The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  #

  CHAPTER 21

  “Mother!” I exclaimed, seeing the figure at the far end of our bed. Old habits die hard; I instantly sat straight up and proper. “What are you doing here?”

  “Good evening, Richard. Nice to see you, too,” she muttered in that irritating, mocking way of hers that even the Grim Reaper couldn’t quell.

  “Out for a walk, are you?” I quipped as I tried to discreetly pull the twisted bound-up sheet that somehow buried itself under me, over my waist.

  Ignoring my comment, my dead mother stared at me with disapproval. Dressed in her tan Burberry trench coat and holding onto the wide strap of the dark brown leather bag that hung over her left shoulder, Mother slowly walked to my side of the bed. In her wide brim dark taupe rain hat that tipped to one side of her head, she looked like she had emerged out of a trench from the Great War and not out of her grave a few miles away.

  “I wanted to see you.”

  “Really. Now?”

  “Does a mother have to make an appointment to speak with her son?”

  “Of course not, but some type of warning would be appreciated.”

  “Aren’t you happy to see me?”

  Oh, I had many conflicted feelings in answering that question. But before I could plot out a diplomatic response, Mother pointed to Morgana. “Do you and whats-her-name always sleep in the nude?”

  I looked to my side and saw Morgana snuggled up next to me—naked and beautiful. “No, sadly, not always.”

  “She does have an attractive bosom. Her feminine attributes are ampler and shapelier than mine.”

  “Mother,” I groaned in protest.

  “I’ve never seen her this way. I think I am beginning to understand what you saw in her. Breasts are important to some men. You know that your father used to say that my breasts were like two—”

  “Mother, please!”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Yes, she did. She always did. She did when she was alive, so why would things be any different now?

  “You really love the woman, don’t you?”

  “My her name is Morgana. And yes, I do love her very much.”

  “Well, to each his own. That’s what I always said.”—It may have been what she said, but she never lived by it.

  Besides being annoyed, I was a little embarrassed for Morgana. I pulled the covers over her to protect her from Mother’s critical eyes. Naturally, my gallantry was misinterpreted. Mother sat down on my bed and gave me a quick kiss on the cheek that had all the succor of a flicked spoonful of vichyssoise to the face.

  “Well,” I said, wanting the visit to end as quickly as possible. “What do you want to tell me?”

  “How perceptive you are, Richard. I did a good job with you.” She smiled, acknowledging her accomplishment, and then continued. “First, Uncle Raymond says that he is adjusting very well to his new surroundings, and—”

  “I am glad that things are working out for him, but did he say anything about The Stoner Papers?”

  “—and he regrets that he didn’t inform you about the situation that you and your brother find yourselves in.”

  “That is very good of him, but did he tell you anything else? Like what this is all about? ”

  “No, not really, other than he wishes you luck and believes that you are bright enough to figure it all out.”

  “That’s it? He said nothing else?”

  “That was all,” Mother paused to go through her roll-a-deck of memories, “except he mentioned that you should get randy cats to help you.”

  “Cats?”

  “You and I both know that he had a thing for animals, especially for cats. Yes, he loved his cats, randy or otherwise. Just look at those lions in front of his house. They make his place look like a municipal library. But as I said before, it is all a matter of personal taste.”

  At that point, mother stood up. “I must be on my way.”

  “Was there something else that you wanted to tell me?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You said that the first thing that you wanted to tell me was that Uncle Raymond is doing well. The second was what he told you. Is there a third thing that you wanted to tell me?”

  Again she stared into space and thought a moment. “Yes, I remember. I wanted to give you a word of advice.” Then, for several seconds she said nothing.

  Waiting longer than I thought was appropriate for an answer, I asked, “Well?”

  “Yes, a father’s sins are left for us to deal with.” She didn’t elaborate.

  “What’s that suppose to mean?”

  Oblivious to my question, mother pulled on the strap of her bag and looked at the bedroom door. “It has been enlightening, but it’s time to go. Give my regards to Kyle.”

