Chapter 35 - Do You Think The Chandelier is AC or DC?

 Vera peered into the room at vague, static shapes filling the square space.  The room looked to be the same size as the other storage areas, but, even in the dim light, it was apparent that it had been cared for, unlike the rat hotel or the haphazard haberdashery.  

She peered further into the darkness before a cascade of light appeared above her.  A small crystal chandler illuminated the space, revealing a cache of treasure that would impress even Aladdin or Long John Silver.  Spinoza's hand crept around the wall to her left, affixed to a light switch.

Small shelves interspersed at regular intervals throughout the room held sundry glittering objects mingled with large cardboard boxes.  Even larger cardboard boxes stood as intermediaries between the shelves, containing even greater mysteries.

Spinoza whistled, "What a haul, huh? That chandelier isn't some cheap knock off.  It looks like it's something from pre-Edisonian times that's been wired for electricity.  Pretty deft touch by Snell to use it as the light fixture in here.  Gives the place some atmosphere."

On the shelves against the left wall, there was a greater inventory of crystal goblets - some lined in gold - alongside a stack of silver platters.  In the far corner, a thick stack of rolled carpeting occupied the niche between the shelves on the left and the shelves pressed against the back wall.

Spinoza walked over to the corner with Vera in pursuit.  He grabbed the first carpet, unrolled it slightly, and rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.  "Silk.  These are real Turkish rugs."

Vera's eyes were wide, less in the recognition of the value of the items in the room than with Spinoza's ability to quickly estimate their value and sourcing.  "How do you know all of this?"

"I spent a few years in Europe after the war and took the opportunity to get more acquainted with the history of the continent."

They moved to the next corner of the storage area and observed a stack of paintings, some still housed in ornate frames, some rolled casually up in piled groupings, nestled between another set of shelves.

"What about these paintings?  Do you know anything about them?"

"Not too much.  Given the nature of their subject matter, their verisimilitude, and the attention to detail," he pointed to a dark shadow on one painting illuminated by the overhead chandelier, "I'd say they're likely paintings from Dutch masters.  See how even in the darkest spots on the painting, you can still make out a clear delineation of shapes? That was typical of Dutch renaissance style."

Vera peered closer, paused, moved her head for further adjustment, and then nodded in appreciation.

Finally, they turned toward the wall on the storage room's right.  There, on every shelf, were menorahs piled on top of one another.  Some were simple silver structures.  Others were embossed with ornate designs.  Still others were solid gold, while a select group was decorated with jewels.  

Spinoza grunted in growing comprehension of the room's purpose.  He pulled a box from the shelf housing the menorahs and opened it, unsurprised by its contents.  He lifted a garment from the box and, as with the carpet, rubbed the material between his thumb and forefinger.

"What is it?"

"It's called a tallit.  It's a Jewish prayer shawl.  This one's silk.  I expect the others folded up in these boxes are likely silk as well.  Or wool. Something higher end and well-made at any rate."  He paused and folded the shawl carefully before placing it back in the box.  "Let's check a few more boxes."

They moved back to the center wall and pulled one of the lower boxes from the shelf.  The weight of the box caused it to land with a muted thud on the floor.  Spinoza lifted one of the flaps back and stuck a hand inside.  A brief look of perplexity on his face caused temporary panic in Vera, who was still suspecting a literal rat at every turn.  Her fear abated as he calmly lifted the other flap, revealing the box's contents.

"Books?"

"I don't think they're just any books."  He lifted the top volume from its resting place and the two of them examined it.  It was bound in embossed leather with a golden clasp holding its pages secure.  Spinoza popped the clasp and the book sprung open slightly, but perceptibly with a small sigh and a creak.  He carefully turned page after page.

"Can you read Latin?" Vera asked, expecting after the other talents he'd revealed in the last couple of minutes that answer would be a resounding 'yes.'

"Nothing past the basic roots.  Can you?"

She shook her head but continued to stare, transfixed by the colors and gold leafing reflecting light from every page.  "It's beautiful."

