Duby's Doctor

by Iris Chacon

  Leslye stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, a look, and a wag of her head. Harry Pace, master of the good ship Helen, was no more. Nothing remained but a burning oil slick, black smoke, and floating shards of teak decking.

  “You absolutely sure Harry was on that boat?” said the man in Ostrich boots. His voice held amazingly little emotion.

  Leslye kept her eyes on the burning, sinking, unrecognizable mass of wood and fiberglas. She nodded.

  The man looked back toward his parked car then glanced at his diamond-studded Rolex watch. “Okay. We’re done here, then. I need to get back to work.”

  CHAPTER THREE – THE MORTUARY

  Miami—Tuesday Evening

  Four Days After the Explosion

  Lithgow Funeral Home was an elegant building with white marble columns facing a circular driveway bounded by well-manicured box hedges. It resembled the front entrance at the Academy Awards, with wealthy mourners arriving in their chauffeur-driven gas guzzlers. Everyone who was anyone simply must be seen at the viewing of the late Harry Pace, and they must be seen at their best. The jewelry had come out of the safe deposit boxes for this one. The glittering ladies and their silk-penguin escorts craved cameras, and the local media did not disappoint.

  Inside a crowded reception room lined with flowers, sterling candelabra flanked a closed casket. An exquisite oil painting of Harry Pace rested on an easel at one end of the casket. A few of the attendees amused themselves speculating as to how many inches, or ounces, of Harry were actually inside the casket, which must have cost as much as a Space Shuttle.

  Sylvie Pace, young, blonde and beautiful (of course) in a thousand-dollar simple black dress, graciously shook the hands of whatever "mourners" stopped by her chair to pay respects.

  Dan Stern sat attentively on Sylvie's right. He was a little older, a lot taller and darker, and a little less beautiful than Sylvie. But Dan always cut a fine figure in his expensive suits and hand-made Ostrich-skin boots.

  Together Sylvie and Dan were the South Florida equivalent of royalty, on glorious display.

  Leslye Larrimore, looking strained despite her professionally applied makeup, caught Dan's eye from somewhere in the crowd. He gave her a "come hither" gesture. After a few moments of careful maneuvering, Les arrived at Dan's chair. He rose to whisper to her.

  "Stay with Sylvie a minute, will you?" said Dan. "I've gotta go outside for a smoke."

  "Nasty habit," Leslye told him before taking her seat in the chair he had vacated.

  "Yeah, so's Valium," was his snarky reply.

  Leslye sent him an overly sweet smile, and Dan headed for the nearest exit.

  Walt McGurk's red pickup with yellow doors rolled into the funeral home parking lot just as Dan emerged with an unlit cigarette in his mouth. Dan must have recognized the truck, because Walt stepped out of the driver's side door to find his path blocked by Dan Stern, casually lighting a cigarette.

  "Thought you had quit," Walt said. "Smart folks have."

  Dan scowled at Walt's black western shirt, black jeans, black Stetson hat, and black boots. "You've got no business here, Dogpatch," said Dan. "Why don't you save Sylvie and the rest of us some embarrassment and just mosey on back to the ranch." He blew a smoke ring directly into Walt's face.

  Walt dismissed Dan with a look and walked past him toward the funeral home entrance.

  Dan tossed his freshly lit cigarette to the ground and followed. At the door, Dan grabbed Walt's shoulder and pulled him aside. "What are you trying to do!?"

  "Just tryin' to pay my respects," said Walt.

  "Respect! You and Harry fought like alley cats. Neither one of you ever showed any 'respect' to the other one."

  "I didn't come to see Harry. I came to see Sylvie."

  Walt shook off Dan's grip and entered the building. Once inside, he worked his way through the throng toward Sylvie's chair. The high-society, glammed-to-the-max crowd scorned his horse-ranch attire with looks and whispered comments. Walt ignored them and presented himself before Sylvie's chair. He removed his hat, took her hand, and pulled her up to walk with him to the closed casket.

  They gave no greetings to one another but stood together in silence beside the easel displaying Harry's portrait. Sylvie unconsciously leaned against Walt. When she sniffled, he folded her against him in a brotherly hug.

  Gently, Walt told her, "Whatever's in that box, it ain't Harry. Y'hear me? Harry ain't here. You need to remember that."

