The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  “Really? Corporations have a belief system.”

  “Does that bother you?” asked Krauss.

  “Bothered? No, surprised. But I am suspicious of motives when it comes to this project. Why did HIFT specifically decide to fund the research on the Steinmetz Papiere?”

  “Maybe suspicious is too strong of a word,” said my wife eyeing her boss. “Richard is curious about this great demonstration of generosity. I think we all are.”

  “Well, if you want to know the truth, I suppose you are the reason, Morgana.”

  I didn’t expect that, nor did Morgana. Her eyes widened; her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. “Me?”

  “Yes. It was your former student, Heike, who told me about her old college wanting to examine the Steinmetz Papiere.”

  “Heike?” Morgana muttered in surprise.

  “I have fond memories of this place,” said Fuerst. “Many of these memories were because of you, Morgana. You inspired me to go on with my studies and earn my doctorate, and for that, I am grateful. I mentioned the project to Vera, and she, somehow, convinced HIFT to help the college with the project.”

  “You spoke to Dr. Krauss?”

  “She is my cousin, yes.”

  Morgana’s “Oh, really” was quickly followed with her sipping her wine.

  “I mentioned the collection to Vera in passing when I called to wish her a happy birthday. She sounded very curious about the collection and asked me to read the article about the papers over the phone.”

  I shot an inquiring glance to Krauss and asked in the most non-threatening manner that I could, “What is it that you have your doctorate in, Vera?”

  “I have two,” replied Krauss with understated pride, “One is in European history, and the other is in material engineering.”

  Up until this point, Chester pretty much stayed out of the conversation. “It was very generous,” he said, “that HIFT to come to our assistance. We are very thankful for its funding and for your expertise in this matter. Aren’t we, Dr. MacKenzie?”

  “Most assuredly,” replied Morgana, not skipping a beat. “I am always supportive of those avenues that lead to the betterment of the college.”

  “We are fortunate then,” said Heike, “that cousin Vera persuaded HIFT to help the college with this project.”

  “It took very little persuasion,” added Krauss with a gentle nod of her head.

  “Morgana, I was so fortunate to be in your class so many years ago.”

  “Well, it wasn’t that many years,” countered my wife.

  “You kindled a desire in me to pursue advanced studies. Because of you and this college, I was inspired to earn my doctorate. In some small way, you made me the person I am today, and I will always be forever grateful.”

  “I suppose it’s a type of Karma,” I blurted, glancing at my plastic cup of melting ice. “One good turn earns another, as they say. And talking about another drink, would anyone like another?”

  The unanimous response was no. So, off I went by my lonesome to the drink station.

  “Another Scotch and soda, please,” I said to the now-familiar student bartender.

  With a smile, she quickly busied herself with my request. “You’re Professor MacKenzie’s husband?”

  “I am,” I said, taking my refilled glass from her.

  “I have her for my Old English course. I didn’t think that I would like the course, but she makes it interesting. It is really a good class.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell her. What’s your name?”

  “Susan . . . Susan Vale. I’m a sophomore.”

  “And your major is . . .?”

  “Physics.”

  “Physics . . . hum, that is a subject that always fascinated me, but I couldn’t deal with the math. Or, as the English would say, maths.”

  “Really. Are you a professor too?”

  “No. I’m just a retired high school teacher.”

  “Really . . . wow, you must have had it tough. I can’t imagine being a high school teacher. Not only did you have to know stuff, but you have to control a whole bunch of unruly, disinterested kids; demanding administrators; crazy parents; state mandates and standards; and then, to top it off—teach.”

  I gave Susan a knowing look. “Exactly.”

  “My mom is a high school social studies teacher.”

  “God, bless her.”

  “I used to hear about it all the time at home. But she loves it . . . the teaching part that is.”

  “So did I.”

  Leaving with my second drink and feeling a bit flattered, I returned to the group only to find Holland had left.

  “Is Chester off doing his meet and greet duties?”