They perused more pages, the light seemingly emanating from the manuscript rather than from the chandelier above them.  The images composed of vibrant primary colors.  "Do you think it was illustrated by monks?"

He shrugged, "most likely.  Monks were typically the literate ones for the time period.  But that's not what's most interesting about this edition."

She glanced at him, perplexed.

"All of the stories - they're Old Testament.  Not a picture of Jesus to be had in the book."

"Is that unusual?  Maybe it was a prelude to another edition containing scenes from the New Testament."

Spinoza shook his head slowly.  "During a time when an entire continent was adamant against professing - and waging war on behalf of - its faith?  Doubtful."  He paused in thought.  "There are instances of Jewish manuscripts that were often produced by Christian miniaturists.  Europe wasn't openly hostile to Judaism for every moment of the last millennium.  Just most of them."

Vera stared at Spinoza in astonishment.  "How..."

"This is actually pretty standard art history stuff, and I took a few classes in college.  I audited a few more when I was in Europe."

"So, why do you think the manuscript landed here?"

"Well, I've got a theory," he pointed to another shelf of boxed merchandise, "but let's open a few more just to be sure."

Vera scrambled to the next available box and eagerly pried it open, pulling out a thick sheaf of identical documents labeled in what looked like gothic font with government seals affixed to them.  

"German treasury bonds," Spinoza responded before Vera could formulate the question.  "Keep digging."

She did as asked and immediately pulled out another batch of documents nearly identical to one another, but this time with familiar lettering and the faces of Jackson, Grant, and Franklin rubber-banded together.  She looked straight at Spinoza.  "What's your theory?  Some sort of local burglary ring?"

"No," Spinoza shook his head mournfully.  "All of these artifacts are Jewish or likely to show up in wealthy European residences.  I think this is plunder from looted Jewish households in Germany.  Our friends are probably here to sell it to interested bidders."

[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1153 words for a running total of 37619.  I highly recommend Khan Academy's course on art history.  It helps provide details for describing luxurious scenes.]

Chapter 34 - Are You Now Or Have You Ever Been a Prostitute?

"Have you ever been a waitress before?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a maid?"

"No."

"Have you ever been a homemaker?"

"Do I look old enough to have a husband and kids?"

Happy shrugged as though the question were perfectly reasonable and continued the interview.  "So, why should I hire you over all of the other girls that have wandered in here?"  

Vera glanced at the woman who introduced herself as Flo earlier and thought that if Flo was a "girl," the best she could hope for was the status of newborn babe if not simply a fetus.  She kept her tone steady and unperturbed.  "I can play an instrument."

"Is that code for something?  I'm not into prostitution here." 

"Where are you into prostitution?"

After a brief look of confusion and then shock, the man attempted a smile, but with jowls that permanently pulled his face down, the best he could muster was a friendly sneer.  The name Happy was obviously an ironic moniker.  

"Are you a prostitute?" he blurted out, casting aside all aspersions of subtlety. This last line wasn't fashioned as a proposition but as a matter-of-fact statement to emphasize that the Happy Hour diner wasn't a place that condoned prostitution as a side business.

"No.  I play the trumpet."  Catching herself to put aside any mistaken double entendres, she added, "the actual trumpet."

"And why would that make you a good waitress?"

"At the very least, I could entertain the clientele."

Happy's jowls sagged a bit more in reluctance. "Are you sure..."

"Yup.  Still sure I'm not a prostitute.  You don't interact with many women do you?" She caught sight of Flo wandering distractedly in the distance.

"I'm still not certain that I should take a chance on someone with no experience."

"Well, combining the time I spent waiting for you to sit for this interview and the time that we've actually been conducting this interview, I've seen one customer enter in the past 30 minutes.  And he's obviously a regular."

"How do you know he's a regular?" Happy scowled skeptically.

"He's been sitting at the counter for 10 minutes, reading the paper, with no expectation of being served anytime soon."

"Well, it's past lunch rush," Happy blustered indignantly.

