to him.

Deandra’s gaze focused on Viv, who had just finished eating a tea sandwich, and was about to bite into an iced cake. Deandra’s hand fanned her throat, as if she was coaxing words upward and out.

“Ms. Jones, you’ll see to it Langley arrives safely tomorrow—at Draigteine? (dragon’s lair in gaelic) Naturally, you and your husband will also stay with us. This is a most distressing time for everyone. Ms. Jones, I’ll be brief. Just answer one question. Did my granddaughter give you any indication she was planning to do anything—more reckless than usual? Let me rephrase that. Did she tell you anything recently that might make you think she was in trouble—or suicidal?”

Vivian leaned forward, facing Deandra. From the corner of her eye she saw Langley standing behind foliage arranged in a large Ming style vase in the lobby, waiting impatiently. She took a deep swallow of champagne. “Thank you for your kind offer. Gov and I returned late Saturday from a dig in Mexico. Regretfully, I’d not seen or talked to Dea in weeks. There was nothing in her actions or words recently to indicate she was distressed or worried—I assure you. Of course, we’ll do everything possible to protect Langley. Please excuse me. Au re’oir ya’ll.”

Though formal etiquette forbad Grandee from shouting at Viv’s retreating form, which sprinted towards the lobby, Grandee started to signal Christina to run after her, then shook her head. Instead, she turned to Martin and demanded to know the names of the officials sent to investigate the fire. More glasses were brought and everyone but Geneva tossed down 3 or 4 fingers of Scotch.

Beneath her silk jacket and linen blouse, a line of sweat trickled down Viv’s side. She dabbed at beads that formed on her upper lip and in the space beneath her eyebrows. Viv sighed, adjusted her purse strap and joined Langley. “Well if that wasn’t a round of pinch the tail and suck the head, cher, I don’t know what is. Were you trying to imitate your mother? You left your Grandee nearly speechless. I’m still hungry despite the lagniappe. Let’s find a real bar cher.”

***###***###***

Sunday pm. “Marsha, Griffin here. I took the chance of catching you at home; sorry to disturb. It would appear, rather, I won’t be at Wynn-Lennox for the next several days, likely the entire next week. Highly irregular, I realize. It can’t be helped. Move my 2nd level appointments to the following week. Right then. That’s most of it, except for meetings Tuesday and Wednesday with the Philippino’s. Those I simply can’t cancel. My father-in-law will need to attend on the company’s behalf. I’ll call him after I ring off with you and give him a status. If I’m not able to reach him, please ensure he receives the grey files in my office, in the top drawer of the cabinet behind my desk. My notes should be in order.”

“Were you able to reach Mrs. Northfield?”

“Yes, though to say she was less than delighted with the message you asked me to relay would be like saying lard is a great substitute for butter. She sounded rather like the queen of tarts—and even though my name isn’t Alice—she did infer the equivalent of off with my head. Not to worry, Mr. N. I took it in stride. You’ll say something to Mr. Wynn-Lennox though, won’t you? Your wife indicated that if I didn’t find you, I’d be out of a job Monday. You did say I should take the day off Monday. I have a list of your appointments and can make the calls from home, if necessary.”

“Yes, take a paid unofficial banker’s holiday Monday.”

“That’s a capital idea Mr. N. If you need me for any reason, just give a ring. Mr. Northfield—please take care.”

“Right Marsha, thanks.”

Finn had nearly 60 minutes left on the mobile calling card. That should be more than enough to make a trans-atlantic call and discuss next week’s business agenda with his father-in-law. He’d wondered more than once whether the decades old deal he’d struck with Wynn-Lennox had been a Faustian bargain or a serendipitous solution to a dire dilemma.

***###***###***

William Wynn-Lennox kept a small, elegant townhouse in London’s Knightsbridge district. Little had changed since it had been professionally decorated by an American designer in the late 50’s. The house reflected his (and the designer’s) admiration for late 19th century textile expert and artist William Morris, and designers influenced by Scottish architect and icon Charles Renne MacIntosh. Wynn acquired an appreciation for the arts and craft and nouveau style while attending school in Glasgow in the mid 1940’s. He hadn’t been recruited to war because his hearing was 30 % compromised and he’d lost two fingers—both were the result of a hunting accident at age fifteen.  He attended classes at the MacIntosh built Glasgow School of Design. After working a brief apprenticeship for a large design firm west of London, Wynn became a sought after architect.

