My colleague gave a quizzical little pout. “Do you believe our client would disapprove of the intuitive approach? Was it not Sally Joan’s own intuition that led her to employ you in this quest?”
I tossed up my hands. “Stop with the quests already!”
“Never,” said Mr. O’Nelligan calmly. “For to quest is to seek adventure, and to seek adventure is to live life.”
“Oh, good grief.”
“Not just any adventure, mind you. Not, for example, simply a hedonistic one. But a righteous adventure, yes, that is what gives value to our being.”
I groaned softly. “This is way too lofty for me, and way too principled.”
“Ah, you misrepresent yourself, Lee Plunkett. You’re a man of great integrity—as anyone close to you can testify. Why, just recently, your beloved Audrey was telling me—”
A nerve had been struck. “Yeah, well, Audrey has her own adventures to brag about. Not necessarily of the righteous variety.”
“What are you saying?”
As if a plug had been yanked from a dam, it all came rushing out of me: Audrey’s clandestine trips to the Village, her rendezvous with Spires, our unexpected encounter at the Mercutio, and her apparent identity crisis. I definitely hadn’t intended to broach the subject at all, but once I’d started, I couldn’t hold back. Maybe it was because Mr. O’Nelligan, with his stately gray beard and canyon-deep eyes, had the look of some wise father confessor. Or maybe it was because I’d been stockpiling hurt, confusion, and resentment since last night and was desperate to disperse it all. Either way, I immediately wished I’d kept my trap shut. I knew well that Mr. O’Nelligan thought highly of Audrey—had been her friend longer than he’d been mine—and I instantly cursed myself for presenting her as anything other than upright and virtuous.
Depleted by my venting, I crumpled in upon myself and waited for my companion’s response. Would he disbelieve my story and lambaste me for casting aspersions upon a good woman? Or would he accept my account and pronounce Audrey a wanton strumpet who should be hounded from decent society? Or—more judiciously—would his reaction fall somewhere in between?
Mr. O’Nelligan fixed his eyes on mine, quietly hmmed, and, after a few long moments, spoke. “I certainly understand your distress, Lee. May I offer here a tale from my days back in Kerry?”
Now, this might have been the first time he’d ever asked my permission to unleash one of his Celtic yarns. Normally, Mr. O’Nelligan would launch into a homespun parable at the drop of a hat—whether I wanted to hear it or not. Somewhat stunned by the courtesy, I mumbled a yes.
“My Eileen and I had been courting for some time,” he began. “I’d not yet gotten down on bended knee, but I think, at that point, we both knew that day wouldn’t be long in coming. To be sure, we were much taken with each other. One summer eve, we were attending a local dance and having an exceedingly fine time of it. The hall was bustling with friends and kinfolk, and the band, as I recall, was a spry one. I got in many a dance that night. You might not guess it, but I had a nimble step back in those days.”
I had to smile. “I’m sure you were the Gaelic Fred Astaire.”
“Well, that is going too far, but suffice it to say I was much sought after as a dancing partner. Eileen had loaned me out to the Widow McLinley, a rather full-bodied, robust woman who fairly unmoored me every time she gave a whirl. I was thus engaged when into the hall strides one Johnny Fitzgibbon, an old beau of Eileen’s. Now, young Fitzgibbon had been off in Dublin for two or three years, and this was the first time the village had again set eyes on him. He’d left town a humble tanner’s son and had returned as a fine-turned-out barrister’s clerk. He entered the dance garbed in a tailored silk suit and beaver-skin derby, sporting an elegantly waxed mustache. Furthermore, some form of expensive cologne wafted off the fellow like a breeze from a rose garden. Certainly, there was nothing about him not to hate.”
I couldn’t resist a laugh. “Yeah, I can imagine. Especially seeing as he was a former rival of yours.”
“As you say. So, like a bee to a blossom, Fitzgibbon made his way directly to my Eileen and swept her into a dance. Followed by a second. Whereas one dance was perhaps understandable, to my youthful sensibilities the second was excessive. Then, just when I was about to step forward and reclaim my lass, Fitzgibbon coaxed her into a third dance. A third! Having quit the Widow McLinley several minutes before, I now stood alone seething in a corner, oh so young and oh so wronged.”
