It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.
In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.
But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.
I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.
Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.
But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.
I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.
Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.
Then there’s the so-called widow of the eldest son, the man who would have been king,
If they knew where he was.
And there’s a story to go with that; now he’s starting to shake the trees, just to see what falls out.
Our protagonist visits Edward’s fiancé, Arabella.
She was detained, in not so many words, when she was trying to leave the castle.
A preliminary investigation reveals that Edward had changed his will to leave Arabella the Paris apartment he owned and a sizable annuity several days before he disappeared.
There’s some dispute about his friendship with the skier he was supposed to be helping.
Does she know why he did that?
Are the tears and sadness real?
Was she trying to escape so that if they were meeting, they would have somewhere to live and money to live on?
She is expected to stay for the King’s funeral, and the others too.
It’s part of the reason why I have a writing blog.
In the first instance, it is to highlight the issues I have in every aspect of writing, from constructing a sentence to describing a scene, to conversing between characters, and not losing the plot.
But it cuts a lot deeper than just the writing; there’s all that other tacky stuff, like marketing. The self-published author also has to be a consummate ad man, right out of the fifties and sixties, with all the slick means of selling what some might call the unsellable.
I have managed to hit every pot home and brick wall; there is.
Perhaps the best part is showcasing my writing, whether it is an episode of a long book, a short story, or parts of a novella.
But what is the most satisfying is the comments where nearly everyone is positive about my work, and sometimes, they will buy a book.
I confess I’m not going to become an international best-selling author overnight, in a week, month or even a year. But it is still a thrill when a book registers in the same column.
Conversely, I have quite a number of other authors’ websites and blogs that I read, and I make time every week to read other authors’ work, offer my opinion, and give a review, that rare thing that all authors need as part of their marketing strategy.
M is for — Metamorphosis. An unrecognisable change, not necessarily for the better
…
A change is as good as a holiday.
I said that once, in jest, but Joey had taken it to heart.
Joey has been like that since we were little, from that first day at elementary school and then off and on until we graduated college.
Well, I did. Joey had been too preoccupied with the latest love of his life, Agnetha from Sweden. She didn’t have a last name, or he just didn’t ask.
That was probably the reason when she returned to Sweden and didn’t come back, Joey had no means of finding her.
He tried.
And now he was heartbroken
I looked at my phone and re-read the message that Joey had sent me. It had been nearly three months, partly on that odyssey to Sweden, partly hiding at his parents’ retreat at Martha’s Vineyard wallowing in self-pity, and then just disappearing.
“I’m back, bigger and better than ever. See you at the usual haunt, 3:00 p.m.”
Typical Joey.
You could never keep a guy like him down. Another round of psychoanalysis, his mother indulging his every whim, and there he was, Joey 2.0.
This would be Joey 13.5. Maybe.
Last time, he had gone surfer-Dan, the rippling muscles and six pack, board shorts and muscle tee, and to top it off, the bleach blonde hair.
With that came the beach buggy and the most expensive surfboard money could buy. And after lessons from a world-famous surfer, he still couldn’t stay on the board long enough to get to the other side of the wave.
What was it going to be this time?
I was supposed to have afternoon tea with Penelope, the girl I had decided to spend the rest of my life with. I just had to tell her that.
I’d recognised the signs that she wanted more, but I had been holding back, waiting for a sign that my job was going to move upwards, with that a commensurate raise in salary that would fund the move in together.
We had been looking at apartments, but on what I was making, it wasn’t enough. With the call from Wickham in HR this morning and the fact I was on the shortlist, I made it ideal to tell her.
I told her Joey had texted, and knowing how she felt about him, we could postpone until later, but she said she was only available then and didn’t mind.
That in itself should have set off alarm bells.
Perhaps I was too preoccupied with Joey 13.5.
I was running late, which was highly unusual, but Wickham called again for no apparent reason, taking an inordinate amount of time to say nothing.
When I arrived, I saw Joey and Penelope talking animatedly and, if my eyes were not mistaken, flirting with him.
It was not hard to see why.
Joey had finally decided to become the executive type his father had always wanted, the heir apparent finally growing up.
Penelope had always joked about looking for that elusive, rich, dark, handsome billionaire type that always seemed to be taken.
There he was.
When she saw me, she suddenly became more aloof, which, to me, was the last warning sign that the good ship Lollypop had run aground.
What’s that saying? He who hesitates is lost.
I put on my best happy to see you have and came up smiling and astonished in the same expression.
“Well, look who has finally joined the human race.”
I sat down next to Penelope, but not next to Penelope. She smiled in my direction, but I think she knew that I had seen their display.
There was no kissing or touching.