Born into a family with impeccable credentials, a dwindling bank account, and crumbling estate, he knew earlier than most young men what was expected of him.  His rapid successes earned him a modest reputation for being able to combining design elements that bridged the past and the present, and conveyed a timeless sense of beauty.

At 20, Wynn realized it would require about 100,000 quid to renovate the family estate. His father had relied heavily on the trust fund left by his father, which had diminished greatly. Wynn’s father encouraged him to turn from the work he loved to more lucrative ventures. He began mass producing arts and crafts furniture knock offs that were once only available only to the wealthy. He speculated on a growing interest in plastics. Post WWII, he bought up surplus rubber the US had stockpiled, and was well on his way to making his first million pounds when his father died, leaving him a partially renovated mansion, nearly 50 acres of land, and a mother who wanted to see him married immediately, with a family of his own before she joined her husband.

Mirabelle Gitte’s family (German for Brigitte) was anxious to see their only daughter married and a mother. In her teens she evidenced unusual zealousness for prayer. She was steadfast in her devotion to the nuns and lay sisters at the Convent of St. Alba’s outside Glasgow, where she had graduated several years earlier. The Gitte family was prepared to provide a large dowry to the well-bred gentleman who would marry their attractive, pious, delicately tempered child. A carefully prescribed arsenal of pills, powders, and tonics kept the Gitte’s pale, nervous daughter relatively calm once she was removed from the churches influence. She was pretty enough, with soft robin blue eyes and dark, silky hair that formed perfect wispy tendrils round her heart shaped face; what she lacked in personality she made up for in personal wealth.

Wynn was a practical man. Mirabelle would help him restore his family home, fill the house with children, and enable him to fulfill his family duties. They were quietly married in November of 1951. His mother died the following November, ever hopeful Mirabelle would soon become pregnant with the first Wynn Lennox heir.

Mirabelle was not cut out to be an executive’s wife. The city frightened her, the noise and hectic pace of their social life turned her ever present headaches to migraines, and the demands of a lusty husband made her feel jumpy and wired. To maintain compose in his presence, she increased her consumption of pills and washed them down with vodka. Only in the quiet of their country home, Wynn’s former childhood home—now fully restored—could she shake off the malaise and calm her nerves by working to the point of exhaustion refurbishing the grounds and adjoining conservatory. In the village near their estate, she was known as an untiring benefactress.

Mirabelle performed the most menial charity work at the local orphanage and vicarage. Daily she gave instructions to the housekeeper regarding household tasks, then was driven into the village where she attended morning church services. She spent the remainder of most days scrubbing lavatories, scraping, cleaning, and whitewashing walls and fences, and overhauling overgrown gardens. Those were happy years for Mirabelle. Wynn dutifully visited at least one weekend a month, and was pleased at the progress made restoring the conservatory and grounds. When Mirabelle’s parents died suddenly while touring the Nile, the couple inherited a grand home outside Glasgow, as well as a modest hunting lodge in the Scottish highlands.

She became obsessed with becoming a mother, and ventured into London several times during the next year, submitting to embarrassing probes by doctors and her husband’s painful thrusts. After one of her countless visits to a specialist, she returned home, wrote Wynn a lavender scented note saying she knew she would never be a mother, and could no longer pretend. She carefully hung up her street clothes and donned a simple nightgown, with long puffy sleeves and a bit of lace at the throat. The house renovations were complete. The grounds were radiantly green and the renovated conservatory/greenhouse glistened and glowed. Mary laid out 34 pills in a row, and swallowed them, three at a time, chased down with vodka.

The housekeeper found Mirabelle on the bathroom floor the next morning; traces of vomit stained her gown. There was a faint pulse, and medics managed to revive her and pump her stomach. Wynn left instructions with the hospital staff to discretely check her into a private clinic. Unless heavily sedated, she talked obsessively about babies and prayed intently, uttering nonsensical words over and over. In 1957, upon the advice of a doctor at the clinic, Mirabelle was brought home, informed she was to be the mother of an orphaned baby girl, and asked to prepare to receive this new addition into their family.