“You said it was only a dance, though.”
“I said it was three dances! It was that third, don’t you see, that unsettled me so. The number three has a certain power to it, as borne out in myth and history. In my distraught brain I was forming an argument to sway my stolen paramour: Oh, beware, Eileen! Three is way too weighty a numeral to be trifled with! Just look to lore and legend—three Fates, three Magi, Macbeth’s three witches … Why, the Holy Trinity itself! Trifle not, girl, with that portentous third dance!”
“Sounds a little overblown, wouldn’t you say?”
“In retrospect, yes, but at that heightened moment, the third dance felt to me like a final coffin nail being pounded home, sealing the lid on my fate. A fate that was not to include Eileen.”
“Though that’s not how it turned out, is it?” I said. “It wasn’t Johnny Fitzgibbon who ended up marrying the girl—it was the dashing young O’Nelligan.”
My friend leaned forward. “Exactly! But if, in the end, I was dashing, it was only because I cast aside the feeling of being dashed—which is how I felt that night in my miserable corner of the dance hall. While Eileen no doubt admired the fine cut of Fitzgibbon’s clothes and the tang of his cologne, in due course none of that really mattered. Our bond was genuine and enduring, and no silky barrister’s clerk could sever it. Eileen returned to me after the third dance, and we never parted for the rest of the evening, much to Fitzgibbon’s disappointment—and the Widow McLinley’s, I might add.”
“Though what if there had been a fourth dance?” I asked. “Let’s say an excruciatingly slow one?”
“Ah, but there wasn’t, was there? And if I’d let myself dwell on the possibility of one, I might never have kept my heart open and, ultimately, acquired the mantle of husband and father.” Mr. O’Nelligan rested his hands on his knees and smiled gently. “And now, in my silver years, I would not possess the succoring memories of that good woman who loved me so well and so long.”
Mr. O’Nelligan went silent, no doubt to let the story settle in and work its magic with me. To be honest, I wasn’t sure how his situation compared to my troubles with Audrey. After all, my Irishman was possessed of an exasperating saintly nature—at least compared to my own—and could be expected to take the high road. The roads I seemed to find myself on were consistently low, unpaved, and muddy as hell.
I rose from my chair. “I’ll let you know later what I’ve decided.”
Mr. O’Nelligan arched an eyebrow. “About Lorraine Cobble? Or about Audrey?”
“About Kitty the saloon girl.” I headed for the door and called over my shoulder, “She’s the only female I really understand.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The giant seedpods from space were hatching more frequently now, turning many decent American citizens into emotionless alien zombies.
I crammed another handful of popcorn into my mouth and waited to see if the invaders triumphed. At the moment, being emotionless didn’t sound half bad. I’d had more than my share of emotions today, so the idea of succumbing to a deep slumber and waking up conveniently soulless actually held some appeal.
After leaving Mr. O’Nelligan’s, I’d driven around aimlessly for a good hour or so as the twin hurricanes Audrey and Lorraine spun wildly around my beleaguered brain. I ended up grabbing a forgettable lunch at a forgettable greasy spoon on the outskirts of town before making my way over to the Bijou to catch the Saturday matinee, Invasion of the Body Snatchers. The sci-fi film had come out last year, but our local
theater always seemed to lag months behind in getting new movies. I’d heard somewhere that the body-snatching aliens were meant to represent the dilemma of modern angst. Or was it the rise of Communism? Or maybe the collapse of vaudeville. Damned if I knew. Never one for symbolism, all I could make out was that ugly, hog-sized, intergalactic seedpods were conquering Earth, and nobody liked them.
After taking sanctuary for an hour and a half in the darkened movie house, I stepped out into the annoying splendor of a sunny April afternoon. There were no pods in sight, but any solution to my problems still remained unhatched. I drove to my apartment—a bland cave that served as a slap in the face to interior decorators everywhere—and sprawled out on my slumping couch to read the weekend paper. Apparently, Singapore was about to gain self-rule, Egypt had reopened the Suez Canal, and Russia was doing some kind of nuclear testing in Siberia. Not one of those worldly events seemed to have any bearing on the state of my festering grumpiness.
