Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

by Timothy Patrick

  When the meal didn’t cause any bad side effects, they splurged on stale, waxy chocolate donuts and coffee, after which Sarah stood up tall, dropped the blanket, and proudly said, “See what a little good cooking will do? Better already.”

  Unconvinced, Mack watched as she weaved through the family room and into the hallway. As she reached out with her left hand to open a door, she looked at him and announced, “I’m going to take care of that gash on your head.”

  “No, it’s fine. You take care of yourself first...nurses with shaky hands scare me.”

  She laughed and said, “Maybe you’re right. I’ll take a hot bath first.” Then she disappeared into the bathroom. Two seconds later the door opened and she leaned against the jamb, looking a little sheepish.

  “Mack, will you do me a favor?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “When you hear me knock on the wall by the bathtub, will you knock on a wall too, so I can hear you?”

  “Sure. I’ll do it.”

  “Even if it’s fifty times?”

  “I’ll knock fifty times. Even a hundred.”

  Just like that, as Sarah bathed in one bathroom and Mack showered in another, the old house got a bad case of the knocks. When you threw in the rattling pipes in the wall and the creaky old wall heater, it sounded like a Model T convention.

  Mack showered quickly because he wanted to take a crack at Dorthea’s filing box. Like Sarah said, there had to be a reason she kept it locked away down in the dungeon. He parked himself on the living room floor, next to a wall—his communication line to Sarah—and spread out forty-three envelopes. He quickly zeroed in on only one of them. It contained newspaper clippings and a few handwritten notes. At one point he raised his head and stared intently at nothing. Then he popped to his knees, reached into his pants pocket, and pulled out a folded paper. He read it carefully and then dropped back down to his knees and elbows, where he continued to rifle through Dorthea’s papers.

  Sarah knocked. He reached up absentmindedly and rapped his knuckles on the wall. She knocked again, which he answered with four more quick thumps. She immediately knocked again and he wondered just how badly shell shocked she might be. And then he saw her standing in front of him with rosy cheeks and clean clothes. She looked beautiful, wet hair and all.

  “Sorry to interrupt your concentration, but I couldn’t resist.”

  “Back to being a joker,” he said, as he stood up. “Now I know you’re feeling better.” He took her hand into his. “Now let me see that arm of yours.” After a few moments he looked up and said, “It looks good.”

  “What can I say? I’m an easy keeper.”

  He grinned at the horse lingo. “Easy? Nothing about you is easy.” He pulled her close. “But you are a keeper.”

  She put her finger on his lips. “Before you say anything else, I have something to say.”

  “…Ok.”

  “Thank you, Mack.”

  “For what? The heroic way I saved you today?”

  “Yes. And for all the other times you’ve saved me. You just keep on doing it and I never say thank you.”

  “You say it all the time…with your eyes…and your smile—just like right now. Besides, saving the one you love doesn’t count. It’s like saving yourself.”

  “The one you love?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  He gently pulled her close. Her smile faded, undone, he hoped, by an emotion heavier than mirth or joy or thankfulness; undone, like him, by love. He kissed her, simply, the only way he knew, and just as a troubled heart feels relieved by lifted troubles, his heart felt relieved as the senseless barriers began to crumble. As they held each other tightly, he knew that mere friendship would never again come between them.

  After a while the embrace eased and they looked into each other’s eyes in a way they had never before dared. They looked past the familiar façades, through the guarded courts, into the private chambers, where openness and wonder reside. For Mack, it felt like he’d finally come home after a long journey.

  A smile began to slowly form on Sarah’s mouth and she said, “I must say Mr. Brimwahl, it sure took you long enough.”

  “Me? I’m not the one who had a ring on my finger.”

  “Oh, you should’ve known that was nothing.”

  “I did,” he said. “I just had to wait for you to know it too.”

  He had her on that one. She pressed her head against his chest. He held her close. It felt like it could last forever, perfect, self-sustaining…except for the barricaded doors and the bloody clothes and the chaos all around.