I could feel the ice wall building between us.
“Had to, Ethan. Had to. Agnetha was the last straw that broke my mother’s tolerance level. It was time to shape up or ship out.”
An inheritance of 20 billion dollars could do that to a young man. I was lucky to put together 20 thousand dollars at best, and Penelope had expensive tastes.
“Can you believe it. Joey is having a soiree at the Martha’s Vineyard place, and we’re invited. It’ll be such fun.”
I saw the look between them.
I sighed. That last look at the shoreline so near and yet so far, just before I went under.
Was it possible that I could just understand what Joey had felt when Agnetha had decided to go home and not leave a calling card?
“It will be, but I won’t be able to make it.” I looked at her. “But don’t cancel going because of me. I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own.”
I stood.
“Hey, Ethan. What’s going on?”
I looked at him. “I’m sure you are more aware of what’s going on, Joey, than I am.”
There was a look of concern on Penelope’s face. “Are you alright?”
I turned to her. “Perfectly. We’ll talk later, but I have to get back to work. Wickham scheduled a meeting just before I stepped out, the reason I’m late. You two carry on without me. I wouldn’t make very good company at the moment.”
With a wan smile and a nod to Joey, I turned and left. I doubted I would see or hear from either of them again.
It’s funny how things work out.
Walking slowly back to the office, I wasn’t angry or upset with either of them. In any other set of circumstances, I might have been, but something told me that what had happened was meant to happen.
Yes, as my grandmother always said, things happen for a reason.
Penelope didn’t call, nor did I call her. What I’d seen was the last nail in the coffin that was our relationship. Obviously, she was not the one for me.
When I got back to the office, Wickham finally remembered what he’d called me about, and that was that I was not going to get the promotion this time; it was going to someone who had been there a short time, head hunted, and fast tracked.
It happened.
My opinion of him was less than what I had been told, but that was the corporate jungle. Paper qualifications counted for more than experience.
I quit and walked out of the office fifteen minutes later. I didn’t bother going back to my office to throw what little I had into the obligatory cardboard box. I left the phone and keyboard with Dave, the security guard and probably the only real friend I had in the building.
While walking to my apartment, a small, cramped space in the Lower East Side, I pulled out my own cell phone, a cheap serviceable model that had just enough bells and whistles to get onto the airline sites and book a ticket to (Arizona) later that afternoon.
I gave notice on the apartment, packed what I needed into a backpack, and a half hour later, I took that one look back on the life I’d never liked.
It took a few seconds to open my eyes and see what was really going on around me.
There was no point in telling my parents what had happened. They had always eschewed my choices, that I never wanted to live in their shadow or take the advantages they were willing to hand out, like my brothers had.
It’s why I never told anyone how insanely rich my family were. How else would I have known Joey. We had both taken the same path and had a bet going on who would crumble first.
He did.
A week later, after that fateful 3:00, an envelope arrived with a crisp ten-dollar note. Nothing else.
Bet settled.
I won, but in the scheme of things, I’d lost.
Gran, at least, was understanding. She was a wise old lady who had to endure the worst of what the Lancaster’s were, mean, nasty bullies who ruled with an iron fist.
She hadn’t wanted that for me and had convinced me to strike out on my own. I had, and when I failed, she was there to pick up the pieces.
There weren’t that many pieces to pick up.
“Your parents are coming to visit.”
Breakfast was mandatory. Those first few days after returning, she had let me alone, but after that, the ranch foreman came in with a bucket of cold water.
It only happened once.
“Should I go down to the south paddock and camp out? I don’t really want my mother to tell me the same old stuff.”
“No. You need to stand up to her. I’m surprised she still comes here after the last time.”
Grandma and Mother hated each other. Gran called her a heartless gold digger, which wasn’t far from the truth, though it hadn’t started out like that.
“Have you heard from Penelope?”
My Gran knew everything about everyone and had said she was not the girl for me. I knew she had an army of private investigators, so she probably knew more about her than Penelope knew herself.
As for Joey, he was a lost soul. She knew that his parents and grandparents were not at fault for his state of mind. He just wanted an easy life and thought that their money would complicate things. Except he still took his weekly allowance.
We agreed to disagree
“No, but then she doesn’t know where I am or what my number is to call.”
“A girl like that is more resourceful than you might think.”
I gave her one of those looks I gave her sometimes just before she came out with a revelation.
“Are we talking about the same Penelope?”
She just shook her head. Something was afoot.
I was learning to be a ranch hand. Well, that wasn’t quite true; I’d been doing that since I could sit on a horse. I think the correct term was learning the ropes.
Lately, my life could be summed up in a series of metaphors.
