The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “Still in knee pants,” Albert said with a heartwarming grin.

  “Well, let’s just say that I was just a kid. And I never wore knee pants.”

  I lied. Mother made Kyle and me wear them at some fancy garden party she hosted. She thought we looked cute. I thought we looked stupid.

  “Even when you were a child,” continued Albert, “your Uncle Raymond always thought highly of you. However, he never understood why you became a teacher. Like your mother, he had thought you should have become a lawyer or architect, like your father. But your Uncle Raymond respected your decision. He liked, loved you very much.”

  A silly notion suddenly struck me. “What if I weren’t around?”

  “What was that?” asked Al.

  “What would happen if I were not here . . . dead?”

  Al took several seconds to collect his thoughts. Then with evident resignation in his voice, he said, “Well, in that case, the whole situation concerning the documents would end up in your brother Kyle’s lap.” Old Al wasn’t slow in reacting when I rolled my eyes at the alternative possibility. “Let’s be thankful that you are still with us.”

  “Yes, there are some benefits about ‘sticking around’ that are beyond my own self-interest. And since I am still here, what is it that I am supposed to do for you and the school?”

  “It is a simple task but necessary,” said Chester. “According to your uncle’s original agreement with the school, all you have to do, actually, is to be the first one to open the box. Then, at that time, you are to give permission for the Steinmetz Papers to be examined in whole or in part or deny permission for any examination.”

  “What was that?”

  Both of my companions looked at me oddly.

  “You decide whether the papers are to be examined,” said Chester. “Of course, you have the authority to have them examined at a later date. But we have put a lot of effort —”

  “No, no, not that. What did you just call the Stoner Papers?”

  “Die Verlorenen Steinmetz Papiere,” slowly replied Albert.

  “No, the other way, in English.”

  “Eh, The Steinmetz Papers?”

  “Steinmetz . . .”

  #

  CHAPTER 18

  “Does that name ring a bell?” asked Chester with worry written on his face.

  His question had put me in a quandary. At the time, I didn’t know whether I should spill the beans to Chester and Albert about what I knew of my Uncle’s connection to Steinmetz or not. So, I played it safe. “Wasn’t he called the ‘Wizard of Schenectady,’ or something?”

  “You are thinking of Charles Steinmetz,” corrected Chester. “No, we’re talking about a Roman Catholic priest named Andreas Steinmetz. He was an ancient language expert and historian back in the 30s and 40s. He was the one who discovered the Adamus Bremensis manuscript, which contains a map that is believed to be one of the oldest maps of the North American coastline. The map is said to have been used by the Norsemen. Because the Steinmetz’s Papers includes the Adamus Bremensis document, it is what makes the collection very significant to historians.”

  “And what do the other papers contain that is of interest?”

  “Notes of Steinmetz’s research, we assume. No one is on record of having examined the collection in detail since the Second World War; we’re not certain what gems of knowledge it may contain.”

  “Did Uncle Raymond know?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Albert. “He may have. He never told me if he did. The only written record that we have from the time of the donation was that the map was in the box with some other documents and notebooks.”

  “Did my uncle ever say how or where he got the map and papers?”

  “Not that we know,” replied Albert. “He never told me much about it, other than the collection should be preserved.”

  “That sounds like Uncle,” I said. “He was outstanding at not revealing anything about himself or any details on what he was doing .” I scratched my head in puzzlement. “And just exactly, why is the collection being opened up now, at this time?”

  “The time was pre-arranged when the college took procession of the collection,” said Chester.

  “That is quite right,” confirmed Albert. “Though I don’t remember if your Uncle Raymond ever told me why. He may have, but I don’t recall. It was so long ago . . .”

  “From the file notes that I have read,” continued Chester, “the college received the money and the collection with the stipulation that the collection could only be opened upon his say so or until this year, whichever came first. In any case, either he or you or the next designated family representative must see the documents before they are opened to the public, as we have said. Having the documents reviewed by someone from your family had been mistakenly omitted when this event was organized. When Albert told me about it, I immediately had our legal department check it out. And sure enough, in the original file, in an old yellowing envelope, there was the original contract agreement, confirming what Albert said.”