  “He has been called away by campus security,” replied Morgana. “There seems to have been a break-in of some sort on campus.”

  “A break-in?” asked Krauss. “Are thieveries and robberies normal for this college?” Maybe it was the Scotch fogging my judgment, though I doubt it, but I thought that I had detected a trace of disdain in her question.

  “No!” quickly answered Morgana with a little too much energy than she probably should have.

  All eyes swiftly turned in her direction.

  “I mean, every college, these days, has its troublesome list of petty larcenies and pilfers . . . Stolen sneakers, a snatched smartphone . . . books. When such as these go missing, a student can be quite put out. These things can be quite expensive.”

  “Probably so. But does the theft of a pair of sneakers need the immediate attention of the president of a college?”

  Yeah, I was starting to understand why Morgana didn’t take to Dr. Vera Krauss. She had a haughty Prussian-like, know-it-all, I-am-better-than-you attitude that got under one’s skin after a while. Her boarding school style English didn’t help either.

  “That depends, Vera,” I said, coming to Morgana’s defense.

  “Depends? Depends on what?” said Krauss.

  “It depends on whose sneakers were taken.”

  “Should that make a difference?”

  “It would if the sneakers belong to, let’s say, the President’s daughter.”

  “Chester has a daughter?” Krauss said with surprise.

  “Chester hasn’t any children,” answered Morgana.

  “I wasn’t speaking of Chester.”

  Now all the eyes of the group were on me, except for Morgana’s. Hers were closed and behind her hand, which had come up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Undoubtedly, Morgana was dreading while the others were wondered what was to come out of my mouth next.

  “I was speaking of, maybe, someone higher up in the chain of command.”

  “Are you saying the President of the United—”

  “Let’s just say Chester has connections.”

  A quick assessment of the situation told me that my creative counterattack was getting me into trouble. Krauss was too gullible for it, and, from what I could observe, Morgana didn’t look pleased. And I certainly didn’t want to put her in a bad mood.

  “What I’m trying to say, maybe not too artfully, is that this is a small but prestigious college that takes care of its students. If Chester thought it best to pursue the matter of this theft at this time, I am sure he has good reason. Please, don’t take it as a slight on his part.”

  “It never crossed my mind,” said Krauss with a feigned look of innocence. She then took a short sip of her wine. Then with a half-smile, she said, “It is very refreshing to find an institution that actually cares about people and its social responsibilities. I hope that you will grant me and HIFT the same courtesy.”

  “Of course,” I said with a diplomatic smile, “I never meant to give you the impression otherwise. It’s just that being from the world of academia, I am intrigued by the mentality of—”

  “Academia?” responded Krauss. “I thought you were a retired high school . . . teacher?”

  With a forced smile, I acknowledged that I was, and I concluded that I
really didn’t like this woman.

  “Richard,” said Morgana, now jumping to my defense, “was more than just a high school teacher. He has a doctorate from—” Morgana never completed her thought. Instead, her eyes widened as she stared at something behind me. “Oh, dear Lord.”

  I turned, and what did I see—Kyle.

  Dressed in his full sheriff’s regalia, my brother was briskly waddling toward me. He was escorted by Chester and a campus security officer. And none of them looked happy.

  #

  CHAPTER 20

  “Kyle, what’s up?” I asked with some trepidation.

  “A burglary—”

  “It’s gone!” Chester blurted in a harsh hush. “The whole damn thing is missing. Taken . . . Gone!”

  “What is?” I said, privately hoping that this new crisis wouldn’t involve me.

  “The Steinmetz Papiere!” declared Chester, shaking his head.

  A unified gasp erupted from our group, which overpowered my muttered expletive.

  “The Steinmetz Papiere have gone missing?” Krauss said in a panic while reiterating my secret wish.

  “That is what Mr. Holland said, ma’am,” calmly answered Kyle, his eyes busied themselves looking around the room.