The foreman, son of the foreman before him and so on, ubiquitously named Larry, yes, you guessed it, was going through the finer points of peeling of a single beast from the herd.
My roping skills needed refinement, but I was getting there.
It was fine but cool. Fall, just before the snow arrived and Winter settled on the landscape. It was that part of the year I loved.
Especially Christmas.
I always, without fail, came home for Christmas but never brought Penelope. For obvious reasons.
We were not far from the main house, part of the herd getting checked out before changing pastures. I could see a car coming along the road that led from the main road to the house.
My parents.
My father hated the farm, hated where he’d come from, and preferred to be something else, anything but a rancher. Not like in the old days, almost a law unto themselves.
My Gran still was, to a certain extent.
I looked over at Larry, and he nodded. Time to go and greet them. Gran had insisted I be there.
I arrived just in time, as the car pulled up at the bottom of the stairs. The ranch house was impressive, a two story mansion with surrounding verandas on both floors, so impressive it could be seen a mile from the main road.
I was still sitting on the horse, dusty and sweaty from the ride. The chauffeur got out and opened the door for my father first, my mother second, and then a third passenger, Penelope.
Odd that she should be travelling with my parents.
She immediately saw me. I was going to get down. Now, I’d say what I needed to and then get back to work.
After giving me a long, hard stare, she said, “You look different.”
Neither my father nor mother said anything other than the usual look of disdain and followed my Gran inside. She had given me a different look, one I didn’t recognise.
Should I get off my high horse?
“No. It’s still the Ethan you knew before. It’s just that I’m where I belong. Why are you here?”
“You are a hard person to find. To be honest, I was astonished you had disappeared into the wind in one afternoon. I called. Phone disconnected. I went to your apartment, it was up for rent, called your work, you had resigned. Why?”
“There was nothing left for me in New York. When I saw you with Joey, I knew everything I wanted to achieve was a pipe dream.”
“But I’m not with Joey, I never was.”
“It didn’t look like it. You are someone who likes material things, very expensive material things. That apartment, even if I got the promotion, and I didn’t, probably wouldn’t, by the way, still would barely cover the rent.”
She didn’t reply but instead made a face that left me somewhat confused.
“OK. I was momentarily diverted. But in his defence, he told me that he would never date a girlfriend of his best and only friend in the world. He was as surprised as I was when you left without a word.”
She hadn’t moved. Neither had I, except the horse was getting restless. He wasn’t used to standing around. I patted him on the neck and told him it wouldn’t be for much longer.
“You didn’t tell me about all this.” She looked around and then back at me.
“Why would I? A girl has to love me, not for what I have or as it happens, don’t have, but for plain old nobody me. It’s my number one rule.”
“That’s what Joey said. Joey said you never really needed anything but the right people by your side.”
“And you?”
“A fool who took her eyes off the ball for that fraction of a second, all it takes to lose the one you finally realise is the right one, the only one.”
“Who has wealthy connections, the sort who could fund the sort of lifestyle you could easily become accustomed to. I’m sure when Joey realises you’re free, he will give you everything you want. I have to get back to work.”
I left her there, staring at me with a look that if it could kill, I would be dead.
Here’s the thing.
She annoyed me. She was flirting with Joey. In the back of my mind, I sort of knew if she was my girlfriend, Joey would not try to take her away from me.
He did that once, very early in our friendship, and I punched him, very hard, where it hurt. And didn’t speak to him for months.
But she flirted with him. She didn’t flirt with others, or perhaps she did, and I didn’t know. But that, for me, wasn’t really acceptable. Perhaps I was too demanding, but once you’ve been cheated on, it leaves a scar that never quite heals.
Now, I didn’t know what I wanted. I thought I did; I thought she was the one. Now, she knew I had the family that could fund those desires.
Everything was different.
Except…
Seeing her again brought back a lot of memories because she had been the one I had spent the most time with and probably knew me better than anyone else.
I didn’t think I would find anyone who had that ability to bring out the best in me and get me to strive for more and achieve more than I thought I could.
But the bottom line in any relationship now or ever is that there was never going to be a pile of money to pander to her every wish. That Lower East Side apartment, though cramped and dingy, was infinitely preferable to that in Trump Tower on the Upper West Side, overlooking Central Park.
We had spent some time there, and she hated it. She, herself, lived in a posher apartment in the upper west side with four other girls, all of whom aspired to a better life.
I’d often wondered what she saw in me. I was never going to give her the things she wanted, even if I did climb up that corporate ladder.
All this went around and around in my head while unconsciously doing all the tasks Larry set me, as if I had been doing it all my life. Perhaps all I needed was to be reminded of who I was.
