What I had been thinking when I said, ‘That’s it,’ was that Simon looked like E.T. the Extraterrestrial from the Steven Spielberg movie. Well, not exactly like him, but from a distance and with clothes on, E.T. could be the brother of my new man friend, Simon.
I kicked the trashcan out of the way and held the door back for him, nodding to the table I had chosen. “That’s it, I mean…” I stammered, lowering both my voice and emotional level. Just then, Frankie arrived with our dinner and drinks, saving me from further explanations.
“Here you go,” Frankie said as she set down two big bowls of stew and a basket of yeast rolls. Simon, quite the gentleman, used his good right hand to pull out the chair for me. “Let me know if you want more,” she said. “We have plenty in back. I got carried away. I thought I was making enough for the weekend crowd. It’s only Wednesday so, manga!”
“Grazie,” I replied and saluted her with a dinner roll. Simon quickly grabbed one and copied my salute. The good-looking man at the other table glanced up from his studying. I smiled broadly at him, shrugged my shoulder, and went to work on my bowl of meat and vegetables. I guess not everyone understood my silly sense of humor.
We finished our meal in silence. I covertly kept an eye on the intriguing young man at the other table, foreign yet familiar, as I ate the wonderfully spicy stew and two of the yeast rolls. The food tasted great and I wanted more, but decided I’d rather save room for that cherry pie I’d been craving.
Simon had only eaten a small amount of his food—evidently he still wasn’t feeling well—and was now in his own private world, staring at his bandaged hand. Frankie came by to bus the table and Simon’s eyes suddenly lit up as if he had just had an epiphany. He backed away and said, “If you don’t mind, I’d like to excuse myself for a moment.”
He was in such a hurry that he didn’t wait for my reply, but instead rushed out the front door. He stood in the parking lot, the sunshine reflecting through the sparse hair on his balding head, and looked from the Band-Aid on his hand to the sun and back again.
I got up and walked over to the other patron in the café, the man who seemed to be drawing me to him without trying. “Would you care to join us for some cherry pie?” I asked.
He quickly scooted his chair back and stood to address me. “Thank you, I’d be delighted.”
He was certainly a gentleman, but not as tall as I thought he’d be with such broad shoulders. “Oh, here, allow me,” he said, and offered me a chair.
Instead, I remained standing, trying to get a better look at the latte-colored paper. “What’s this?” I asked, genuinely curious. The markings on the antique-looking chart weren’t the black, red, and blue lines of a modern street map, just a bunch of squiggly lines and curiously drawn symbols on thick parchment-like paper. For all I knew, it was a map to all the bars and strip joints in the area. I couldn’t help but smile at my perverse thought.
He returned my smile. “I’m not sure what this is. I bought it this morning from a young man who said it was older than America. That isn’t verifiable without testing—replicas are getting very good these days. I’ve never seen a map quite like it, though. It doesn’t have a title, key, legend, or place names—at least that are in a script that I can read. I’m sorry; I didn’t introduce myself. I am James Melbourne. I am here in your country to perform genealogical research. It seems my great-uncle many times over, Lord Julian Hart, was an early settler in this area. He was here for your Revolutionary War. There is, however, much debate as to where his loyalties lay.”
Just then, Simon walked in and saw the two of us. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack in surprise. “My map! Where did you get my map?” He scurried over to stand in front of it, then reached out and tentatively touched it, verifying its existence, as if it were a puppy that had just returned from the dead.
James and I stared, first at Simon, and then at each other. “Hopefully, sir, I have not just paid top dollar for a stolen artifact. Are you saying this is yours?”
Simon looked up, confused and mute now, his head shaking almost imperceptibly. James continued in his rich baritone voice in a genteel but slightly condescending manner. “Sir, I hate to inform you, but I just paid five hundred American dollars for this map. Can you prove to me that it is yours? Sir? Sir?”