  “Right, but—”

  “You always say you will, Richard, but you never do.” Mother then stood up, turned, and glided to the door.

  “Yeah, well, Kyle has enough on his plate without his brother telling him that his dead mother says, ‘Hi.’”

  She turned to look at me, “And one more thing, don’t be like your father; be kind to your Morgana. She must love you if she lets you in her bed . . . nude. Goodbye, Richard.”

  “Hold on, Mother. Don’t you go,” I shouted at the misty figure passing through the door. “What did you mean by ‘a father’s sins?’ Come back.”

  Then all went black. Then I felt myself bouncing up and down. I heard my name.

  “Richard, Richard.”

  I felt my shoulder being shaken.

  “Richard, wake up.”

  I opened my eyes and saw Morgana silhouetted by the moonlight standing next to the bed where Mother was a few moments ago.

  “Morgana, what is it?” I asked in my sleepy stupor.

  “Richard, are you okay? You were talking in your sleep.”

  “Again?”

  She nodded.

  “Sorry.”

  “Were you dreaming of your—”

  “Yes,” I said in a hushed, resigned voice.

  “And . . . ?”

  “And nothing. It was just a dream.”

  “When you dream about your mother, it’s never about nothing.”

  Not being in the mood to recount the necromantic conversation, I tersely replied, “We . . . eh, she chatted about stuff; that’s all. I’m sorry that I woke you. Let’s go back to sleep.”

  “Chatted about what?”

  “Please, I don’t want to get into it now.”

  “You had a nightmare. Something is on your mind.”

  “Do you think? A lot has happened.” As soon as I spoke, I felt the harshness of my words, saw their effect, and regretted them.

  “Sorry, I just wanted—”

  “No, I’m sorry, Love. The dream was silly.”

  “So, then tell me. It may help you to sleep.”

  “If you want to know, my mother and I were talking about who had the better boobs—you or her.”

  For a moment, Morgana was caught speechless. She looked down at her exposed chest and then quickly covered herself with her arm. “You and your mother were talking about breasts?”

  “That was the topic—” though I did remember more than that.

  With hands protecting her modesty from unseen eyes, Morgana went back to her side of the bed, went under the covers, and curled up in a fetal position. With her back to me, she then quietly asked, “Was there a conclusion about whose were better?”

  I laughed to myself. I then leaned over and kissed Morgana’s cheek. “We both surprisingly agreed that yours were.” And I kissed her again.

  “That’s my Richard. Even in your sleep, you keep track of your priorities.”

  “I guess I do.”

  Morgana chuckled and pushed herself closer to me. “Good night, Richard.”

  “Good night. I love you.”

  And once again, I was on my back and started drifting back to sleep. But just before I reached the shore of m
y night’s destination, I heard the faintest, “I love you, too.”

  #

  CHAPTER 22

  The procedurals for Uncle Raymond’s wake went as well as could be expected, if not better. Kyle and his office assistant, Joanie, whom I had no doubt did most of the work, did an excellent job organizing things. People were promptly notified; Uncle Raymond’s casket was picked out; the funeral services at the Blanmar’s funeral home and the church were arranged. Their efforts gave me a chance to work on post-funeral arrangements and, more importantly for me, an opportunity to ponder the circumstances and events surrounding Uncle’s death. My instincts told me there had to be some unifying link among them, but I couldn’t find it—I had nothing.

  Kyle, Morgana, and I got to the Blanmar’s Funeral Home a half-hour before visiting hours. We found Uncle in the front parlor where all the county’s deceased bigwigs are presented to the mourners. It was a large, homey room, made bright with its pastel flowery wallpaper. The atmosphere it projected was almost cheery. As arranged, Uncle Raymond was dressed in his dark blue suit, which he wore at Kyle’s sheriff’s swearing-in ceremony a few years ago. He was handsomely laid out and nicely appointed. I don’t think he would have any complaints.