As the sun began to set, we headed back. I didn’t want to go back to explain myself to my parents or my grandmother, who by now would be very unhappy with me. I think I knew who it was who told Penelope where I was. What I didn’t understand was what changed her mind about her. I could name at least three times when she told me I could do better.
Then, looking up into that setting sun, I could see a lone rider coming from behind the house where the family stables were located.
Coming closer, I could see it was a woman and then closer still that it was Penelope. I had no idea she could ride a horse.
Well, it never came up in any conversation.
Larry looked at me. “Your friend?”
“Was.”
“Is. City girls get on horses to impress young Ethan. And she sits well.”
We both stopped and waited until she reached us.
Larry greeted her in his usual manner, “Miss. Not a good idea to be out here this late.”
“Larry, is it?”
He nodded
“I’m Penelope. Ethan’s grandmother said it was fine for you to leave me in Ethan’s care.”
“Did she now. You need to know this fellow is a little careless when left to his own devices. I don’t think I can.”
“I trust him completely, Larry.”
Larry shook his head. “Your funeral, ma’am. If that’s what you want?”
“I do.”
“Fair enough.” He glared at me. “You look after her, or you will have me to deal with. Understood?”
I did and nodded
“Good. Tomorrow. Early. Don’t make me come and get you.”
He was still muttering to himself as he headed back to the stables.
I sat there the whole time and watched the proceedings. I was not sure what she was up to, nor my grandmother sending her out like this.
“What are you doing?”
“Riding a horse. It’s one of the more sedate in the stable, but I don’t think your grandmother quite believed me when I said I could ride.”
“Can you?”
“Since I could walk. My mother thought it would be an asset, along with accountancy so I could manage running a house, ballroom dancing in case I needed to attend a ball, or simply dance a waltz at my wedding, horse riding because she always believed my husband would be a rider, cooking because she said the way to a man’s heat was through his stomach. There are others too numerous to mention, but in the end, before she died about two years ago, she said it was her opinion I would be quite the prize “
“And you were fine with that?”
“Where I come from, Ethan, it was either that or working as a server in a diner, a teacher, or a governess. I wasted an education because I thought chasing the unattainable was better, only to have to run away to a large city where no one knew the mistakes I’d made. Even as that nobody you professed to be Ethan, you never once looked down your nose at me. You loved me unconditionally. You never asked who I was, and so I loved you back, equally and unconditionally. You still do. I know you do. I can feel it when you look at me. If you really hated me that much, I would have seen and felt the revulsion and believe me, I know what that’s like.”
My grandmother knew who she was from the start, and yet she didn’t intervene. Or tell my parents. What was it about this girl that had finally impressed her?
“I’m not who you think I am, Ethan, but I didn’t lie to you. I just skimmed over the bad bits. The worst, perhaps, is that I have a daughter, the mistake that to me was not a mistake but the best thing to happen to me. No one wants to date the mother of a young child. I should have told you ages ago. I’m sorry I didn’t.”
And still my grandmother didn’t set off the alarm bells. What could I say?
“You know I’m not going to take handouts from anyone in my family, that I have to make it on my own. I don’t know how I can be the sort of man you need in your life.”
“But you are exactly who I need, who I want. I’m not looking for rich, Ethan. I found you long before I knew who you were, and it didn’t matter. It’s taken a long time to realise that. It’s why I’m here, now, hoping against hope you will forgive me.”
It might have been a different story had I not received a text from Joey. I don’t know how he got my number but then he had the resources to do almost anything.
And if he wanted Penelope, she wouldn’t be here.
He basically told me I was the biggest fool on the planet, which was pretty rich coming from him. He said that she had wanted to know more about me because she knew that there was more. I wasn’t telling her, but that he said was not for him to tell. Instead, he was regaling her with stories of our youth, and how he got into trouble, and I got him out of it. Perhaps I had misinterpreted interest in the story as something else, which would never, ever happen. He said he had told her to tell me the truth about who she was and why I would be missing out on the one true love of my life. He added it might be sooner than I think and not to botch it.
It had begun to worry me that I had.
“Your grandmother told me about a shack, somewhere in this south paddock, the one you threatened to go and hide in when you hear your parents are coming. By the way, they are not so bad.”
“You obviously met them on a good day.”
“Try flying down in the corporate jet with them. I was scared half to death I was going to get the third degree. Instead, a chef cooked lunch, and we had French champagne. Haven’t they heard of cheese and pickle on rye and bottled supermarket water?”
“They can’t do cheap. I’m sorry.”
“So am I. They didn’t give me the option to decline. The shack?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Because your grandmother thinks we need to start again, this time on a proper footing with no lies or omissions.”