"It's 1 PM now.  Does everyone in this diner eat on East Coast time or am I missing what the concept of the word 'rush' means in this context?"

Happy, insulted by Vera's perception that his business plan hadn't yet met his expectations, continued.  "Do you have any other skills?"

"I'm good at math."

"Why would I need a waitress who's good at math?"

"So she doesn't short change you or the customers, for starters."

Happy's jowls sagged slightly less. "What else can you do?"

"I'm good at managing my time."

"Why does that matter?"

Vera sighed.  "It means I'm reliable when showing up for a shift.  It means that I can be flexible in scheduling when called upon.  It means that I'm taking this opportunity to better myself by attending college while also working what I expect will be a full-time job."

"Oh," Happy responded in a tone that some straddled the line between cheerful and morose.  "What will you be studying?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"I'm not sure I want a girl who isn't decisive."

"I'm going into engineering," she fired back.

Happy raised an eyebrow at this remark.

"What?  Now I'm sure I'm being too impulsive in deciding so quickly, right?"

Happy's jowls sagged again.

"Look.  There's really not a lot that you have to lose in giving me an opportunity.  You're not quite at the pinnacle of your fiduciary prowess yet, so it's not like I'm going to lose you any business if I'm initially slow on the uptake."  She glanced at Flo, who'd discovered lint somewhere in her hair and was now inspecting it thoroughly. "And I don't think the barrier to becoming a waitress here is particularly high."

Happy raised a finger, ready to issue an objection, but Vera cut him off.  "I'm happy assisting with management duties as well.  I can help you schedule the staff."  She looked toward Flo again who had the particular treasure from her coiffure pinned against the counter being slowly pulled apart.  "Hell, I can even help with the books and cook if needed."

"It's unbecoming of a lady to use that type of language."

"I'm not a lady.  I'm a prostitute."

"A-ha!" Happy's face lit up in the act of discovery as he prepared to launch into a speech he'd apparently been preparing the entire interview about the dangers of loose morales.

Vera sunk her face into her hands before meeting his gaze again evenly.  "I'm kidding."  The look of disappointment on Happy's face almost made her regret that she didn't let him give his speech before letting him off the hook.

"So, extra-curricular nightlife excursions aside, do I get the job?"

Happy munched on his lower lip, eyes cast downward. 

Vera glanced around at the diner.  Flo sat on a stool at the counter, staring at the wall.  The lone customer had fallen asleep amid his crumpled newspaper.  Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard a lone crow caw.  "Well?"

"Ok," his tone had the timbre of a defeated parent giving into their child's whim for the latest toy spotted in a department store.  "But you need to be able to pull your weight."

Vera looked over at Flo, who had now also fallen asleep.  "Great!  I can help with recipes."

"Yeah?" his eyes shot suddenly upward.  "Do you know a good meatloaf recipe?  Mine has too much flour in it."

"I'm sure we can change it up a bit.  Maybe replace it with something exotic.  Like breadcrumbs.  Speaking of exotic, maybe we can add the occasional Continental dish for spice, like ratatouille or tuna niçoise.  We're in a big city.  People tend to be more cosmopolitan."  The customer at the counter let out a bellowing snore.

"Are you French?"

"No, I'm not French.  I grew up on a farm with access to a library nearby.  They had a few recipe books for French foods and I had access to produce, so I gave it a whirl."

"Do you have a recipe for spaghetti and meatballs?"

Vera put a finger to her lips in mock pensiveness.  "I'm sure I can dream something up."

"Good.  I don't want to start with anything too exotic.  And we have a pretty large Italian population in the city now, so I want them to feel at home."

Vera didn't have the heart to tell him that spaghetti and meatballs was invented in America.  Though, she suspected many of the "Italians" Happy was referring to were likely born here, so they wouldn't quibble too much at the distinction, as long as the food was decent.

Instead, she added, "Ok.  Also, I've got a great recipe for the best egg sandwich you've ever tasted."