  For generations, the Blanmar’s had long been the point of disembarkation to the next world for our family. My great-grandparents, grandparents, and my mother had all their send-offs from Blanmar’s. The funeral home’s two-story, five gabled white clapboard structure on Main Street has been long regarded as a town landmark by the locals. St. Boniface’s Roman Catholic Church, where my mother’s side of the family always had their religious funeral services, is across the street facing the home. This convenience of location made final arrangements easier and cheaper than if it had been otherwise.

  The three of us took turns to kneel down on the bench next to Uncle Raymond and privately said our goodbyes and prayed for his soul. When it was my time, I eased myself down onto the kneeler and started my parting words. I soon found myself focusing on the little crucifix attached to the black string of beads in my uncle’s grip and wondering, “Where did that come from?” I knew that he would have appreciated them, but I never thought that he was a ‘rosary man.’ When I was about to finish, I added a prayerful petition, “Please, Uncle Raymond, if it is in your power, please, give me a clue as to how you are involved in whatever in hell is going on down here.”

  And then, a most startling and annoying thing happened. For the briefest of moments, for the slightest sliver of a second, I saw Mother on the other side of the casket pulling an olive green kitten out from Uncle Raymond’s front left pants pocket.

  “Ah!” I gasped.

  “Are you okay, Richard?”

  Startled, I looked up as a reassuring hand touched my shoulder. “Joe?” I said.

  “Who else? . . . Kyle said that you would like me to say some prayers. Deputy Peterson gave me a lift here. Are you okay?”

  “Ah, yeah . . . yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Are you sure that you’re okay?”

  “No, I am fine, really. I’m just a little stiff.” I took a deep breath. The unexpected maternal specter knocked the wind out of me. “Unlike you, Joe, I’m not kneeling as often as I used to. My knees hurt. I am way out of practice.”

  When I got to my feet, I was surprised to see the room was filling up with visitors. Until then, I had held the opinion that most of Uncle’s friends and acquaintances were infirmed, bed-ridden, or dead. But I was proven wrong. Over seventy people, ranging in ages from their late twenties to their mid-nineties, came to the wake and signed the visitor’s book. Who they were exactly and what their relationships were to Uncle Raymond was not always clear to me. But the very fact that so many people had come to his wake to pay their respects said something about my uncle’s character.

  Throughout the evening, I shook hands and chatted with most of those who attended. I met two elderly women who claimed to have been my uncle’s girlfriends—they sat at opposite sides of the room and cast cold glances at each other for most of the night. Mitchell, the guy who did Uncle’s lawn and gardening, showed up—with his entire crew of five. Of course, Albert and his wife were there, so were Claire, the Parkers, Deputy Henry, Bernie, Chester Holland, and so many other people. It felt good.

  Near the end of the visiting hours, Joe and Father Dunderhill said the closing prayers. Halfway through their litany of dead saints, I spotted a mustached old fellow appear at the doorway. His battered blue and orange New York Met’s jacket, with a matching hat, told me that he wasn’t a local—this part of Vermont was most emphatically Red Sox country. Aided by his walker, the frail man laboriously shuffled into the room, quietly begging pardons from those he encountered as he went. The poor soul’s attempts to keep his tardy arrival as unobtrusive as possible were betrayed by his tortoise-like speed and the scrapping-plunking sound of his traveling aluminum frame.

  The late guest was accompanied by a younger man—his son, I guessed. This fellow looked like he had just come from his office, wherever that was. Dressed in a dark gray suit and a white shirt with its collar button undone and minus a tie, the younger man dutifully assisted the old gent along the room’s perimeter. Finding two seats by the window, they quietly sat down while I wondered, almost to distraction, who they were.

  #

  CHAPTER 23

  My uncle’s evening service eventually came to an end with an accepting “Amen” from all who were present. With the prayers concluded, people started to line up in front of me to say their goodbyes before leaving for home. Each person shook my hand and gave condolences. Some briefly reminisced with me some cherished memory they had of my uncle from the halcyon days of their youth. Several became overcome with grief on the brief trip down memory lane, and it was Morgana—thank God—who consoled them and helped them on their way.