Overnight, Mirabelle came to life, marveling over the tiny, helpless, dark-haired infant. She quickly swung into hyper mode, and personally oversaw the transformation of a suite of rooms into a baby nursery and a play room. From London stores, she ordered the most expensive layette, and hired a baby nurse—not to take care of the child, but to coach her on how to care for her gift from heaven.

She redirected all her frantic energy to this new life. The baby had everything. Wynn was in many ways relieved that the child fully occupied his wife’s attention. The baby seemed to calm and center her. When the child turned one, Mirabelle moved a single bed into her daughter’s play room, and slept there most nights.

The child, unremarkably, grew up spoiled, indulged, and capricious. She idolized the man she was told was her father, though he spent little time at their country home. He never warmed to a child not of his own flesh and blood, though he did try for a time. She was a plump baby and a pretty child, smart and always attired in dainty, frilly dresses. Mirabelle was endlessly delighted by her antics.

Wynn was surprised by how a mere child could manipulate the house staff. Mirabelle didn’t mind her husband’s standoffishness regarding the child. She assumed his head was wrapped up in business, his next clever move. It was ironic, for the child, whom they named Meredyth, was also clever. In later years, she would prove to have a mind every bit as shrewd as Wynn’s.

She would also exhibit a few of the nervous manners and compulsive habits her mother had, though they shared no DNA. She gave her parents a moment of alarm when she announced a magical lady came to visit her, and told her she was special. When Meredyth was nine, at Wynn’s insistence, she was sent to boarding school. This move nearly destroyed Mirabelle’s delicate mental health. Arrangements were made for the child to be chauffeured home every weekend.

Wynn continued to stay at his restored Edwardian townhouse in London, or at the hunting lodge in the highlands. He paid little attention to his adopted daughter’s development during those formative years, and even less attention to his wife’s increasingly unstable mental state as their daughter neared maturity. Mirabelle would have slipped over the edge several times during those years were it not for the demands of her growing daughter, which forced her to concentrate her fragmented mind on Meredyth’s well being.

Sadly, the planning and arduous preparation for her daughter’s coming out party was too much for Mirabelle. Shortly after Meredyth’s formal entrance into society, Mirabelle was again quietly checked into a convalescence home suffering from ‘exhaustion.’ Meredyth visited her mother only once. The morning after the visit, Mirabelle was dead. This time the pills she’d hoarded did the job.

After the funeral, Wynn and his daughter returned to their country home. His daughter began removing many of Mirabelle’s personal touches, and hired a team to redecorate the entire west wing of the house. She clamored for her father’s approval, and clung to his arms as they walked through areas being renovated and she described the changes. He returned to London that night and vowed to never step foot in his ancestral country home again, if he could help it. He deeded the property to Meredyth. In general, he avoided his daughter, though he did approve of the husband she married. In fact, he was genuinely fond of his daughter’s husband. He’d hand selected him. She was smitten by the handsome young man the moment she was introduced to Garner Griffin Northfield.

***###***###***

Sunday morning, while many weekend warriors were still deep in REM dream land, Langley had rang Viv and Gov. Neither of them had managed to grab more than a few hours rest, and were sipping their second cup of strong, chicory laced coffee. Langley confirmed she’d be joining them for brunch, and bringing a guest. She advised them not to tell Grandee or Martin where she was, should either of them call. 

“You got it sugar,” Viv replied. “Come on over whenever you’re ready. We’re having all your favorites. Gov is whipping up a batch of those apple pecan pancakes you like so much. I’m making the bubbling brown syrup and my tipsy fruit salad. We’re worried about you baby. We also want to know what you found out. We’ve been doing some of our own snooping. We’ll fill you in. Bring your nighties. The guest room’s all ready. Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Thanks. You’re the best. I’ll see you in a few hours; I’m not sure I can take you up on your offer to spend the night. We’ll see. I’ll fill you in on the latest development—leave it to mother. Also, be prepared to be interrogated by a very determined detective. He was going to show up at your condo in any case. He’s quite a character, even looped me in and let me tag along yesterday. Late last night we routed through mother’s curbside trash. I’m explain later. Amazingly my slumber abilities are undiminished. I’m rested and I’ve got some on-line research to get back to, and more phone calls to make.”