[Author's Note:  If I do wind up short of my 50K word goal, I think my best option is to turn Vera loose to chew the scenery.  I hadn't intended to flush out her backstory more than the original piece, but she's not someone who shies away from further character exposition.  Today: 1156 words.  Total: 36466]

Chapter 33 - Click

Click. The lock yielded and Vera stood up, smoothing her skirt before peering inside.

[Author's Note: There.  I've opened the door in 14 words.  The book inches along at 35310.]

Chapter 32 - I Dabble

Vera and Spinoza bounded toward Loving's with a vibrancy not present in the first voyage.  Vera was energized with a new, promising sense of adventure while Spinoza was unencumbered by the same troubles - solving his partner's murder - that weighed down Tannehill in his trek to the bakery.

Shortly after exiting the diner, Spinoza questioned Vera with a sharp note of concern in his voice. "You're not worried about walking out on your employer during your shift?  Now's not exactly the best time to bet on continued employment."

"No, I'm not worried."  She kept pace three feet in front of him without looking back to explain further.

"Care to elaborate?"

She stopped and squared to face him, "the blackmail scheme I've enmeshed them in runs so deep that if you pulled any thread of it, the entire city would fall apart."

"Doubtful.  Especially not this city."

"Right, I forgot," she started walking again,  "You're the city's premier crime reporter.  Well, the real answer is more mundane.  In addition to simply serving customers, many of whom are creepy, middle-aged men who come in simply to ogle me, present company excluded..."

Spinoza harumphed something along the lines of "not being middle-aged" before Vera continued.

"...I also handle the books, manage the schedules, and provide recipes," and now she took her own turn to mutter under her breath "even though they butcher them."  She returned to normal volume, "I also provide them with the location of the latest hotspots for jazz when they want to try something new.  And, to be clear, I wouldn't walk out on Happy if I were worried he'd get buried during a rush.  He's good people."

"Wait, the owner's name actually is Happy? So it's his Hour?"

"Well, Stanislaw, but no one ever calls him that, just like no one apparently refers to your or your gumshoe friend by their proper, Christian names."

"I'm Jewish. You do accounting?"

"I dabble."

On the jaunt over, they continued to chat and found commonality in the novels they read in recent years and a shared appreciation of jazz.  They reached the door of Loving's in a vanishingly short time.  

"What do you think their specialty was, savory or sweet goods?" Spinoza asked distractedly.

"More like savory or sweet rodent," Vera crinkled her nose, perceiving movement deep in the bakery's kitchen.  

"Well, let's take a look around inside, shall we?"  Spinoza inched nearer toward the guillotine ledge.

"No thanks, I've already been on the tour once, I'll wait until your sojourn is over." There was no more movement in the kitchen - if there ever was - but she had no desire to buy into the betrayal of her lying eyes.

"Ok, I'll be back momentarily," he stepped on the ledge and was quickly swallowed in the semi-darkness of the store.  Vera watched eagerly as he waded through the shambles and exhaled a disinterested "huh" here and a half-hearted "hmm," there.  She lost sight of him momentarily as disappeared into the kitchen, listening intently for a blood-curdling scream or shout of pained surprise upon discovering a rat the size of a toy poodle.  No scream or shout issued forth.

"Confirmed.  There's nothing of value inside the joint," Spinoza exclaimed clambering back over the guillotine ledge into daylight.

"I think a cursory inspection of the outside would have clued anyone into that conclusion," Vera quipped.  "So, what now?"

"We're at the waterfront.  This is, quite literally, where everything entering the West Coast of the United States gets its ingress papers.   I think we have a few more leads we can chase down."

They walked around the side of the building to the splintered door in the back and surveyed the landscape from a vantage point near the heat-shrunk stagnant pool of water that so prominently warned off the adventurers the day before.

In front of them stood an imposing two-story gallery of wrought iron fencing and dark gray doors upon light gray cinder block, serving as a depressing motel structure for forgotten items.  Even the bright day permitted brief passage to a cloud scored black on its undercarriage as a foreshadowing acknowledgment of their discovery.  The gentle lapping of the ocean waves just behind the structure echoed quietly throughout the gallery, but the building's bleak design offered no evidence that just beyond it lay thousands of miles of sunlit expanse.