Simon had just transitioned from extreme bewilderment to shock and was now hyperventilating. I jumped into the middle of the uncertainty and assumed the role of mediator. “Okay, guys, my turn. Let’s all sit down.”
I led Simon back to our table, handed him his cup of tea, and waited to speak until he had calmed down enough to take a sip.
“Now, how about some introductions: James Melbourne, this is Master Simon, Simon this is James Melbourne—from England, I presume?” James nodded and I continued. “If nobody’s in a hurry, let’s sit here and get this figured out. James, would you like a cup of coffee or tea? I know I said we were getting ready for pie, but I’d like to wait just a bit if you don’t mind.”
The ever-vigilant Frankie was at the younger man’s elbow in a flash, ready with the coffee pot and a cup. “Coffee, my lord,” she said, eyelashes fluttering. I think she dipped into a curtsey, too.
“No, thank you; nothing for me right now,” he replied, barely glancing at her, his eyes focused on the strange little man who was almost in a trance. Simon was still breathing, but rapidly—practically panting—and still mute.
“May I see the map, please?” I asked.
Rather than hand it to me, though, James stood up and brought a chair over from the next table, offering to share his space.
“Thank you,” I said. I got up to join him, but first pulled over still another chair for Simon, placing it on the opposite side of the table before I settled down beside James.
“Simon, here, you can look over the map while we sort this out.”
Simon took a long, slow deep breath as he got up from his chair. He waddled over to us, eased himself into the seat, then stroked the edge of the table in front of his precious map, not wanting to disturb the actual document. He was also holding his breath, a good cure for his hyperventilating.
“It’s okay, you can breathe now. I don’t think it’s going to blow away,” I said. “So, are there any identifying marks on this map—or whatever it is—that will verify your ownership?”
I knew Simon had heard me, but he was still ‘involved’ with the parchment, fawning over it without actually touching it, as if it were his newborn son. After a pregnant pause, he disengaged his fascination with it and stood up to address me, formal in both his manner and tone.
“Madame, when you found me, I was recovering from an assault that had occurred just moments after sunrise this morning. The bast…, fiend who attacked me also took my purse and this map. The map was in a black velvet sheathe and the purse was tan doeskin leather. There were a substantial number of gold coins in the purse, but they are of no concern. I have an important appointment tomorrow morning and I need this,” he indicated the map with a loving sweep, his good hand floating just above its surface, “in order to get to where I am going.”
I had been watching James’s face while Simon gave his explanation. He was probably a good poker player—stone-faced for most of the dissertation—but with the mention of the black velvet sheathe, he had paled. To his credit, he quickly recovered, but I had seen his tell.
“Simon, are there any marks on the map indicating it belongs to you?” I asked.
He shook his head, dejectedly looking at the floor.
“How about the sheath; did it have distinctive stitching, or anything else that would identify it as being yours?” I was addressing Simon, but looking at James as I asked the question.
“It did have a coin on the yellow cording that secured it. It was an ancient coin with two holes drilled in it. It was quite valuable, so the thief may have cut it off.”
I looked at James with a raised eyebrow. “Does this sound familiar?” I asked.
James got up an
d walked to the coat rack by the door. He took down a duster-length beige raincoat and brought it with him to the table. He sat down, laid it across his knees, and reached into a side pocket. “Whose face is on the coin?” he asked.
“Pegasus was on one side and Athena on the other. It came to me with the two small holes near the edge of the coin, but I doubt it had been struck that way. It was a silver coin, not gold.” Simon looked from James to me and then back again. “You’ve seen it, haven’t you?” he asked accusingly.
“It looks like I have been robbed, too,” James said as he pulled out a folded square of black velvet. He placed it on the table and carefully opened it out. There, strung on a bright yellow twisted cord, was a silver coin, embossed with a flying horse.
*3 Map taker and a ride
“Wow!” was all I could say, and it sure sounded stupid when it came out. It was a real Greek coin—real and ancient.