Langley threw the phone on the bed and pulled out an overnight bag, which she quickly loaded with essentials: two changes of clothes, toiletries, and a laptop and power cord. Before sitting down to resume her research, she phoned the funeral mortuary where her mother’s body had just been moved, thanks apparently to family influence. She let them know her uncle, Martin Brentain would be in touch. Then she chuckled and made a face. Her mother would never have wanted to be buried; she’d insisted cremation was the only possible option. Dea had done an entire show a few years ago devoted to funeral customs. She exposed the greedy underbelly of the business, and her own personal distaste. It wasn’t a funeral for her mother’s any way. However, she’d do her best to give the charred corpse a proper send off into the great hereafter, should it turn up.

Early Sunday afternoon, as Earl drove to the Jones’ Watergate condo to conduct an in-depth interview with the people that perhaps knew Dea best, he recalled bits of the conversation he’d had earlier with Duncan LaGrange. Two days into this investigation, he was more mystified than ever by the growing cast of characters involved in Dea Brentain’s life—and death? Theo had agreed to interview the O’Hennessy’s staying at the Four Seasons. They’d compare notes Monday, over coffee and the greasy, sweet bear claw Eam promised Theo for working on a Sunday.

Langley posed an interesting problem. She had no business involving herself in the investigation. He had no business including her. Then again, she knew vital information that might help him solve the mystery of her mother’s death. He suspected no one would ever figure out the intricacies of Dea Brentain’s life, or her short lived, tempestuous marriages, like the one to dancer turned semi-famous artistic choreographer, Duncan LaGrange.

It had rained earlier, blurring the early spring landscape so that it more resembled a pastel watercolor scene. Artists, Eam mused, are masters of misdirection, especially Mr. LaGrange. Whatever little light the man shed was more than obscured by his heavily opinionated comments about his relationship with Dea.

“I agree entirely constable, rightly so. Still, I don’t see what possible further help I can be. Nor am I someone who can be put on call. As I said—it’s been many years since Dea and I last shared a bed—or a conversation of substance. We were opposite ends of the same octave. We made the music of fingernails on black slate. Still, she will always have a place in my heart. You must appreciate, my ballet company begins touring tomorrow. This news has been most distressing—I need to summon all my vigor for the ballet. She was my—partner—for such a short time. I only wished her well when we parted.”

 “Are you familiar with the ballet Astarte, originally staged by Robert Joffrey? No, then allow me to explain. Dea was—Astarte, a glimmering, rising star in my heart. As she explained, the problem was that we both gave off sparks. The effect was to cancel each other out, and to blind everyone else. In daylight, the illumination of lit candles is lost, no? A zebra doesn’t stand out in a herd of zebras, you see what I mean? I was in the Corps de ballet when I met her. She called me her nebula, and predicted I would soon be able to choose my own roles. She was right—my star rose—just as she foretold. Within a year, I had my pick of contracts.”

“She enthralled me, seduced me, pushed my limits. I’m not a superstitious man. I’m an artist—a reasonable man. Dea was never—reasonable. I was never enough. Had we remained together I would have become another Icarus. No, it could not be. I could not allow myself to be consumed.”

“I’m hardly surprised to hear her fire was quenched in this way—proverbial moth to a flame. Her daughter, Langley—she danced divinely. It’s a pity she grew too tall. We all must face our limitations, even stars. I’m a choreographer now, an integral player, though no longer a … I will of course submit an affidavit of the people who were with me on the day you say Dea was killed. We will be out of the country for at least six weeks. Please pass on any other requests or messages to my press secretary.”

            “No, I do not own one. Cell phones are gauche. I really must ring off now. I do hope you solve your mystery—she was a most amazing woman. Good day.”