  "I know," replied Sylvie between weepy hiccups. "The preacher said the same thing. I guess Daddy's with Mama now. In heaven."

  Walt smiled to himself. "Well, I don't know if I'd give Harry quite that much credit."

  Across the room, Dan Stern joined Les Larrimore in watching Walt comfort Sylvie over the casket. Leslye whispered, "I thought you said she hated him."

  Dan shrugged. "That's what she says. Avoids him and his place like the plague."

  "Well, Danny boy, you better be sure she's had her shots. That plague looks contagious to me," said Leslye.

  Dan's expression turned anxious. He moved toward Sylvie and Walt. Coming to Sylvie's side a moment later, Dan gently extricated her from Walt's arms and tenderly ushered her away. "Come sit down, sweetheart," Dan told her. "You look a little woozy."

  Dan lovingly helped Sylvie into her chair. Leslye sat in the adjacent seat. Dan said to Sylvie, "Les will get you something to drink." He glanced at the lady lawyer meaningfully. "Right, Les?"

  Leslye stood and found herself staring into the shirtfront of Walt McGurk, who had followed Sylvie and Dan. "I'll be right back; you just rest, dear," Leslye told Sylvie. Looking up at Walt towering over them, she said, "Good night, Mister McGurk. Thank you for coming." She stepped around him and left in search of a beverage.

  Walt scanned the room. Sylvie was surrounded by elegant strangers and watchdogged by Dan Stern. Walt shoved his Stetson onto his head and ambled toward the exit.

  Halfway there he stopped, decided he was not leaving, and marched briskly back to Sylvie's chair. He elbowed his way to her and, when Dan refused to yield a place to sit, Walt squatted on the floor in front of her. This put Walt on Sylvie's eye level, and he pinned her with his eyes like a lepidopterist skewers a butterfly.

  "Sylvie, you know half of my ranch is yours now. Harry's half," Walt said.

  "I guess so."

  "Well, if you’re in a bind, I’ll buy you out fair and square. Cash on the barrelhead."

  Dan said, "Really, McGurk! I don't think this is the time—“

  "I'm talkin' to Sylvie," Walt said, cutting Dan short.

  Sylvie didn't feel like discussing business at all, and certainly not while Walt and Dan were going at each other in front of the jet set. "Can't we discuss this later?" Sylvie said to Walt. "I mean, it's not like I need the money."

  Walt's mouth moved as if he would argue with her, but he realized the room had gone silent. The "mourners" all seemed to be staring at him. He stood abruptly, withered the room with a look, and strode for the door.

  Leslye arrived with a cup of water for Sylvie. Dan gave Les his chair, and he left to follow Walt, saying to the ladies, "I'll just make sure he finds his way out."

  Les urged Sylvie to drink, but Sylvie merely held the cup and watched the door through which Walt and Dan had gone. Leslye patted Sylvie's shoulder and said, "It's all right, darling. Don't let Harry's pet jailbird upset you."

  "Harry's what?"

  "Jailbird," said Les. "Everybody knows Harry got him out of jail and set him up in that horse-breeding business." Bitterness tainted her voice as she continued, "One of your mother's charity cases, I expect. Harry never learned to tell her no."

  Sylvie looked at Les in absolute confusion.

  "Honey, they say McGurk killed a man," Les told her. "After all these years, I can't believe you never knew. I thought Harry would've told you all about it."

  Stunned, Sylvie gulped the water from the cup like an android. Without looking at Leslye, Sylvie handed her the emp
ty cup. "I guess Harry and I never really talked much," Sylvie said.

  Out in the parking lot, Walt was reaching to open the door of his truck when Dan Stern wedged himself between Walt and his goal. "Who do you think you are?" Dan sneered from six inches away.

  "Harry's partner, Slick Face. Who do you think you are?" Walt responded.

  "Les and I were Harry's partners, Dogpatch. Real partners, in multi-million-dollar joint ventures, not some two-bit horse farm in Podunk Holler. You're not a business partner, you're a joke."

  Without raising his voice, Walt responded, "And you're a brass-plated thief."

  Dan took a good Ivy League swing at Walt, but Walt sidestepped it and landed a solid back-alley uppercut to Dan's jaw. Dan went down on one knee and stayed there, wiping blood from a split lip.