  Mack looked down at Dorthea’s envelopes. He had things to tell Sarah, things she deserved to know, but he knew she’d dive in and never turn back. He also knew, painfully, that he had no right to cling to such a flimsy worry; turning back at this point was a mirage, a morning fog that had burned off long ago. She’d lost too much. What did losing a little more, or even everything, really matter? She’d never turn back and he didn’t blame her. This time, though, he planned to stick with her every step of the way.

  “The love birds are in a storm, aren’t they, Mack?”

  She had her eyes on the envelopes.

  “Yes they are,” he said. And then, after a pause, he continued, “I need to show you some things, Sarah. Look at these. There’s one for every person who ever lived at Sunny Slope Manor, starting with a George Newfield a hundred and fifty years ago all the way up to now. Here’s yours, and Veronica’s, even Perkins and Nanny, each one packed with the details of your lives, no matter how small. It’s all about Sunny Slope Manor and your family. Except this one. This one says ‘Jeb Railer.’”

  “Jeb Railer?”

  “Yes. Dorthea’s father.”

  “That’s strange. What does it say?”

  “That he got murdered in nineteen-thirty-two.”

  She repeated the date to herself as she looked over at the dining room table and then at the living room couch. “Where’s my purse?” she asked.

  “Are you looking for this?” he handed her a slip of paper.

  “Yes…1932, that’s the year on this note from F. Prince, but it didn’t make any sense because the receipt on the other side says 1972.”

  “I know, but it has to mean something. Jeb Railer not only got murdered in 1932, but on the exact date written on that note. And guess who witnessed the murder?”

  “Dorthea.”

  “That’s right.”

  Sarah held up the note and read, “‘Dear Friend, That's good news about your invitation to the party tonight. You are definitely moving up in the world. Get to know some bigwigs, especially the one who will be important tomorrow. This is a date people will read about for years to come. Yours Truly, F. Prince. 8 July, 1932.’” She looked at Mack. “Was there a party on the same day her dad got murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then there must be some connection between this party and her father’s murder. What else does his file say?”

  “Not much about him, or the party, but a whole lot about the murder weapon. The police found a bloody club, plastered with fingerprints, right next to the body. All they had to do was find a match for the prints.”

  “What about Dorthea?”

  “No help at all. The prints didn’t match, and she changed her story so many times it made her famous. There must be thirty articles about her, about her secret motive, how she planned the whole thing, how she suddenly came into money.”

  “Money?” asked Sarah “What kind of money?”

  “The kind that stacks high, the way the newspapers tell it.”

  “It’s blackmail, Mack! That’s all it is! Blackmail!” And then her head fell to the side and she got a perturbed, almost disgusted look on her face. “Do you know why we’ve never heard of ‘F. Prince’? Because he doesn’t exist. F. Prince stands for fingerprints. Whoever wrote this note is trying to tell us who she’s blackmailing, who the fingerprints belong to. Listen to this, ‘Get to know som
e bigwigs, especially the one who will be important tomorrow.’ ‘The one.’ It’s someone at the party, someone important, and someone Dorthea is still blackmailing. Is there a guest list for the party?”

  “Yes…in one of the newspaper clippings.”

  They dove to the ground and rooted through the papers.

  “Here it is,” said Mack, as he unfolded a clipping and handed it to her. She plopped onto the carpet and started reading, out loud at first, but as she worked her way down the list, her voice trailed off. At the end she looked at Mack and said, “I recognize most of the family names, but not many of the first names.”

  “That makes sense,” said Mack. “It was forty years ago. Most of those people are dead…but not all of them. There’s one name on that list that you know, someone in a position of power. You figured it out yourself. It’s got to be there.”