  “Excuse me, constable, I am not a ma’am. I am Dr. Vera Krauss. At the request of this college, I have assembled a team of international experts at great expense to examine the Steinmetz Papiere. And now you’re telling me that they are gone, vanished, stolen!”

  Kyle stopped assessing his surroundings and looked down into Krauss’ eyes. “Well, I can see that you’re upset . . . Doctor,” replied Kyle dismissively. “But I want you to understand a few things. First, I am a sheriff, not a constable. Second, President Holland said that these whatever papers— ”

  “The Steinmetz Papiere,” corrected Krauss.

  “Ayuh, the Stein-mess . . . things,” noted Kyle. “It was Chester who said the papers went missing, not me—”

  My brother had acquired that same constipated look he gets when he tries to figure out a waiter’s tip without a calculator. “The word stein,” he said, “means rock or stone, doesn’t it?”

  “It does,” I said as a battery of disturbing thoughts began to hit me. Did Kyle mention anything about our Vatican visitor to Chester? Did he say anything about what we discussed in my kitchen? If Kyle hadn’t told Chester anything a few minutes ago, would he unwittingly do so now?

  “Steinmetz could be loosely translated as stoner, couldn’t it?” Kyle continued.

  To my reckoning, my brother’s choosing that particular moment to be the great puzzle solver probably wasn’t the best. So, I interrupted his thoughts, pulled him aside, and asked, “Have you mentioned anything to Chester about what we had talked about in the kitchen earlier today?”

  For a moment, my brother just stared at me. Then, like the striking of a match, his countenance changed from dumbfoundedness to enlightenment. He got it.

  “I am an officer of the law, Richard,” admonished my brother. “I am here to collect information for an investigation. I am not a town crier of what is discussed in your kitchen. And it’s inappropriate and unprofessional to bring up private matters in the context of the present circumstances.”

  “Were you talking about me?” asked Chester, who evidently overheard his name mentioned.

  “Ah, just in passing,” I said. “It can wait. It was about . . . ah, my uncle. We wanted to get info about his college days when he was a student . . . for my funeral address.”

  I was sure Kyle had no idea what I was saying or why I was saying it. He shook his head and resumed surveying his surroundings.

  “Do you always have receptions in the library?” Kyle flatly asked, his eyes fixated on something at the far end of the lobby.

  “Yes, often. This one is in honor of the team who would be working with Steinmetz Papiere if we had the papers, that is,” responded Chester punctuating with a sigh.

  “Chester,” began Krauss in a softer tone than when she spoke a moment before, “do we know how this happened? The team saw the documents this morning?”

  “You saw the papers?” I said with some surprise.

  “Actually, we only saw the box that they were in,” said Heike, “and of course, the map. That was not in the box, exactly. It was in a separate portfolio envelope in the container that also held the box of the Steinmetz Papiere.”

  “Where was that?” I asked. “Where were the Steinmetz materials last seen?”

  “Upstairs in the rare documents wing,” answered Heike.

  Chester and Krauss nodded in agreement.

  “In this library?”

  “Yes,” said Chester. “They were in the special depository room. It has a controlled environment. It is where the college keeps many of its rare documents.”

  “Who has access to the room?”

  “Hold on, Rich,” interrupted Kyle. “The county’s sheriff’s department is conducting this investigation. There is no need for you to trouble your crowded academic head with this matter.”

  Krauss sniggered; I cringed.

  “Everything,” Kyle affirmed, “that can possibly be done will be done. I am in charge.”

  Knowing my brother, his assurance was both truthful and quite worrisome. With my brother running things, the image of a fat barrel-chested monkey riding a snorting bull charging in a china shop came to my mind. But what could I do? I didn’t want to start a round of brotherly one-upmanship with an audience, so I dropped my inquiry. My only consolation was that I could, maybe, pry the details from Kyle sometime later on when he needed my assistance. Because if I learned one thing over the years about my brother, he always needed my help.

  “Well, tonight is a bust,” said Chester, defeatedly. “I will do all that I can to help you in the matter, Sheriff. I . . . er, the college needs those papers back.”