Tossing the newspaper aside, I found myself staring at the opposite wall and the two wooden plaques that hung there. Each depicted a Revolutionary soldier leaning on his musket. Their expressions were so grim and unappealing that Audrey, wielding her pointed sense of irony, had christened them Martin and Lewis after the comedy duo. Studying those minutemen now, it occurred to me that the real-life Dean and Jerry were no longer a team—having split up this past summer. Once the most popular entertainers in America, the pair had grown sick of each other after a decade of success and called it quits. If money, fame, and accolades weren’t enough to keep the top act in the country yoked together, was it any wonder that Audrey and I were straining at the bits?
Having spent a good chunk of the day avoiding my responsibilities, I decided it was time to tackle at least one of them. I shoved myself off the couch and fetched the telephone. A minute later, I began laying out the harsh truths of life to Sally Joan Cobble.
“Miss Cobble, after thinking it over, I’ve decided I’m not going to—”
She trampled over my opening. “Oh, Mr. Plunkett! I’m so glad you called! I’ve been trying to reach your office but couldn’t get through.”
Yeah, not being able to afford a secretary no doubt made for a glut of missed calls. It certainly kept my workload manageable.
“Miss Cobble, what I was starting to say—”
“The letter! I’ve found that letter. Or, rather, Mrs. Pattinshell has. Turns out it got mixed in with a box of magazines that I’d passed on to her a few days ago. She’s out and about right now, but she left a note saying she’d found the letter and to stop by later and get it.”
“Yes, well, that doesn’t really—”
“Wait, there’s also another letter Mrs. Pattinshell says you need to see. Apparently, this one’s … now, what was the word she used?”
“It doesn’t matter because—”
“Menacing! She said it was fairly menacing. Oh, I’m so glad I have you to deal with all this, Mr. Plunkett. You’re like my white knight.”
Wait a minute now—had my high-minded Irish colleague secretly fed Sally Joan that line? Dammit! When would the world get the message that Lee Plunkett was about as knightly as Howdy Doody?
“Can you come down today?” the girl asked. “Soon? I need to catch a bus at six. I’m heading back home to Pennsylvania tonight. I can give you both of the letters when you arrive. I’m sure they’ll help in your investigation.”
My investigation … Sally Joan had finally paused to catch a breath. Now was my chance to lay down the law, to deliver the news that, from here on out, I was no longer in her employ. Sorry, Miss Cobble, your white knight has been unhorsed, and your cousin’s death ceases to be his concern. That’s what I meant to say.
Instead, much to my dismay, what came out was “I’ll pick up Mr. O’Nelligan and we’ll head down shortly.”
Sally Joan was, of course, gushingly grateful. I, of course, was flummoxed that—yet again—my own traitorous tongue had sold me down the river.
* * *
AS MY COLLEAGUE put it, we were returning to the quest with renewed vigor. Well, “vigor” is not really the word I would have held out for, but Mr. O’Nelligan seemed so pleased to still be on the case that I didn’t argue the point. Upon learning that we’d be heading back to the Village, my partner made last-minute arrangements to meet an old theater crony there for a late dinner. We agreed to conduct the bulk of the work together first, then let Mr. O’Nelligan leave to meet his friend. Considering what I was paying him (nothing), it seemed only fair. We arrived at Lorraine Cobble’s apartment late in the afternoon to find a note for us taped to the doorframe. It was from Sally Joan explaining that we’d find her below at Mrs. Pattinshell’s. We trotted back down a flight, and in response to my knocking our young blond client flung open the door and shot a warning finger to her lips.
“Shhh! Mrs. Pattinshell’s in one of her trances.”
Oh joy. We entered haltingly. The lights were all off, the heavy curtains drawn, and a taper candle on the lace-covered table provided the only meager illumination. Next to the candle, a stick of incense sent up a thin, pungent spiral of smoke that drifted before the gaunt face of Mrs. Pattinshell, who sat on the opposite side of the table, eyes closed and head tipped slightly back.
“She’s just starting a song,” Sally Joan whispered.