“I mean,” I said, trying to recover from the momentary shock, “let’s think about this for a minute. How did you meet the man who sold you this map? Did you find it on eBay or something?”
“On eBay?” asked Simon. “What’s an eBay?”
“It’s a buyers and sellers venue,” answered James, “and no, I did not buy it on eBay nor did I solicit its purchase. An oddly dressed man approached me earlier this afternoon. He had heard I was doing genealogical research and said he had a document I needed.”
“So, had you told him or anyone else what your research involved?” I asked, then took a sip of water.
“No, I assumed he had overheard me ask the park ranger if there were registers of soldiers from either side of the Guilford Courthouse battle on file at the museum or possibly anywhere else. But I made no mention of my family.”
“Where did you first meet him—had you ever seen him before?” I asked, my eyes narrowing with my subconscious cross-examination.
“He first approached me approximately two hours ago at the museum and no, I had never seen him before.” James pulled back his shoulders and stuck out his chin, offended with the apparent interrogation. “I thought perhaps he worked there when I saw his unusual shoes, apparently handmade, but poorly crafted. He was in colonial period dress and all looked appropriate except for his shoddy shoes. Ms. Madigan, I am beginning to feel as if you believe I did something wrong.”
“No, not at all. I was looking for a lead on who sold you this so you could get a refund, and Simon could have his map back. I don’t have any personal interest in this at all. I’m not even from around here. I’m on vacation from Alaska.”
This seemed to put James at ease. He took a deep breath as if to say, ‘What now?’
“Let’s see if I have this straight,” I said. “Simon was beat up early this morning and robbed of some valuable personal property. Several hours later, a man offered to sell you something he said you needed. Did you know it was a map?”
“When the man said he had a document, I was hoping it was a list of names or a journal. I hadn’t asked about anything else. When I arrived here for lunch and finally got it completely opened out, I was a bit confused and rather agitated,” James said, his face reddening with the memory.
“Yes, I know what you mean,” I said, giving James a moment to recover. “You didn’t know the man wasn’t honest. What exactly does a thief look like, anyhow? You don’t look like an easy target to me, but, then again, I’m not a thief. Maybe you just looked like you had money. He had this parchment and thought it might be valuable, even if it was just a laundry list,” I said and rolled my eyes, grinning.
My attempt at levity failed—they were a dour pair—so I changed tactics. “So, it might be the thief saw Simon as a weak man with an ‘old document’ and you as a rich foreigner looking for answers in an ‘old document.’ He didn’t happen to have any gold coins he wanted to sell, did he?”
“No, coins were never mentioned. I doubt he saw the coin on the cord or he would have taken that, too. It was tucked into the fabric of the casing and wasn’t visible at first.” James paused and started to say more, hesitated again, then continued. “The man just seemed so insistent I have this. That’s why I’ve been examining it so intently. It’s as if it’s a cryptogram and I just need a few key characters to decode it. Or I suppose it could be he was just one hell of a salesman. Please, excuse my vulgarity.”
“You’re excused. So, can I have a crack at it? I’m pretty good with codes and puzzles,” I said with a smirk and double eyebrow pop a la Groucho Marx.
As James said, “Please, be my guest,” Simon blurted out, “Oh, no, don’t be concerned. It’s just mish mosh.”
James and I looked wide-eyed at each other in disbelief, then back at Simon.
“Mish mosh? You treat this…this…piece of dried up old sheepskin as if it were made of gold leaf, and then say its mish mosh? I don’t think so,” I said and cracked my knuckles. “Don’t tell me what I can be concerned about! I’m on this like a dung beetle on a pile of shit, if you’ll excuse the vulgarity.”
“Vulgarity excused, madam,” James replied, grinning as he pulled back the curtains. “May I offer you better light?”
James turned his attention to the short man, scowling as he spoke. “Mister Simon, shall we leave the lady to her research while we go outside? I think we have some business to transact.” His left hand hovered above Simon’s shoulder, ready to guide him and their frail relationship outside, to the privacy of the parking lot.