***###***###***

Eam arrived about 45 minutes after Langley, and was ushered from their circular black and white marble entranceway through their formal living room with a panoramic view of the Potomac. Viv extended her hand to shake Eam’s then pulled it back and bussed either cheek. Gov did the same and shook Eam’s hand. Viv invited him to sit at the brightly clad semi-circular banquette. It faced an ample sized open gallery kitchen equipped with the latest stainless steel appliances, including a glass doored fridge. Viv plumped and placed orange and hot pink pillows behind his back, and without asking, poured chicory and nutmeg scented coffee into a mug. She set this next to a water glass with a lemon slice on the rim, and pointed to a tall, skinny pitcher of bloody mary’s and another of orange juice. He thanked her, took a sip of coffee and nodded, and pulled out a brown folder and steno pad.

For more than an hour, the Jones’ patiently submitted to Eam’s barrage of questions, while Langley quietly sipped her coffee and chewed her lower lip.  Governor’ broad, cleanly shaved face couldn’t hide the mixed emotions he was feeling. This was nearly unbearable—Langley didn’t fool him with her thoughtful gaze and poise. She was being awfully polite to this cafe au lait skinned detective, who, in his opinion, looked a bit junior to be leading such a critical, complex investigation. He’d soon learn what he was up against, once the O’Hennessy’s got into the mix. Food was what was needed now. It certainly kept his mind occupied, kneading the fragrant, anise scented dough, slicing green apples and rinsing them in sharp lemon juice, squeezing oranges, and watching the pulp run into Viv’s cut glass pitcher.   

The announcement that brunch was ready presented Langley the perfect opportunity to air her own concerns. She was overly sensitive about her mother being perceived as an eccentric new ager who rambled on about spiritual matters of no consequence. Over 2nd helpings of airy light pancakes, which hid paper thin slices of spiced apple and a sprinkle of pecan bits, Langley caught them up, then explained how she and Eam had spent some quality time combing through Dea’s garbage, looking for something that might bear her mother’s bit mark, since no dental records existed to help prove the corpse was her mother’s. “There I was looking for evidence to prove what I know isn’t so. Now that we have a missing crispy critter, it’s a mote point.” Langley swirled her fork in the air and spooned more tipsy fruit onto her plate.

“Nothing we’ve found or might find will convince me that was mother’s body. Is it really so peculiar to have cavity free teeth and perfect health? Mother had an uncanny array of skills, all the O’Hennessey’s. She seldom lost at the gambling tables, and even folks that didn’t like her much begged for stock tips. She told me more than once today’s magic was yesterday’s impossibility. Did I mention Eam that Viv is well known in certain voodoo circles. She’s … ”

Eam’s head nodding, lip pursing is that so was interrupted by Viv. “Langley, why don’t you clear Detective Able’s plate so he has room to lay out those papers. Gov, the sticky buns smell ready; would you check? Perhaps I could explain Dea’s unique ability to produce serendipitous outcomes.” Viv folded her starched lavender napkin and rooted through a ceramic ginger jar on the counter, spilling out odds and ends. Soft Calypso music played in the background. Viv briefly examined a domino and a cat’s eye marble, then threw them back in the jar and palmed a bright red bottle cap.

“Ladies, Detective, I’ll take my leave. I have some business matters to attend to. If you need me, baby, I’ll be in my office.” Governor winked at Langley and his wife and shook the detective’s hand again. He picked up the tray on which Langley had stacked a pile of dirty Fiestaware and carried the tray to the sink.

Viv poured Eam more coffee. “It’s simple. A baseball player carries a bottle cap to bring him luck. A gambler asks a pretty girl to stand next to him and blow on his dice. Children are told to put their teeth under the pillow. These are rites most people wouldn’t think of ignoring or breaking. People wish on stars and believe in supra-sensitive powers. As long as the culture in which a person lives accepts these rituals—no belief, however ridiculous, is questioned or condemned. Would you agree with me so far Detective?”

Eam nodded and filled his glass with water. He eyed the cooling plate of sticky buns.

“In fact, some of these silly antics aren’t even viewed as superstitions. A child might as well put a tooth under a pillow and receive a reward. A baseball player shouldn’t tempt fate. It makes sense. What if I told you this particular bottle cap once helped a rookie from my home state of Louisiana become a major league player?” Viv grinned, flicked her finger and the bottle cap seemed to vanish in mid-air.