  Claire, my uncle’s home-care assistant, was the last person on the line to say good-night. Physically, she appeared to have recovered from the break-in, but emotionally, I had my doubts. She kept repeating to Morgana and me that she should have done more to protect my uncle during the home invasion. But, really, could she have? A woman in her mid-fifties going toe-to-toe with several home-invading thugs, I don’t think, would have ended well. And I told her so. Yet she protested. Undoubtedly, because of her unjustified feeling of guilt, Claire promised that she would arrive early at the church to offer any assistance that she could for the funeral service. Morgana and I thanked her and said we would gladly accept her help with the “festivities”—though, at the time, we didn’t know exactly what that would be.

  Claire went with Kyle, who volunteered to take her home, leaving Morgana and me to mind the shop for the last fifteen minutes of Uncle’s showing. As we discussed the next day’s schedule, I noticed the old gentleman with the walker laboriously get himself up from his chair and shuffle towards me with his younger companion closely in tow behind him.

  “You must be Richard,” inquired the smiling old man in a voice more robust than you would have thought his frail body could produce.

  “I am. And this is my wife, Morgana.”

  “You probably don’t remember me.”

  I didn’t.

  “The last time I saw you, Richard, and your brother . . . well, both of you were in lederhosen. I am an old army buddy of your uncle. My name is John, John Katzeneinbogen. This is my son Karl.”

  The old man’s son awkwardly extended his hand, which I politely shook.

  “Your uncle and I shared some adventures in our heydays,” continued John as a distant sadness grew on his face. “We had some good times and some good women if you know what I mean.” The old man gave me a wink.

  “Your uncle,” continued John, “was always the gentleman when it came to the ladies. For me, well, I had a different technique. I remember one time there was this gorgeous fräulein that your uncle and I met who had the largest pair of— ”

  “Dad,” quickly admonished Karl,
his eyes rolling up to look at the ceiling, “No locker-room talk, please. This isn’t the time or the place. ”

  “Forgive me. I’m getting old. I take joy in pleasant memories, and I say things without thinking them through sometimes.”

  “No need to apologize,” said Morgana. “I am quite familiar with men speaking their minds without thinking. Why my husband does it all the time.”

  “Hah, hah! You caught a good one there, Richard,” said the old John as he gave Morgana a quick glance up and down. “She’s smart and pretty too. Don’t let her slip through your fingers. She’s a keeper. I can see now why your uncle was very fond of you, Richard. You seem to be a guy to seize things up.”

  “Dad,” pleaded Karl, “I am sure that Richard and his wife are tired, and they will have a long and difficult day tomorrow—”

  “Your uncle was a . . . well, let’s say, he was an interesting man. If I remember correctly, one of your uncle’s idiosyncrasies was a fondness for animals, especially for cats, all sorts of cats—”

  “Dad, we have to get back home. I have work tomorrow,” said Karl, whose politeness was being replaced by impatience.

  “You’re right, son . . . But let me just say this. Richard, your uncle Raymond was a very loyal and generous man, a good friend. I am sorry for your loss. I will miss him.”

  It was at this point that the old man started to tear up. His right hand left his walker’s cold metal to brush away the warm wet trails that started down his cheeks.

  “Are you coming to the funeral service tomorrow?” asked Morgana.

  “No, regretfully, I won’t be there,” my uncle’s friend said with a sniffle.

  “He really can’t,” said Karl. “He has a very important appointment with his cardiologist tomorrow. It has been scheduled for months.”

  “I see. Well, thank you for coming, Mr. Katzen . . . eh, Katz—”

  “Yeah, I know it is a mouthful. It’s Katzeneinbogen. That is why I simply introduce myself simply as John . . . or as your uncle called me—Randy, an old nickname of mine. Now before I go, I must give you—”