“It’s a few hours, in the dark, over hill and down dale.”
“It’s a clear sky and a full moon.”
“Two hours in the saddle?”
She smiled. “I’m made of strong stuff, Ethan, as you will find out. And I’m sure Larry won’t mind another cowgirl at muster time.”
“Let’s just see if you survive the ride first.”
“So, we’re good?”
“Ask me tomorrow morning.”
She shook her head. “You’re never going to admit you’re wrong, are you?”
“Maybe.”
“You’re going to vex me till the end of time.”
“Yep. Are we going to keep jabbering or are we going?”
“Lead on.”
I did, trying not to show that I believed I had won my first argument with any woman I’d ever known. It was highly likely, however, it was going to be the last, so I would savour it for as long as possible.
Include the elements, who does this person think they are, who are they really, what are they running from or to, and what just happened they cannot undo.
…
I knew her simply as Emma, the enigmatic woman who lived in Apartment 772, five doors up from me. Sometimes she would be alone, sometimes with a man whom I assumed was her husband. They were quiet and unassuming and had lived in the block for about a year.
Amonth the others on our floor, there were the busybodies, the people who had more time than sense and spent their time talking about matters they generally knew nothing about. Emma was one of those subjects.
To them, she was not married, the man was really two who looked the same, possibly brothers, and that arguments had been heard, up the stairs, and from within the apartment. I simply told them it was none of their business.
Each morning, I would leave for work at the same time. Emma was more erratic but would also leave for work about the same time. I took the bus from the stop outside the building; she took a bus from the other side in the opposite direction.
Each evening, I would come home on the bus, stopping on the other side of the street. Not so often, Emma would come home in a car, driven by the man she was seen with in the building. She would get out, and he would drive off, only to return a half hour later on foot.
No, I wasn’t a stalker; she had simply piqued my interest.
…
This morning was different.
I came down to join the others at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that was three minutes late. i was running late.
Emma was on the other side of the road, standing next to the shelter, but there was something else. A case, not a large one, not a small one, but one just enough for her to pack enough for a free days away.
This sent my deductive mind into overdrive.
IT was cold but the sun was out, and she was holding rather than wearing her red coat with the fur collar. She was not wearing her usual white blouse and black pants, but a summery yellow dress with flowers on it, a yellow ribbon in her hair, and instead of practical flat heeled shoes she was earing high heels. It completely transformed her into someone else.
My assumption that she was an office clerk or shop salesperson was shattered. Perhaps she was something else entirely. Had my bus been on time, I would have missed this transformation. Perhaps she was emulating the epitome of a 1950s housewife.
She was certainly nothing like the type of woman that would be associated with the man who brought her home. He was rough, unkempt, perhaps a factory worker or something else. My mind briefly went to a dark place and back again. No, it was not possible.
Of course, all of this speculation could be resolved in an instant if only I had the courage to talk to her, and now that I had seen her in this guise, that might never happen. She was far too nice for the likes of me.
I;d seen her glance nervously over the road, as if she was looking for the man in the car, the man we saw with her in the corridors of our building. Did he bring her home last night? Was she running away from him? It would explain the nervous glances. Those nervous glances extended to the direction the bus came from, and she was willing it to arrive so she could get away.
If he did come out and saw her trying to escape, would I try to intervene and save her? No. I was too much of a coward to do that. Those furtive and apprehensive looks confirmed my suspicion that she was leaving. He was not her type, and maybe was once, but not now. Not this version of her.
Had they argued? Had it got violent? I hadn’t heard anything, but then I never did. I went to bed early so that I was fresh for the next day. What could have happened that precipitated this? If she was trying to get away, would she come back?
…
My attention was diverted for a moment on a pair of badly behaving school children. when I looked back, I could see the stricken look on her face, staring at the entrance to the building. I turned around and saw the man, quickly looking up and down the street, then over the road.
His manner told me he had seen her, and he was almost running towards her.
I looked up the road and the bus wasn’t coming. She had picked up the suitcase but in the motion of doing that she had dropped her coat, and buy the time she picked it up he was there. He grabbed her by the arms and was yelling, not too loudly, at her.
I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking.
She looked devastated and didn’t put up any resistance. He was trying to take her case and she wouldn’t let him. Others at the bus stop were moving away, not wanting to get involved.
I made a decision. it might not be the right one, it might be none of my business, but to me it looked like he was hurting her.
I crossed the road and stepped up to them.
He stopped and glared at me. “You want to go away, little man.” Full of himself and arrogant. I knew then what he was. Italian, recently arrived, with halting English. There were a few near where I worked, men who were recently arrived, looking for a new life.