  She started reading again. “‘Burchfield, Mortimer and Jennie’; ‘Comstock, Warren and Beryl and daughter Emily’—that’s the same Emily that married a Stanton and played tennis with my aunt. She played badly but not bad enough to blackmail. ‘Fulkerson, Leland and Ophelia’; ‘Gilbert, Samuel and Abigail’—that’s General Gilbert. Every November 10th, the kids on the hill surround his house and wait for him to raise the Marine Corps flag. When it goes up, they charge through the gates, over the walls, and fill their pockets with the half dollars he’s clipped to the trees in his back yard. He was big in the military, and still alive, but he’d shoot Dorthea between the eyes before he’d let her blackmail him. ‘Jensen, Nils and Gunnel’; ‘Kehoe, Everett and Juanita’—Everett Kehoe watered the flowers and drank a glass of Scotch every night at six. Uncle Bill said nobody knew how to water the flowers better than Everett Kehoe. They’re both dead now. ‘Livingston, Edwin and Bernadette’; ‘Osborne, Allaster and Irene and son Thaddeus’—I don’t know a Thaddeus, but everyone knows the Osbornes—in fact their son’s the mayor, but his name is—” Her face froze and her arm fell to her side. “Everyone calls him Sonny…but his name is Thaddeus.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “He was my uncle’s best friend, Mack…and he’s been mayor for thirty years. If you ask anyone who runs Prospect Park, the answer is Mayor Osborne. It’s him.”

  Was that it? Dorthea Railer’s deadly power amounted to nothing but dirty blackmail and a small town mayor? Mack didn’t get much of a chance to think about it because Sarah hustled him into the bathroom, where she dabbed antiseptic onto his head, and then straight into the truck. She said something about cutting off the monster’s head and then gave him directions to the mayor’s house.

  As the old truck chugged up the hill, he asked, “What are you going to say to him?”

  “I don’t know. I have to believe that he never wanted things to get like this, but I don’t know. That’s my big plan.”

  They turned onto Sunrise Way. A few blocks past the manor, Sarah pointed to the right and said, “Turn in here.” He pulled into a driveway, stopped at a gold colored wrought iron gate, and reached out his window to push the button on an intercom box.

  “How may I help you?” crackled the bored sounding voice on the other end.

  Mack leaned back to let Sarah talk. “This is Sarah Evans. I’m here to see Mr. Osborne.” Seconds later the big gate groaned and opened down the middle.

  When they got to the bottom of the long drive, Mack recognized the mayor standing on the front porch. He wore slacks and a burgundy jacket with a tie belt—kind of like a bathrobe, but shorter—and one of those scarves around his neck that rich people use to hide their wrinkles. He smiled and pointed at a place for Mack to park.

  After greeting them with a hug and a kiss for Sarah and a handshake for Mack, the mayor said, “Please forgive my attire, I was just about to dress for the winter ball.” He gestured toward the front door.

  As Sarah led the way into the house, she said, “Have you heard anything from my cousin, Mr. Osborne?”

  “No, not recently, but I’m sure we’ll both see her tonight. Now tell me, dear, is everything alright? I noticed that scrape on your arm.”

  “This?” asked Sarah as she raised her arm. “A relative did this to me…someone who’s also related to you.”

  “Really,” he said with a surprised smile. “To whom are we both related?”

  "Dorthea Railer," said Sarah. “I'm related by my cousin’s marriage, you’re related by the death of her father.”

  Nothing like beating around the bush, thought Mack, as the mayor’s smile fell to the ground. Like a good politician, he picked it right back up.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean, Sarah.”

  “I need to talk with you about Jeb Railer.”

  “In the mood for a little town history, are we?” He searched her unsmiling face for a moment and then ushered them into his office just off the main entryway. He closed the sliding wooden doors, pointed to a brown leather couch against the wall, and said, “Please have a seat.” He sat in a matching chair a few feet away, angled toward the couch. Sarah stared at him. He picked specks of lint off his gray slacks, and said, “I don’t know how much help I can be…that’s a little before my—”

  “I know Dorthea Railer is blackmailing you sir…and I know why,” said Sarah.

  He acted surprised. “Is that so? And exactly where did you get this information?”

  “From Dorthea.”