  “I am surprised that Uncle expected to live that long. Maybe there is hope for me . . . And when exactly is the ‘The Grand Opening’ to happen?”

  “Three days from today,” said Chester, with some anticipation. “There is a press conference scheduled that day, at noon, here in the library for the official turning over the papers to the research team.”

  “When do you want me to . . . look at eh, whatever I am supposed to look at?”

  “Tomorrow?” asked Chester.

  “I have a wake tomorrow.”

  “The day after?”

  “Funeral,” I shot back.

  Chester took a deep breath. He swallowed hard. “Oh, I really hate to—”

  “The funeral will be in the morning. How about I come here after lunch. Let’s say around two o’clock, to fulfill my assigned duties. Is that okay?”

  A broad smile swept across Chester’s face. He grabbed my hand and shook it like he was jacking up a car. “That would be wonderful, Richard. That’s great. I am very grateful to you, considering your present circumstances and all. Thank you.”

  An impish thought popped into my mind. “Hey, don’t get carried away,” I said. “I might decide . . . not to release the papers.”

  Chester shuddered. He looked at me, bewildered, and I instantly felt terrible.

  “Just kidding, Chester. Just kidding.”

  “Oh, yeah, right,” responded Chester, letting go of my hand with a weak chuckling sigh.

  “Kidding were you?” chortled Albert. “Your Uncle Raymond had a similar sense of humor. Why I remember when I was in grammar school and—”

  “I’d love to hear about it,” said Chester, “but I think that we should get back to the ladies.”—And to the bar, I mentally added.

  As we were leaving the room, I asked Chester about his female companion. “Dr. Krauss seems to have taken a liking to you. May I be so bold . . . Is anything going on?”

  Chester gave me a knowing grin. “Well, it’s too early to say. But she is an interesting woman.”

  “That’s funny. That is exactly how Morgana described her. She described Krauss as ‘interesting.’”

  “Well, she is quite interesting. Vera is also intelligent, personable, and, might I say, very attractive.”

  “And rich,” I quipped.

  “Well, be that as it may. But as your Morgana has said, Dr. Krauss is ‘interesting.’”

  “That she is, Chester. And I think she finds you interesting too.”

  “Well, we’ll see. Take one a day at a time, I always say.”

  Walking back to the reception, Albert asked, “Chester, how did you manage to get Dr. Krauss to head the research team for the Die Verlorenen Steinmetz Papiere?”

  “Luck. Just plain dumb luck.”

  “How so?” I asked, forgetting for the moment my quest for a drink.

  “Some months back, in our in the college’s alum magazine, there was a short
article about our rare books and documents collection. You’re an alumnus, Richard. You must have seen it. It was called, ‘Almost Lost and Nearly Forgotten.’”

  “I’m sure that I did.”—I lied.

  “Well, a few weeks after the magazine was mailed out, I got this phone call from HITF.”

  “From whom?”

  “HITF . . . Hungarian International Technologies and Finance.”

  My ignorance must have been apparent.

  “HITF is a very big, very important, privately-owned company located in central Europe.” Chester took a step closer to me. “They said that they had seen the article and expressed an interest in the Steinmetz Papiere.”

  “They did? To whom did you speak?”

  “A Mr. Tibor Lovas. He is one of the original owners of the company. He asked me about the collection. I told him how the college got the Steinmetz Papiere and our plans to open up the collection to researchers when we could get the funding. Then right off the bat, he said that it would be a privilege for HITF to sponsor the research team for the task if we hadn’t done so already . . . of course we hadn’t. He even offered to assist to organized the research team. Of course, I said yes.”

  “Of course,” I agreed.

  “And true to his word, HITF got us a crackerjack team and has paid all the expenses for it, so far.”