I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “You might want to rethink that, sir.” He stepped back slightly. My detective’s badge carried only so much weight, and people like him generally had no respect for the law.
I looked at her. “Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”
She looked at me, trying to remember where she had seen me. It was certainly not as a policeman. I rarely let anyone know who or what I was.
Over the other side of the road, my bus came and went. Damn.
“Yes,” she said. “You are from apartments. A policeman. Yes, this man is annoying me. I wish to go to my sisters.”
“And this man?”
“Comes from home, thinks we are still,” she hesitated, looking for a word, “friends. That is home, not here. He is terrible man at home, why I leave. I do not wish to see him, now or ever again.”
“OK.” I turned back to him. “Leave now, sir. She does not want to see you.”
“Not true. This is wife, my woman, she is mine, do what I tell her!”
She came and stood beside me. “Was married, divorced now. I am not his.”
He took a step towards me and tried to push me aside to get to her, as she moved backwards to stand behind me. Perhaps I acted on instinct, perhaps it was the fact he was going to shove me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted him to one side, and when he tried to resist, I levered him onto the ground, pinning his arms behind him.
A patrol car pulled up just as he hit the ground, and two uniformed officers jumped out, one with a hand on his gun. I held up my badge and said, “This man was trying to take this woman away forcefully, I told him to stop after identifying myself as a police officer, and when he didn’t, I had to restrain him.
The bus arrived and pulled in front of the police car. The two policemen had the man in custody and were holding him.
She looked at the very angry man, and at the bus. “May I catch bus. My sister is waiting for my arrival.”
“You want to prefer charges against this man?” I asked.
“No. I just want to leave. Please.”
I looked at the two officers. “Go. We’ll detain this man for a few minutes. Give him a warning.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her case and walked over to the bus. She took one last look back, and then she was gone.
I had no doubt I wouldn’t see her again.
They gave him a warming and then let him go, waiting until he had walked off. He gave the nastiest of looks, and I knew my business wasn’t done with him. He didn’t look the sort who would let it go.
His eldest sister, older than his eldest brother, is aggrieved.
Why not, in the other principality, their near neighbour and rival for more centuries than anyone could remember had recently amended to rights of succession to allow for the eldest child of either sex to ascend the throne.;
Her best friend and accomplice in crime Isobel had done just that, and if her father wasn’t the bloody-minded bastard he was, she would have been queen and not her pesky little brother.
Perhaps slightly less on the Richter scale of explosiveness, his eldest sister was a leaf out of her mother’s book and inherited the same bloody-mindedness and ruthlessness as her father.
Somehow, those traits passed our new king, and although yet to be proved, it might be a blessing in disguise that he was the monarch and not her.
She was not backwards in telling him what she thinks
He resists the urge to simply poke his tongue out at her. Childish pranks of siblings are not the considered and measured response of a proper monarch.
Include the elements, who does this person think they are, who are they really, what are they running from or to, and what just happened they cannot undo.
…
I knew her simply as Emma, the enigmatic woman who lived in Apartment 772, five doors up from me. Sometimes she would be alone, sometimes with a man whom I assumed was her husband. They were quiet and unassuming and had lived in the block for about a year.
Amonth the others on our floor, there were the busybodies, the people who had more time than sense and spent their time talking about matters they generally knew nothing about. Emma was one of those subjects.
To them, she was not married, the man was really two who looked the same, possibly brothers, and that arguments had been heard, up the stairs, and from within the apartment. I simply told them it was none of their business.
Each morning, I would leave for work at the same time. Emma was more erratic but would also leave for work about the same time. I took the bus from the stop outside the building; she took a bus from the other side in the opposite direction.
Each evening, I would come home on the bus, stopping on the other side of the street. Not so often, Emma would come home in a car, driven by the man she was seen with in the building. She would get out, and he would drive off, only to return a half hour later on foot.
No, I wasn’t a stalker; she had simply piqued my interest.
…
This morning was different.
I came down to join the others at the bus stop, waiting for the bus that was three minutes late. i was running late.
Emma was on the other side of the road, standing next to the shelter, but there was something else. A case, not a large one, not a small one, but one just enough for her to pack enough for a free days away.
This sent my deductive mind into overdrive.
IT was cold but the sun was out, and she was holding rather than wearing her red coat with the fur collar. She was not wearing her usual white blouse and black pants, but a summery yellow dress with flowers on it, a yellow ribbon in her hair, and instead of practical flat heeled shoes she was earing high heels. It completely transformed her into someone else.
My assumption that she was an office clerk or shop salesperson was shattered. Perhaps she was something else entirely. Had my bus been on time, I would have missed this transformation. Perhaps she was emulating the epitome of a 1950s housewife.