  Standing over Dan with his fists poised for more, Walt said, "Harry never had to worry about finding my hands in his pockets. Tell me, did Harry kill himself when he learned you two had stole him broke, or did you blow him away because he caught you at it?"

  "It was a gas leak," Dan insisted, favoring his swollen, bleeding lip. "An accident. Happens every day. You can ask the police, the Marine Patrol, the coroner, anybody." A new gleam entered Dan's eyes, and he smiled wickedly. "But you won't. You don't think I murdered Harry. This," he gestured at the two of them, "is all a smoke screen to hide how you tried to get Harry's half of the ranch from Sylvie before Harry's body was even in the grave. Y'know, if I were going to be suspicious of anybody, Dogpatch, I'd be suspicious of you. We both know you're capable of murder, don't we?"

  Walt moved as if he wanted to kick Dan's perfectly capped teeth down his throat, but he decided against it. He swung into his truck instead.

  As the truck roared out of the lot, Dan stood and wiped his face with his Hermes handkerchief. Then he dusted the knees of his trousers and re-entered the funeral home.

  End of Sample Chapters

  of

  SYLVIE’S COWBOY

  by

  Iris Chacon

  Enjoy These

  Sample Pages

  From

  SCHIFFLEBEIN’S FOLLY

  Lloyd Schifflebein is obsessed with adopting six special needs children. He has been working and planning toward that goal all his life. But it looks like Lloyd will need supernatural help to (1) keep his business going, (2) find a suitable woman to marry, and (3) convince the adoption authorities that Lloyd’s not crazy.

  This would all be so much easier if his teapot would stop talking!

  PROLOGUE AND SAMPLE CHAPTER

  In the oldest and most perfect pottery studio in the universe, the walls glowed with ethereal light. The ceiling was high enough to be hidden by clouds. The only flaw in the studio’s splendor was its single door, which was narrow, wooden, plain, and scarred. Through that door bustled a peculiar, small person sporting a cocked stovepipe hat. He closed the door and waited politely for the Potter to acknowledge him.

  The diminutive visitor looked like a 19th century sidewalk newsboy, or he might have been a taller-than-average leprechaun. Truly, he could be both, either, or neither, as the situation demanded. He was older than he looked by several million years, but he could pass for middle-aged on any planet. His name was Orkney.

  Orkney watched in silence as the Potter fashioned a teapot and then its lid. He watched the Potter paint the raw clay and then set the two pieces into a kiln for firing.

  A glance at the nearby workbench revealed a freshly painted vase, an urn, some candelabra, cups, saucers, a platter, but no other teapots.

  When a minute had passed, or it may have been a year or a decade (time having no meaning in the studio), the Potter lifted the fired teapot from the kiln and set about painting a face upon it. Orkney neither moved nor spoke during all that time.

  “Good to see you, Orkney,” said the Potter, at whose smile Orkney nearly floated with happiness.

  “You called, Guvnor?” Orkney said, sounding like a London street urchin—which he could be if called upon.

  “Time to go to work again, my son,” the Potter said, putting the finishing touches on the teapot’s facial features. “It’s been thirty-two years, seven months, four days, and six hours since the last job, by human reckoning.”

  “Human. So it’s to be earth again, sir?”

  The Potter put down his paintbrush and stepped back to evaluate his creation. He produced a neon green card from among the folds of his robe and flipped the card toward Orkney. Orkney remained absolutely still while the card wafted across the room and lodged itself securely in the band of his stovepipe hat. “That’s the name and address where you’ll deliver this teapot,” said the Potter.

  Orkney retrieved the card from his hatband and read it. He blew out air. “Coo! This bloke? They think ‘e’s bonkers already, Guv. This’ll get ‘im locked up for sure!”

  “Just deliver the teapot.”

  Orkney looked at the teapot with its newly painted face. “But i’s still wet!”

  A gust of wind swept through the studio, billowing fabrics and rustling small items on the workbench.

  “It’s dry now,” the Potter said. He placed the lid on the teapot then handed the pot to Orkney.

  As Orkney accepted the teapot, it grinned and winked at the Potter.

  CHAPTER 1: THE DELIVERY

  Lloyd had a philosophy: If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. If it ain’t on clearance (defined as at least 70 percent off), don’t buy it. If it’s less than 50 years old, it’s too good to get rid of. If it’s more than 50 years old, it’s an antique and therefore too valuable to get rid of. It was a blessing that Lloyd had never married because his philosophy probably would have driven some poor female to commit murder sooner or later.