“That’s Master Simon to you, sir,” Simon said, bristling at the nearness of James’s touch. He shrugged away from the hand, and pushed through the café’s glass door, positioning himself so that now he was leading the way.
Well, I’ll be. I didn’t slip when I called him Master Simon. I wondered who’d come out on top if the two of them ever went at it. And, if they spent much time together, it would be a definite when, not if, they went at it.
Ten minutes later, the men returned to their respective diner tables. Neither one had an ‘I won!’ look on his face, so apparently nothing had been accomplished in their powwow.
I didn’t want them to know I hadn’t answered the riddle of the map, so I grinned broadly, hoping to make them think I had made progress. The sheepskin sheet before me, its field of black squiggly lines randomly intersecting at spiral flourishes, was as logical as ants on a sugar cookie and had me stumped. The only writing—sparse notes near the spirals—were scribbled in runes, not letters. That didn’t help me either; I didn’t have any elfin translation skills.
James spoke first, “Well?”
“I’m getting there,” I lied, “how about you two?”
“Since there wasn’t any useful information for me in this ‘document,’ and I did get an unforeseen bonus in the ancient Greek coin, we agreed that he could have the map and I would keep the coin. With the right agent, I should at least be able to get my money back.”
James retrieved his coat and turned to face me. “Ms. Madigan, it has been a pleasure meeting you. You have quite the talent for managing diplomacy without incurring bruised egos. You have been most instrumental in obtaining a resolution to this dilemma. If there is anything you need, please don’t hesitate to call.”
James handed me his business card. It was embossed, of course, and had his family’s coat of arms on it. It was definitely the classiest card I had ever seen. Ooh, and he was a member of the House of Lords. He was ‘Lord’ James Melbourne!
“I’ll put it in here where it won’t get lost,” I said, sucking down my smirk at negotiating with British almost-royalty. I picked up my backpack, unzipped the top, and saw that there was already something in the skinny inside pocket. “Hey, I found one of my cards! I didn’t think I had brought any with me, but here.”
I handed him my colorful little desktop published business card with a huge bouquet of homegrown roses set as the background.
“Goodness! This is beautiful. I didn’t know roses came in such a wide range of colors and forms.”
“Thank
s, I guess this is like the Little Red Hen of cards. I grew the roses, I arranged the roses, I photographed the roses, and then I designed and printed the roses-themed cards all by myself.” I realized too late that I was babbling. If I apologized, it would call even more attention to my nervous blithering, so I just stopped talking.
James saw my blush of embarrassment and smiled. “The Little Red Hen was one of my favorite stories when I was a child. I actually had my grandfather show me how to raise wheat and grind it so I could bake my own loaf of bread. The result wasn’t very pretty—more like a big fat cracker—and tasted horrid, but we had fun.”
James’s face was aglow with his childhood memory. He paused, and his demeanor turned from light to somber. He looked me in the eyes and spoke softly so that only I could hear. “Please, let me know if you find out anything about this map. My gut instinct tells me there really is something in it for me. I’ve learned it’s always best to heed those feelings. And something’s not quite right with this Simon character. I believe he knows more than he’s telling us.” He nodded and smiled. “You have my numbers.”
“And you have mine. If you’re ever in Alaska, look me up. I’ll give you the three-hour tour. Well, at least three hours; it’s a pretty big state, you know.”
“I just might do that.” He turned to face Simon, who was now on the other side of the table, absorbed in his search for the hidden secrets of the map. James raised his voice in order to break the man’s focused trance. “Good day to you, Master Simon. I hope you find what you are looking for.”
Simon backed away from the table and stood as tall as his short frame would stretch. “Thank you, sir, for your integrity and justice in returning my property. I hope you find what you are looking for also.” He then saluted James, without a roll in his hand this time, and said, “Grazie!”
“Grazie and ciao,” James replied, returning the salute.
Naked in the Winter Wind (The Fairies Saga Book 1) Page 3