She was certainly nothing like the type of woman that would be associated with the man who brought her home. He was rough, unkempt, perhaps a factory worker or something else. My mind briefly went to a dark place and back again. No, it was not possible.
Of course, all of this speculation could be resolved in an instant if only I had the courage to talk to her, and now that I had seen her in this guise, that might never happen. She was far too nice for the likes of me.
I;d seen her glance nervously over the road, as if she was looking for the man in the car, the man we saw with her in the corridors of our building. Did he bring her home last night? Was she running away from him? It would explain the nervous glances. Those nervous glances extended to the direction the bus came from, and she was willing it to arrive so she could get away.
If he did come out and saw her trying to escape, would I try to intervene and save her? No. I was too much of a coward to do that. Those furtive and apprehensive looks confirmed my suspicion that she was leaving. He was not her type, and maybe was once, but not now. Not this version of her.
Had they argued? Had it got violent? I hadn’t heard anything, but then I never did. I went to bed early so that I was fresh for the next day. What could have happened that precipitated this? If she was trying to get away, would she come back?
…
My attention was diverted for a moment on a pair of badly behaving school children. when I looked back, I could see the stricken look on her face, staring at the entrance to the building. I turned around and saw the man, quickly looking up and down the street, then over the road.
His manner told me he had seen her, and he was almost running towards her.
I looked up the road and the bus wasn’t coming. She had picked up the suitcase but in the motion of doing that she had dropped her coat, and buy the time she picked it up he was there. He grabbed her by the arms and was yelling, not too loudly, at her.
I couldn’t understand the language he was speaking.
She looked devastated and didn’t put up any resistance. He was trying to take her case and she wouldn’t let him. Others at the bus stop were moving away, not wanting to get involved.
I made a decision. it might not be the right one, it might be none of my business, but to me it looked like he was hurting her.
I crossed the road and stepped up to them.
He stopped and glared at me. “You want to go away, little man.” Full of himself and arrogant. I knew then what he was. Italian, recently arrived, with halting English. There were a few near where I worked, men who were recently arrived, looking for a new life.
I pulled out my badge and showed it to him. “You might want to rethink that, sir.” He stepped back slightly. My detective’s badge carried only so much weight, and people like him generally had no respect for the law.
I looked at her. “Are you alright? Is this man bothering you?”
She looked at me, trying to remember where she had seen me. It was certainly not as a policeman. I rarely let anyone know who or what I was.
Over the other side of the road, my bus came and went. Damn.
“Yes,” she said. “You are from apartments. A policeman. Yes, this man is annoying me. I wish to go to my sisters.”
“And this man?”
“Comes from home, thinks we are still,” she hesitated, looking for a word, “friends. That is home, not here. He is terrible man at home, why I leave. I do not wish to see him, now or ever again.”
“OK.” I turned back to him. “Leave now, sir. She does not want to see you.”
“Not true. This is wife, my woman, she is mine, do what I tell her!”
She came and stood beside me. “Was married, divorced now. I am not his.”
He took a step towards me and tried to push me aside to get to her, as she moved backwards to stand behind me. Perhaps I acted on instinct, perhaps it was the fact he was going to shove me, but I grabbed his arm, twisted him to one side, and when he tried to resist, I levered him onto the ground, pinning his arms behind him.
A patrol car pulled up just as he hit the ground, and two uniformed officers jumped out, one with a hand on his gun. I held up my badge and said, “This man was trying to take this woman away forcefully, I told him to stop after identifying myself as a police officer, and when he didn’t, I had to restrain him.
The bus arrived and pulled in front of the police car. The two policemen had the man in custody and were holding him.
She looked at the very angry man, and at the bus. “May I catch bus. My sister is waiting for my arrival.”
“You want to prefer charges against this man?” I asked.
“No. I just want to leave. Please.”
I looked at the two officers. “Go. We’ll detain this man for a few minutes. Give him a warning.”
“Thank you.” She picked up her case and walked over to the bus. She took one last look back, and then she was gone.
I had no doubt I wouldn’t see her again.
They gave him a warming and then let him go, waiting until he had walked off. He gave the nastiest of looks, and I knew my business wasn’t done with him. He didn’t look the sort who would let it go.
L is for – Let’s have some fun. Burned operatives get a second chance
…
I’d seen the Trevi Fountain in the movies, but, until now, it just seemed like any other fountain, only larger.
In reality, it was much more than that, and, so it seemed, it was also that for many other people. Mid-afternoon on a warm sunny day, they were all standing in awe.
Perhaps some were making a wish, and I saw several toss coins in. There would be a lot of money in there, and I couldn’t help but think about what sort of job it would be to retrieve it.