  That’s not to say Lloyd was undesirable as a man. Indeed, women above the age of 50 found him adorable and wanted to mother him. Women in their 40s found him polite, attentive, an excellent listener, and the perfect date for weddings, graduations, awards ceremonies, even funerals. Thirty-something ladies felt he wasn’t career-driven enough, but he had a respectable investment portfolio and a cute butt. Twenty-somethings at the gym on Lloyd’s workout days sent text messages to their friends about his great body—sometimes they even posted Lloyd videos on YouTube.

  Despite his positive attributes, however, Lloyd had reached the age of thirty-two years, seven months, four days, and six hours without finding Miss Right and converting her into Mrs. Lloyd Schifflebein. Yes, Schifflebein. A surname decidedly lacking romance in addition to being difficult to spell and way too long a signature for checks and the backs of credit cards.

  Supposing Miss Right were willing to overlook the awkward appellation, there was one other impediment to wedded bliss. Lloyd devoted his whole life to his children. Children he didn’t yet actually have, but he was working on it. He had been working on it all his life. He had filed his first formal application to adopt on his 20th birthday, having been turned away on his 18th and 19th. This devotion to his as-yet-unadopted children led many people to deduce that Lloyd Schifflebein was crazy. Big and strong, sure. Cute, maybe, but loony nonetheless.

  On the afternoon of Orkney’s mission to Lloyd’s house, Lloyd had laid aside his carpentry tools, locked his woodworking shop, and settled in the kitchen to brew a cup of tea and make an important telephone call. An ancient teakettle on the old Kenmore stove began to bubble and then whistle, blowing steam. Lloyd was lifting the kettle from the burner when his doorbell rang, startling him into dropping the kettle, which shattered into snowflake-size pieces on the tile floor. Lloyd had never seen stainless steel behave that way. It should have been dented or bent, but shattered? And where was the water? How weird.

  Lloyd bent to pick up the mess, but the doorbell clanged again. He sighed and stepped over the debris on his way to answer the door.

  He opened his front door to find Orkney on his threshold with a brown box in hand, clipboard under one arm, and pencil behind one ear.

  “Delivery for Schiff
lebein,” said Orkney. “Sign ‘ere, if ya please, Guvnor.” Orkney offered Lloyd the clipboard and pencil. Lloyd signed, then he exchanged the clipboard and pencil for Orkney’s brown box.

  “Well, g’day, Guvnor, and good luck.”

  Abruptly, thunder boomed out of a clear sky.

  Orkney startled and glanced heavenward. He removed his hat respectfully and backed away from the door, keeping one eye on the heavens.

  “No! Not luck, sir. I didn’t mean luck, sir. I meant to say, uh, Lor’ bless ya. G’day and Lor’ bless ya, sir.”

  Lloyd, too, examined the clear skies and even held out his open hand to check for precipitation, but there was none. He turned to thank the strange little man, but Orkney had simply disappeared. Lloyd stepped outside the door and glanced up and down the street, but there was no sign of a delivery truck or driver. More weirdness. What a day. Shaking his head, Lloyd returned to his kitchen with his brown box.

  He left the box on the counter, swept up and discarded the remains of his erstwhile teakettle, and walked down the hall to his home office to make his phone call. He opened a four-inch-thick file folder on his desk, found a number, and punched the digits into his phone.

  “May I speak with Mrs. Walken, please?” he asked the answering receptionist. “Retired? But she couldn’t have been more than 50! ... Oh, really. Well, she sure didn’t sound 62. My goodness.”

  He paged quickly through the thick file and found his answer. “Wow, I guess it has been, goodness, twelve years now that she’s been handling my file. ... Schifflebein, yes. You know my case? ... Really! Everybody, huh. ... Well, do you know who’s handling my file now that Mrs. Walken has retired? ... Uh-huh. ... Uh-huh. ... Well, would you please ask whoever draws the short straw to call me? ... Yeah, that’s still my number. You have an amazing memory. ... Really! Taped to the desk. Goodness. ... Thank you very much, then. I’ll wait for your call, her call, or his call, somebody’s call. ... Right. ‘Bye.”