“Thank God,” I whispered back. “I was afraid we’d miss the concert.”
I shifted my stance and, in doing so, trod on something underfoot. A shrill, angry shriek made my heart bounce, and a low, agile creature sped across the floor and out of the room. The Siamese. The cat-shriek seemed to serve as a cue for Mrs. Pattinshell, who now parted her lips and launched into song. Her singing voice had a cracked, creaky quality to it that fit perfectly with the notion of ghost chanter … assuming you had a notion that such a profession even existed. Her song selection proved to be a fairly disturbing little ditty. The lyrics—which normally might have been harmless, even whimsical—took on a kind of pallor when delivered by the entranced woman:
”Go wander to the wishing well where all the children gather near.
Come listen as they drop their gift into deep water. Can you hear?
Splash it goes and deep it sinks. A lovely gift from childish hands.
Then all the wee ones race away, shifting like the desert sands.”
The tune went on for another verse or two but never did explain what exactly it was those little darlings were flinging into that well. Via the mood set by Mrs. Pattinshell, I was thinking it was some unlucky wayfarer that those creepy kids had ambushed and tied up. I was happy when the song ended.
Mrs. Pattinshell opened her eyes and fixed them unpleasantly on my face. “You.”
“Yep, it’s me,” I confirmed.
The slender woman stood, walked across the room, and flipped on a wall switch. The subsequent flood of electric light made me wince.
“No doubt you are still not convinced of my abilities, young man, even when you witness them firsthand.” Then, turning to my partner, she added, “Though perhaps you are, sir, given your life experience and your Celtic heritage.”
“I beg to reserve judgment,” Mr. O’Nelligan said with an easy smile. “This was, after all, my first exposure to the phenomenon. What spirit provided you with that song? It’s not an air I recognize.”
“Nor do I,” Mrs. Pattinshell answered. “My provider was a seamstress who perished in a hotel fire some eighty years ago.”
“I see.”
“Just outside Baltimore, I believe.” She reached over and snuffed out the candle with her fingertips. “Died quickly, thank heavens.”
I considered offering condolences but instead said, “So, there are letters for us to look at?”
“Yes! I was just about to give them to Sally Joan when the song came over me. I just never know when one will come bursting in.” Mrs. Pattinshell reached into her skirt pocket and extracted two envelopes. “One of these is rather menacing, I feel.”
&nb
sp; I reached out my hand. “So we’ve heard.”
The lovable Mrs. P ignored my outstretched paw and instead gave the letters to my partner. Mr. O’Nelligan held up the top envelope for me to see. The name Lorraine had been typed across it, but there was no address.
I turned to Sally Joan. “This is the one you first described to us?”
“That’s right,” she said. “The one about her morning meeting. Like I mentioned, it’s dated the day before she died.”
Mr. O’Nelligan removed the letter from its envelope, and we stared down at it together. The typed message didn’t waste words.
3/23/57
I’ll come by tomorrow at 10. A.M.
The women stood watching us as my colleague and I began lobbing observations and speculations back and forth.
“No signature,” I said.
“Nor indication of where the rendezvous should take place,” Mr. O’Nelligan added. “Although we might logically assume it was Lorraine’s apartment.”
“Yeah, and then there’s the fact that there’s no address on the envelope.”
“Which suggests it was hand-delivered.”
“That doesn’t make sense, does it? Why would someone hand Lorraine a letter saying ‘Let’s meet’ when they’re staring face-to-face? Unless…” I took a guess. “Unless the person came to Lorraine’s apartment, discovered she wasn’t home, then wrote the letter and slipped it under her door.”
“A spontaneous letter would only be possible if the visitor arrived with a typewriter tucked under his or her arm.”
“Oh, right,” I mumbled, feeling suddenly dense.
“Though there’s also the possibility that the visitor had typed up the note earlier, just in case Lorraine happened not to be home.”
“Or maybe they went to the apartment at a time when they knew Lorraine definitely wouldn’t be home.”
“Well reasoned, Lee,” my friend said, making me feel a shade less dim. “The suggestion being that our unknown party strongly desired for the rendezvous to occur not in Lorraine’s apartment but in a place of his or her own choosing.”
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