"Up or down?" Spinoza grunted matter-of-factly pointing to the gallery's bi-levels.

Vera glanced to her left at the winding spiral staircase beginning to rust in its near-marine environs.  Though the structure looked solid enough, a few tell-tale brown spots along the column urged her to take the safer bet.  "Down."

They wandered to the left, near the stairwell and climbed the three feet to platform, examining the first door the encountered.  Spinoza wiped some of the grime from the facade and examined the stenciling.  Though the salt air had taken its toll, they could clearly make out the back half of a crescent illuminating the lettering of niture.  

"Unless Loving's had a side business, we probably want to keep moving on." Spinoza wiped the grime on a nearby column and gestured for Vera to continue walking.  

They passed the next four doors with no lettering, aware that they may be embarking on a fool's errand of looking for the proverbial needle.  The fifth door had no lock, so they pressed their luck.  Vera opened the door and spotted two rats in an otherwise empty 10x12 space.  The rats squeaked in warning that they had sublet this particular unit first and Vera screamed in agreement, slammed the door with near-supernatural strength and kicked it twice as hard for emphasis.

"That could've been Loving's. It had the same demographic make-up I saw during my assessment of the bakery," Spinoza informed his wild-eyed, red-faced companion with a bemused twinkle in his eyes.  He could only make out her "...off" as she turned and began examining the other doors.  

They turned the corner of the gallery and now faced a row of doors opposite the back entrance of Loving's but separated by an imposing distance of about 30 yards.

They followed along this row of doors until finding another one with a hollowed-out lock.  Vera sighed, gulped, and tried the doorknob.  The door swung inward with little fanfare illuminating row upon row of poorly made fedoras stacked from floor to ceiling.

One row contained solid-colored water-stained hats for the large gentleman.  Others contained garish technicolor combinations for fashion trends yet to be.  Back rows leaned heavily on other back rows ashamed of the sartorial sins they represented en masse.  

"Well, let's see," Spinoza chuckled, "We've got rats and hats.  If the next unlocked door contains cats, then our first unlocked door problem will be solved."

"If you're going to make a joke, at least give it some effort," she exhaled.

"Could be bats," he continued ignoring her advice.

"Anyway, not Loving's" she responded, ignoring him in turn and continuing down the center walkway.

A few doors further, directly across from the battered back door of the bakery, they spotted "Loving's Bakery" in the typical semi-circle underlined with "Storage" to ensure that any confused would-be customers could discern the difference between the bakery behind them and the storage unit in front of them.  

Vera held out her hand.  "Key."

"I don't have it."  Vera pursed her lips and frowned at the man.  "What?  I was supposed to meet Tannehill at the diner.  He's got the key," he sniffed indignantly.

Vera muttered something else under her breath approximating "...a fine pair."  Slowly she reached into her hair and produced two bobby pins, letting her hair fall forward briefly and annoyingly in front of her eyes before pushing it back behind her ears.  She inched her skirt up above the knee to keep it from getting soiled and knelt down in front of the door.  She carefully straightened the pins and inserted them into the lock, beginning to work the tumblers.

"Where'd you learn to do that?!"  Spinoza couldn't tell if he was impressed, horrified, jealous or some combination of the three.

"Well, when the lord of the manor's away, one needs to be able to manipulate one's chastity belt for one's own needs and desires."

Vera could feel Spinoza's shocked response to her comment and her newly unearthed talent roll off her shoulders, but ignored him and continued her lock picking in earnest.

[Author's Note: At some point that door's going to open, but not in today's 1401 word edition.  After 32 chapters we're now at 35296 words.  I feel pretty confident I can hit 40000 words, but 50?  We'll see...Then again I didn't know I'd be able to get this far.  If I fall short, I've always got a few Quixotic tricks up my sleeve.]