Langley cut in, “Mother was straightforward in preparing me—when I was little more than a toddler—for our scary world. She said long ago it was even more terrifying; survival was precarious. People invented rites and rituals to explain what they couldn’t fathom. Science, way back when, was also a toddler. Now it’s an adolescent feeling its oats. But magic and science grew up together. Some claim the word is derived from magi that lived near the cradle of civilization. A cradle seems an appropriate place for crafts (like science & magic) in their infancy? Before that, there were vast elemental forces, an incredible world of living spirits, and a pervasive awe of nature.

Today science is front and center, as well as too many fake religions. They all profess to have answers and speak to invisible godheads that pull the world’s puppet strings. Because part of magic is mis-direction and secretive things, it’s viewed badly. It’s feared and condemned, just like those who know about its remarkable applications—like mother.

Monotheistic religions promoted the idea there was only one source of power, which rested in a one supreme being. Magic was about being godlike. Today, new agers want to use magic to accelerate their evolution. It’s never disappeared, though it’s gone underground many times, and masqueraded wearing all sorts of disguises. Viv is a mambo, a female voodoo priestess, descended from a long line of Creole and African ancestors who brought magic with them from Africa and the Near East.”

Another Jones’ house specialty, anise and vanilla scented sticky buns oozing with a gooey cream cheese center and glazing of sugar, were offered. Langley gave Eam the first piece, then helped herself. Viv handed Eam a long stemmed glass, which held little more than a few thimbles full of amber liquid. She leaned towards Eam. “Langley grew up hearing tales my family told her about some of my more illustrious relatives. Mambo is just a dance, and hardly relevant here. Where were we?”

Yes, the truly evolved practice a life art, and view magic as lost knowledge re-found. My friend Dea was sometimes was referred to as a hierophant—someone who keeps the ancient knowledge alive. She would tell you the supernatural is the ladder part of life’s chutes and ladders. It’s technology and science squared and spiraled, moon glowed and goblin glittered. It’s also all the bad things people call it, mambo and mumbo jumbo, hoodoo, malarkey, wizardry, weirdness. Please, try my herbal honey elixir. It’s distilled goodness—and perfectly legal.”

Langley swallowed the last morsel of her bun and shamelessly licked her fingers. “Your investigation will uncover that Mother practiced many of the esoteric arts. She was a master, as Viv said, an adept, a hierophant. Don’t you see—she’d prevent anyone from attacking her, from putting her in her car. That wasn’t mother’s body. Check out her library. It contains the wisdom of countless races and cultures. It’s been her life’s work—literally. Scholars from all over the world consulted Mother.”

Eam drained the last drop of the amber liquid, and was embarrassed that his tongue snaked out to capture those last drops. Quickly, he set the glass down. Langley grinned and he watched her lick the rim of her glass.

“Very riveting theories, ladies. You’ve put occult or esoteric knowledge—in an interesting light. I’m not a complete neophyte.” Eam placed an index finger on his lips, then continued. “I certainly hope this world still contains magic—lots of it. My sister’s a Jungian Psychologist, so we’ve had a few discussions on similar topics. She dabbled a bit with voodoo and Santeria in college.

“That’s fascinating.” Langley jumped up from the chair opposite him and plopped next to him on the banquette. “So you’ve read Jung’s book on the occult and alchemy? Why didn’t you say so? Oh, Vivvy, this man and I have lots to talk about.”

“What you haven’t explained is what special methods your mother used to keep her pearly whites pearly. It’s unusual to have perfect teeth. You don’t have to convince me your mother was—a gifted person. What did you tell me she called the bedroom—the dead skin capital? Hours ago, I had about 100 pounds of dead skin and a mouth full of teeth lying in a morgue. Now I got nothing. I can’t even establish what kind of crime was committed, or if there was one, other than suicide.”

“Okay—back to the mystery of the mouth. I’ll try to be brief. Mother once said that only a few per cent of the world’s population were cavity free. She’d done lots of research because when she was oh about four or five years old, some Indian skulls were dug up on Grandad Mitchell’s land in Pennsylvania. The archeologists who examined the skulls noted they had no cavities. They had perfectly straight, cavity free teeth.”

“Just how did it happen that Indian skulls were discovered buried on your grandfather’s property?”