  “Yes,” echoed Krauss. “Those documents must be returned.”

  Kyle and Chester quickly discussed the access to security camera tapes, obtaining lists of employees, the value of the Steinmetz collection, and many other sundry things that could aid in Kyle’s investigation. When their impromptu conference came to an end, Chester said that he would tell the guests that the public revealing of the Steinmetz Papiere would be delayed until further notice.

  “It will be front-page news in the local papers tomorrow,” said Chester, worried by the prospects.

  “Because of your international team of experts,” quipped Kyle unthinkingly, “it may even make The New York Times.”

  “Jeez,” sighed Chester as he shook his head.

  “One other thing,” asked Kyle, his eyes fixed on something in the distance. “Would it be okay if I could make myself a sandwich?”

  “Huh, what was that?” uttered Chester, whose thoughts were, no doubt, elsewhere.

  “May I have a sandwich?” repeated Kyle, pointing at one of the food stations.

  “Yeh, sure, be my guest,” said Chester, still slowing shaking his head in despair.

  Chester unceremoniously announced to those at the reception, who hadn’t snuck away, of the theft. The response was many “oohs” and “ahs” with a couple of “Oh, dear Gods” added in. Questions were asked. Answers were few and, of course, limited. The only thing for sure was that the Stoner Papers were gone.

  With the focus of the evening’s gather, “having gone out the window,” so to speak, it wasn’t long before the remaining guests began leaving. Albert and his wife were the first in our group to call it a night, then followed by Bernie and Heike. Since I wasn’t driving, I procured another drink, the last one served before the station shut down. Morgana thought that I should eat something too, but on that front, I was unsuccessful. Right after Kyle got his second sandwich, the food station shut down.

  When I got to the station, the food was packed up, and my brother was gone. I wanted to talk to Kyle about Uncle Raymond’s wake, but Susan, the bartender, informed me that she saw my brother, with a Dagwood sa
ndwich in hand, leaving the library with Chester and Krauss for parts unknown.

  With Kyle not around, the inaccessibility for food and drink, and, Morgana having met all her occupational obligations, the two of us left for home. As per our agreement, Morgana drove.

  Though the night air was cool, clear, and crisp—a perfect romantic October night—our promised night of passion had lost its appeal to me. To put it bluntly, I was dogged tired, and the Scotches didn’t help.

  “You know, Dear,” I said as we drove off the college grounds, “I hate to say it, but I may have to take a rain check on tonight’s activities. I’m exhausted. I don’t know if I could rise to the occasion.”

  “Really?” she said with a half-smile. “You don’t have the energy to go ‘once more unto the breach,’ so to speak.”

  “I know we had a deal, but I don’t think that I have the wherewithal for a nocturnal campaign. So, you can rest easy; there will be no assault tonight on my part.”

  “I understand, but I am a little disappointed.” Morgana gave me a quick glance with a glint in her eye. “For if you did decide to advance on me, I would gladly surrender to you.”

  “Would you now?”

  “My gates would be thrown open, and my treasure would be yours for the taking.”

  The thought of escaping the madness of the past two days and passing through her gates had great appeal. Indeed her willingness accompanied by some sudden, libidinous thoughts had, unexpectedly, revived my spirits enough for me to say, “Let’s see how I feel when we get home.”

  And see, we did.

  When we got home, we noshed quickly on some apples, brie, and bread. As I cleaned up the kitchen from our improvised repast, Morgana showered again. When I heard her finishing, I hurriedly went upstairs to be the next one to scrub down. It wasn’t long before we were both in bed, naked beneath the sheets. With the heat from our recently showered bodies to keep us warm, we kissed, we caressed, and we cuddled—we fell asleep.

  Shakespeare wrote that sleep is the “balm of hurt minds,” and on that evening, my mind hurt very much, and my body did too, for that matter. I needed a lot of balming. In fact, I eagerly wanted to wallow in the serene peacefulness that was overtaking me, and so I did. That is until . . .