  “Really? She doesn’t sound like much of a blackmailer. More like a blabber mouth, don’t you think?”

  “The fingerprints on the club are yours. You know it and so does Dorthea.”

  “I’ve been mayor for thirty years, Sarah, and have had my fingerprints taken seven times. If I’d had anything to do with that incident, don’t you think someone would have figured it out by now?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” pleaded Sarah. “I don’t care about the past, I won’t say anything about it, but I need your help now. Dorthea is going to murder Veronica and you’re the only one who can help!”

  “You’re asking for help? That’s strange because just a second ago it sounded like you accused me of murder—”

  “I won’t say anything. I promise. Please, just help us.”

  “I don’t know how you got onto this absurd and erroneous path, Sarah, but out of respect for my long friendship with your uncle and aunt, and respect for the recent tragedy in your family, I’m going to let it pass. I suggest you do the same. Now I must ask you to leave.”

  “No. I’m not leaving. I’ll call the police if I have to.”

  “Really? Well then, why don’t you call right now?” He picked up a telephone from a round side table next to his chair and extended it to Sarah. She froze, caught off guard by his carefree attitude. After a moment he put it back on the table and said, “You see, you know in your heart that what you’re saying is ridiculous. I’ve been a family friend—your friend—my entire life. You know that now, don’t you?” A relaxed, friendly smile spread across his face.

  Mack tried to make sense out of it. The dirt on this guy had to be there—that’s how blackmail worked. And of course Prospect Park’s puppet police didn’t have it, he and Sarah should’ve known that, but it had to be somewhere. They’d had the fingerprints at one time. What happened to them? Had they passed them onto another agency? And then he got an idea.

  He got up from the couch, stepped toward the Mayor, and picked up the phone’s receiver. “Maybe we’ll try the FBI instead. Aren’t they the ones in charge of fingerprints for unsolved murders?” he said.

  When the mayor slowly placed his hand over the telephone dialer, Mack knew that the bluff of a lifetime had just paid off.

  “Sit down,” said the Mayor without looking up. Then he turned to Sarah with a lifeless face and said, “What exactly is going on?”

  “The marriage between Veronica and Ernest is nothing but a way for Dorthea to get her hands on Sunny Slope Manor. But she won’t stop there. She’s going to murder Veronica.”

  “And how do you know
this?”

  “Because Dorthea killed my aunt. I found the doctored pill bottle and traced it back to her. When I called the police, she tried to kill me. Does that sound like someone who just wants her son to marry into a nice family? And, if it means anything, I found the remains of one of her other victims under the hotel.”

  He stared with old, watery eyes, but didn’t say a word. After a moment he brought his hands up and rubbed his face.

  “When Dorthea takes something, she takes it all,” continued Sarah. “As long as Veronica lives, she still owns the manor and Dorthea won’t stand for that.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You know this lady. You know what I’m saying is true.”

  He lowered his hands from his face. “I know it’s true,” he said in almost a whisper. “Knowing Dorthea just makes it worse.”

  Sarah didn’t have a response for this. The Mayor continued, “What is it you want?”

  “We want the police to go get Veronica, to get her away from Dorthea,” said Sarah.

  “They won’t do it. They won’t go near her. The most I can do is get you in there. I can hide you in my car. You’ll have to do the rest yourself.”

  Sarah looked at Mack.

  “You’ll need to leave your keys in the car,” said Mack.

  The mayor nodded.

  Chapter 34

  Walter Tubbs, the attorney with a quick eye and an eager smile, stood atop the ballroom’s grand staircase and basked in the sparkling light of the crystal chandeliers. Down below, servants with white gloves and powdered wigs stood ready to serve him fine champagne and exotic finger foods. Just a few feet away from where he now stood in the mezzanine, a conductor with a baton led his orchestra with undulating arms. Dressed in an eye-catching baby blue tuxedo, Walter Tubbs struck a dignified pose and accepted their quiet serenade. He’d been invited to the winter ball at Sunny Slope Manor.