“Let’s see. Great Granddad Cullen, that was granddad Mitchell’s father—inherited land from his business partner. Before that, it was wilderness that belonged to the Lanappe Indians. They figured it was part of an ancient burial ground. Those skulls could have been 300 or 500 years old.”

“Baby, I think Detective Able was asking why they were digging. Let me help. Dea told me that when she was a girl they added a bomb shelter and storage area. Dea’s mother, Aubra, was upset. She demanded they stop disturbing this sacred resting place, and she got her way, the work stopped.

When Dea was a bit older, she wondered if there was something in the well water that prevented her from getting cavities. Her first husband, Carl, lived nearby. They grew up together, and he had cavities—and used city water. Have you talked to Carl yet?”

Eam shook his head, sighed and made another notation. The afternoon light was fading. His watercolor landscape was now tinged with twilight’s grey ink. A similar foggy landscape was forming inside his head.

Viv poured another wee measure of amber liquid into their glasses. “Carl had a normal amount of cavities. He had the water tested. They didn’t find any special properties to explain Dea’s perfect teeth. It’s a trait that runs predominantly on the female side of the family. Dea’s father, Mitchell, had cavities, made regular visits to the dentist . .  .”

Langley jumped in. “The answer’s simple—nothing paranormal. It’s just one of the many things that confused people, and made them fear mother. Basically, cavities are caused by mouth bacteria. Carbs are responsible for the worst kind of bacteria, so the more carbo’s you eat, well the worse that is for your teeth. Live enzymes from uncooked food (especially food high in protein) kills the bad bacteria. Enzymes are the true building blocks of life. Vitamin C also plays a big part in keeping the mouth and body healthy. They also did some experiments that showed that ozone prevents cavities—and you know—lots of people said mother was way out there in the ozone. Sorry, bad joke.”

Viv flashed the detective a toothy smile. “So eat lots of raw veggies and meat, avoid sugars and other processed, cooked food, floss and brush regularly, you’ll have gorgeous teeth. Pretty basic. Dea simply ate lots of healthy food, and the women in her family generate these bacteria killing enzymes. I have three cavities—created before I ever met Dea. My dental hygiene is good, though as you see, I love sweet treats.”

“One last thought Detective. Ancient hierophants were known for their ability to control and direct fire and all that implies. Proof has been discovered they harnessed electricity and used batteries to store energy. They carried their knowledge to the far reaches of the world and many legends developed. The Nordic race had their Thor and his thunderbolts, Greeks and Romans had sun gods, including ones who got too close to the heat. In Hawaii, Pele, a fierce fire goddesss, resides in an active volcano. Christians decided Hell was a place of brimstone and eternal fires, and so forth. You’ll hear people say Dea could snatch lightening from the sky or cloud up a sunny day. They’ll also tell you a few raging fires were mysteriously brought under control and extinguished when she was around. It’s true—though the reasons she could do these things were logical.”

“My point is Dea could never be destroyed through fire. I can’t explain why. It’s just not possible. I do know of one person though—who’s rumored to be a bit of a fire starter, though it would be difficult to prove. She lives a rather protected life—abroad. I’ve never trusted her.”

“And where may I find this person Ms. Jones?”

“Well, that’s the problem. I, ah, don’t know her full name, just her first name, Meredyth. However, I know who does. Langley’s Grandee. Talk to her. She’ll give you the name and address. She’s someone I’d put at the top of your guilty list. Find out what happened in Dea’s garage—and find our Dea. Bring her back to us.” Viv reached slowly into Eam’s inside coat pocket and withdrew the red bottlecap. “I’ll just be returning this to the jar. On second thought, you keep it. You’re going to need all the magical luck you can summon.”

***###***###***

“That impertinent cow; Daddy was a dunce to let Garner hire that silly American cow Marsha. She can’t even manage to keep track of one man. Buggers. Riegel, send the car round. I’m exhausted, but I’m going to daddy’s club anyway. If Mr. Northfield calls, you must have him ring me immediately. Are we clear?”

            “Naturally madame, I understand entirely. And I do share your concerns about having an American in one’s employment. If you’ll be dining at the club tonight shall I cancel your other dinner plans? Might I suggest you change into the brown merino wool, with the bronze silk? There’s still a nip in the air. I’ve unpacked your bags and it is my pleasure to await your further instructions.”