  “So, that is how Dr. Krauss came aboard,” I concluded out loud.

  “Yes, and to make matters more interesting, is that Vera, ah, I mean Dr. Krauss, sits on the board of HITF.”

  “Ah, lucky you, Chester. She sounds like a keeper.”

  On that note, we entered the reception area and were greeted by our anxiously waiting female companions.

  “We thought you gentlemen were lost in the stacks somewhere,” Morgan remarked with a slightly overzealous smile. “We were just talking about sending a search party after you, but I wondered if we really wanted you gents back at all.”

  “Yes,” added Krauss, “we were about to take a vote.” She then grabbed hold of Chester’s left arm and affectionately hugged it. “For the record,” she said with a wispy smile, “I would have voted ‘yes’ for the search party.”

  Chester cleared his throat and gently patted the arm which was interlocked with his. “That little problem that had popped up is all taken care of, thanks to Richard’s help.”

  “It has?” said Krauss. “That is very good. Thank you.”

  “What problem?” asked Morgana.

  “Eh, it has to do with something with the college. I’m helping Chester out with it. It’s all taken care of like Chester said.”

  “Oh? . . . What?”

  “He is helping us with the Steinmetz Papiere,” declared Chester.

  Before Morgana made the situation more awkward, her name was called from some yards away.

  “Dr. Silver! . . . er, Dr. MacKenzie!”

  Morgana and I turned to the oncoming voice. I sensed dread in my wife’s voice when she answered, “Heike!”

  “Bernie?” I mumbled.

  The two women casually approached. Bernice was dressed in a dark charcoal-gray pants suit and a pink blouse that gave her a more severe appearance than she had in her shop. The other woman in a simple v-neck black dress, I assumed, was Heike Fuerst. Her slender swimmer-like body did justice to what she wore. Her shoulder-length blonde hair jostled with every step she took, which instantly caught my attention.

  “Dr. MacKenzie, we finally meet again,” said Morgana’s ex-student as she gave my wife a kiss on the cheek.

  “Please, Heike, call me Morgana. Otherwise, I’ll have to call you Dr. Fuerst.”

  “Yes, that would be unnecessarily cumbersome,” said Heike, smiling. “Morgana, it will be. But now, let me introduce to you all an old friend of mine, whom some of you may already know—Bernice Boxer.”

  #

  CHAPTER 19

  “So sorry we were late. It’s my fault,” apologized Bernie. “Some unfinished business came up, and I had to change clothes on the run, so to speak.”

  From my vantage point, I thought that Fuerst blushed at Bernie’s remark. My eyes went back to Bernie, and I concluded that her face was a bit flushed too. Not only that but the middle button of her Bernie’s shirt was undone.

  Cursed with an over-ambitious imagination, a fascinating but totally inappropriate notion entered my head. But as pleasingly and diverting as that it was, the idea didn’t stay. More important things came to mind when I spotted no lines at the drink station.

  “It was really my fault,” apologized Heike as she tapped the apex of the v neckline of her dress with her index finger and shot a glance at Bernie.

  The message was received. Bernie discreetly secured the offending button, probably thinking that no one had noticed.

  “No, problem, no problem,” graciously replied Chester. “You didn’t miss anything.” Then, like a good host, he proceeded with the group’s introductions, with Krauss holding his arm.

  When Chester finished, I unthinkingly quipped, “So, we meet again, Bernice.”

  “Yes, twice in one day and this time without a broken chair between us.”

  Bernie’s remark triggered a curious response from Morgana. “I don’t mean for you to talk shop tonight, Bernice, but do you have any time frame about when the stretcher on my chair will be repaired?”

  The question took Bernie a little by surprise; she stumbled for words before she spoke. “Your chair? Oh, right . . . It was your chair that the Sheriff and your husband brought into the shop today . . . with their priest friend.”

  “Yes, it was my kitchen chair,” said Morgana. “I don’t want to be a pain, but I have some guests coming to the house this week because . . . Well, you see . . . Richard’s uncle passed—”

  “I know. I am so sorry. I did some work for Richard’s uncle some years back, some shelves, I think it was. He was a charming man. He surely will be missed.”