Odd too, I thought, if they hadn’t, how many old and rare coins might be somewhere on the floor. Of course, I only thought of the aesthetic value rather than the practicality of the water system that the Romans had built long before such feats of engineering were being contemplated.
No, I was here on holiday.
After years of travelling to a great many places for my job, one that never really gave me any time for sightseeing, I’d decided it was time to indulge in a little tourism.
Before this, I’d been to the Colosseum, the old ruins, the Spanish Steps, and the Parthenon. This was going to wrap up in the afternoon.
“So, are you here on business or pleasure?”
I turned to see Giuseppe, a man I’d had a rather complicated relationship with in the past, and one who was not told I was coming.
But the fact he was here was no surprise.
It was, however, surprising that he could sneak up on me. It showed I was slipping, or, more than likely, I was more susceptible to being distracted.
“I am but a humble tourist. I’m sorry, but you have been following me for nothing.”
“Why is it I find that difficult to believe?”
Maybe because of what I used to do, but it was not something I would openly admit. And the only reason he was standing there was that someone else had made a mistake, and required a bit of diplomacy to smooth the waters.
Unfortunately, that had destroyed my invisibility in Italy, and probably most of Europe, and these days I spent most of my time in semi-retirement driving a desk. Not entirely put out to pasture.
“As difficult as it might be, having your cover blown makes it impossible to continue, verified by the fact you’re here now. Was it a red flag on my name or facial recognition?”
“Just remember, we’re watching you.”
With a last shake of his head, he walked over to a car parked a short of distance away, got in, and drove off. I had no doubt he was not the only one who had been watching me.
“It seems you were right.”
Another voice, this time a woman, and expected. Carla had been waiting in the coffee shop for Giuseppe or someone like him to make an appearance.
“They were not exactly hiding the fact they had me under surveillance.”
She handed me the coffee with a smile.
“That means we can have some fun, does it not?”
That had been the plan. I knew if I entered Italy using the identity I used the last time, it would put them on alert and prompt a reaction.
“It still doesn’t mean they won’t suspect something is afoot.”
“And since when did you start doubting yourself?”
Since my last operation fell apart because I made one simple mistake that no agent would have made in a million years. But, I had, and it basically ended two careers.
The other person had just handed me the coffee and unaccountably seemed less angry with me than she should be.
“You of all people should know the answer to that.”
She sighed and took my hand in hers. “What I do know is that there’s a very clever operation afoot, and you’re the one who planned it. And, far from being on the sidelines, we have a new and very important role to play. And speaking of play, it’s time you and I got into our roles. Oh, and just for the record, I still love you and I know how you feel about me, and before I brought you coffee, I made a wish.”
The conference is also having a dinner the night before it all gets under way, with dancing. Someone had this notion that an orchestra should be supplied and play classics from the Glenn Miller/Benny Goodman/Dorsey Brothers era.
The idea behind this interesting development was intriguing, to say the least, after I watched a late-night movie that had Glenn Miller and his band in it, and the music was amazing. I’ve always been a fan of it, and I have countless recordings of nearly all the big bands of the era.
It’s also a time when our protagonist will get a look at all of the participants and decide which people are going to be a problem or not. It is also the first time he gets to meet the head of the secret police, and the description he was given was far kinder than the reality. And, the evil man has more interest in his partner, one of the younger and more attractive of the women present.
But it’s more about what’s going to happen when our protagonist happened to notice some odd activity at the rear of the building near the kitchens and goes to investigate.
It goes from a friendly enquiry to a hostage situation to a shootout, to getting injured and sent to hospital. Our protagonist is not carrying an injury.
But, the silver lining, he now knows who is the leader of the rebels.
The woman he dreaded. The woman who was never really a mother for him. That had fallen to the wife of the king’s brother, the Ambassador way back in New York.
The woman who once threated his mother to a pistol duel at dawn and had got as far as the back lawn and started walking the ten paces before the king came and stopped it.
It might not have been a good idea to stand between the two very angry women.
Ah, the memories.
But his mother was not herself, not the firebrand he was expecting, just there to apologise for not being there to welcome him home before she collapsed on the floor, the sedatives finally taking hold.
The doctor is apologetic.
In between this, there are a few questions for the butler, who used to be his father’s, the morgue superintendent and the doctor, again, when he goes to see the bodies of his brothers and father, sans the eldest, who is missing.
There’s a problem: why is he missing? He should be somewhere in the debris caused by the avalanche, like his two other brothers.
That was something he was going to get to the bottom of.
Autopsies are asked for when he learns they were not going to.
Thrills, Spills, and just a dash of Romance 