            “You do understand. Yes, of course. Tell Alfred I’ll be ready to leave in twenty minutes. I’m undecided about dinner. Yes, send my apologies. I need a quiet place where I can think, a place that caters to aristocrats. And Riegel, if a woman named Bridey calls, have her phone me at the club immediately. This is so deucedly inconvenient. We must all get cell phones. Bugger, what a bother. My husband is apparently incognito. Never mind me Riegel.  It’s terribly important I talk to her. I’ll have Daddy deal with Garner.”

“I’ll be home late and would prefer to sleep in—and through this infernal jet lag. Leave two of those pink pills for me on the console. I’m expecting two men here tomorrow around noon. Show them into my private studio in the cottage out back, and serve them whatever they like. There are scores to settle Riegel, and settle them I will. Do you think I should wear the brown mink or fox wrap?”

***###***###***

The men had been instructed to break the lock at the rear of the building, after which, both a real and a silent alarm would go off. They would have approximately five minutes to replace the broken lock with an identical, slightly used lock and reset the alarm. Then both men were to hide in the supply closet located just outside the small kitchen when the mortuary staff gathered for breaks. Two funeral services had been held that day. Tonight the last employee had departed and locked the doors by 7:45 pm. The men heard feet crunch through the pebbled parking area. They felt a bit silly peeking through the tall Leland Cypress trees that lined the right side of the mortuary’s parking lot, watching the employee apply lipstick and adjust her seat belt. The night air whipped limber tree branches making it look like the trees were gesturing, calling attention to themselves. The men moved quickly to the wide back door and set to work.

Their task was accomplished in three minutes. They had rehearsed and synchronized their movements the previous day. Once inside, the men headed directly to the closet and closed the door. Down the hall, the phone kept ringing. Barely a minute later a security vehicle pulled up outside the mortuary. One man went to the front door, the other headed around back. Everything was secure. They shined lights through all the windows and ensured no window was ajar. The building was locked up tighter than a cow’s ass at fly time, one of the men remarked. The younger of the two uniformed security guards made a notation on his clipboard, and removed a tree branch about 4 feet in length and 3 inches in diameter. This was probably the culprit, he said to the other guard holding the flashlight. “OK. False alarm. Let’s get some dinner. I’m hungry as a pregnant pig in spring.”

Inside the mortuary, the other men stepped out of the closet and quietly shut the door. Swiftly, they walked through the building to make sure they were alone. Though their eyes had adjusted to the dim light, they turned on the small, powerful torch lights centered on their headbands, and moved quickly to the refrigeration units, where the bodies were stored. Locker #19 did indeed contain the charred corpse they’d been paid to remove. One of them zipped the body bag shut, and pulled it forward. The other man grabbed the chilled opposite end of the bag. They made their way back to the door and exited after pulling identical beanie masks over their faces. Beyond the Leland cypresses, the taller man sprinted down a grassy bank that led to a narrow two lane road. He crossed the road and slid into the front seat of a van parked about 50 yards in, and drove back of the mortuary. They hoisted the body bag into the back of the van.

In less than an hour, they arrived at their destination outside Berryville, Virginia. They nodded to the college student who was pouring over a text book, and set about preparing the body for entry into the fiery chamber, which sometimes reached over 1600 degrees. It would reduce the remains to cremains, about 5-7 pounds worth of seashell like bone and ash. Just past midnight, the men carefully scooped the cremains into a large glazed container. They had been instructed to not pass the final fragments through the 2nd cremation process, which would have reduced the contents to a silt and fine ash consistency. One of the men reached for a medium sized cardboard box. The other bubbled wrapped the sealed urn, placed it in the box, and double taped the lid to ensure no spillage.

They nodded to each other. It had gone off without a hitch. The only task that remained was to rendezvous at the agreed spot the following day and give the box to the person who would pay them the other half of the fee. Truthfully, they would have performed the task for free. They wouldn’t keep the money. It would be used to pay for medicine and food at a local hospice. There were two new bodies to render from flesh to dust and ashes tonight. The men returned to their duties.

Next: Chapter 8: Till the Cows Come Home (Paddy’s Day, a death, a wish, night moves…)