  “He certainly will,” said Morgana, remorsefully. “As a result, I fear that chairs will be at a premium at our place.”

  “I see. I’ll do what I can. But the problem is not just the cracked dried-out stretcher,” said Bernie. “That can be made good, quickly enough. I can easily replace it. There are other issues involved.”

  “Oh?” said Morgana as she turned her head and gave me her ‘the truth finally comes out’ look. I pleasantly smiled at her while I held my breath, expecting the worse.

  “The woodworking, in this case, isn’t the time-eater. The problem is the staining. It’s a little tricky to get repairs to match exactly the color of the original piece. And then, of course, there are the drying times for each coat. That can be a time killer . . . And there is, also, the final finish. Four or five days or so, if we are lucky.”

  “Oh . . . well, that will have to do, I guess. Thank you.”

  Bernie’s selection of words let me dodge an embarrassing bullet, and to commemorate my good fortune, I thought that a libation was in order. “Drinks, anyone?”

  All the women wanted white wine. Al wanted red. Chester and I were on the same page—Scotch. He also volunteered to help me to procure the refreshments.

  As we walked to the station, Chester said, “Again, I want to thank you, Richard, for your help in this matter.”

  “No problem, Chester. It is just a matter of timing. You know, with my uncle and everything.”

  “I never met the man, your uncle. I wish that I had. He was very generous to the college.”

  The remark struck me funny. When thinking of my uncle, the word ‘generous’ was not the first word that came to my mind, though I would not object to the appellation. “He appears to have been. My uncle was a multi-faceted man—full of surprises. Though I knew him all my life, it seems that I didn’t really know him at all.”

  Reaching our destination, good fortune blessed us, no line. “Five white wines,” listed Chester to the student tending bar, “a glass of merlot and . . . Scotch and soda on the rocks for me. And for you, Richard, Scot
ch straight up?”

  Watering down drinks is never my thing. But not wanting to earn any disapproving scowls from Morgana nor to trigger her into a bad mood before our planned intimacies at home, I dittoed Chester’s request.

  “Make it two Scotch and sodas on the rocks.”

  As the young woman busied herself and chatted with Chester, I playfully pondered the significance of Bernie’s undone button.

  The young bartender produced a small plastic tray for our six drinks, and, knowing who Chester was, she insisted on taking our bounty to the group. Taking pity on the dutiful coed and being impatient, I relieved her of some of the burdens.

  Taking the two Scotches and handing Chester one, I asked, “So, how did Fuerst get on board?”

  “She knows Krauss. They are cousins, I think. Fuerst saw the article about the collection in our quarterly college magazine and told Krauss about it. Between the two of them, they organized and formed the team of experts for the project.”

  “At minimal expense to the college.”

  “Exactly . . . and that very point wasn’t lost on the college’s review committee when it gave its approval for the team.”

  “It is good to hear that Madame Fortuna is smiling on you again, Chester,” I said just as we were about to reunite with our group.

  “And why is fortune smiling on you?” asked Krauss as she chose a white wine from coed’s tray.

  “Chester,” I said, “was just telling me about how your research team came about and how indebted the college is to your generosity.”

  “Well, the real thanks should be given to HITF. It’s HITF that is covering expenses for the research.”

  As the drinks were distributed, I gently swirled the ice in my glass and contemplated a second round. Catching glimpses of the tiny bubbles stream out from nowhere to the surface of the golden pride of Scotland, I asked, “Dr. Krauss—”

  “Please, call me Vera,” corrected the woman, holding her wine with her hand as if to weigh it.

  “All right . . . Vera it is. Vera, why is HITF interested in the Steinmetz Papiere?”

  Krauss smiled, slightly cocked her head to the right. “HITF believes that corporations have a responsibility to contribute to the preservation of cultural artifacts and the education of the public.”