"Did you try the storage locker?" Spinoza's voice sounded tinny from the other end of the line.
"There was no storage locker attached to the building."
"But you were by the loading docks? The place where literally tons of goods are loaded, unloaded, and..." Pause. "... stored every day?" Spinoza had framed his response as a question, though it was rhetorical to its very heart.
"Yes, but that doesn't mean every rented business on the waterfront receives free storage." Tannehill was beginning to regret recounting the day's events to his friend.
"No, you're right, but a few extra minutes of detective work is probably worth the effort, isn't it?"
"Yes." Tannehill was growing peevish at the journalist's less-than-subtle recommendations about his chosen profession. The interaction began to dredge up painful experiences the two of them faced in the still not-too-distant past.
Spinoza may have sensed this as well by the curtness of Tannehill's reply. "Look," his tone was more reconciled now, "my workload isn't as cumbersome as I originally expected it to be yesterday. I can meet you later this afternoon. We'll go back to the bakery and see if..." - he paused looking for a less accusatory phrase than "there's something you missed" - "... see if there's another clue or two."
Tannehill tried to curtail some of the relief in his voice for fear of sounding desperate. "Thanks. I'll wait for you at The Happy Hour." He hung up.
Tannehill surveyed his office. The smell of bleach had faded significantly in the last few days adding a strange sense of normalcy to the underlying one of recent tragedy. The silence of the room wasn't out of the ordinary, since Snell seldom visited the office in life. Tannehill snorted in response half-bemused that, in an ironic twist, this was where Snell died.
The sharp ring of the phone broke the silence. Something about its shrill sense of urgency signaled more bad news. "Hello?" Tannehill spoke warily.
"Can you come down to the precinct today?" Lt. Murphy's voice was measured, but there was a sense of purpose behind it.
"I'm not under arrest am I?"
Murphy sighed in response to Tannehill's standard sarcastic retort, "No Tannehill, you're not under arrest. There have been some...developments in the case."
"Some...developments" was never a positive sign. No one ever indicated that "some...developments" occurred before announcing the case had been cracked. "Yes," the resignation in Tannehill's voice was apparent, "I can make it. When?"
"1 PM."
"OK." The two men hung up simultaneously.
---
"I need to make a brief call, Shorty." Another day another interaction with the desk sergeant.
"Is it local?"
"Yes it's local. I need to let someone know I won't be able to make an appointment since I'm, well, here.."
"It's not long-distance?"
"Unless local and long-distance can coexist peacefully in space and time, no."
Shorty pushed the phone reluctantly toward Tannehill. Tannehill rang through to Spinoza's extension at the paper. Ring. Ring. No answer.
"Shit." Tannehill muttered quietly, silenced the receiver, and paused briefly with his finger on the lever. He then placed a call to the Happy Hour. Shorty stared at him, eyes bulging.
"Hello," the voice was tired, thick, and confused on the other end.
"Hello. I'd like to leave a message for Vera."
"Vera ain't here. She works a split shift and gets in at two." Tannehill recognized the other conversant by the voice and the proclivity to give out slightly too much information. It was Flo, the waitress he'd encountered when Vera was off the other day.
"Yes, I know. I'd like to leave a message for her." Shorty tapped his wrist with his right index finger. Tannehill turned away from him.
"OK." Prolonged, unintelligible pseudo-silence punctuated by the occasional rasp of drawn breath followed on the other end of the line.
"Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"To take a message." There was an interminable wait for the discovery of a writing instrument on the other end of the line. Tannehill had turned back toward Shorty, whose eyes continued to bulge in impatience. Tannehill turned away again.
"OK," Flo coughed, "ready."
"Please tell Vera that Tannehill won't be able to make it. If she sees a tall, thin man with dark hair who looks a little like William Powell and answers to Spinoza, then she should accompany him to the bakery."
"OK, but there's no one here who looks like William Powell."
Dealing with this woman would infinitely expand the bounds of anyone's patience. "I understand." Each word was measured. "But he'll show up soon. I just need her to get the message."
"OK." The scribbling that persisted seemed to last for ten minutes, "which bakery?"
"It doesn't matter" - words still measured - "she'll know which bakery."
"Right," pause and more writing, "got it." Tannehill very much doubted that fact but had no other options.
"Thank you." They hung up.
"You said one phone call."
"I did," Lt. Murphy emerged from the door to the precinct's back office to retrieve Tannehill, "but I realized I needed to make an emergency call to Hong Kong."
Tannehill disappeared behind the door catch a glimpse of Shorty's mouth framed in a perfect 'O' of shock before collapsing into a line of annoyance.
Murphy led Tannehill back to his office and motioned for him to sit. The office fern drooped solemnly in Tannehill's direction acknowledging his arrival.
Murphy rounded his desk and descended in his chair, cheeks placed squarely between his hands. His eyes fixed on Tannehill. "How are things, CH?"
"Find," Tannehill drawled, "considering the present-day circumstances."
"Good to hear," Murphy placed one hand on the desk, and absent-mindedly began drumming with his fingertips, "good to hear."
"Is there something you wanted to tell me Murph?"
"Yeah," the drumming stopped briefly before resuming at a more rapid pace. "Remember the suspect we brought in for Snell's murder? Beederman?" The drumming stopped again in anticipation.
Tannehill's response crawled at a snail's pace. "What about him?"
Murphy flattened his palm on the desk, looked briefly at the fern for reassurance, and then back down at his palm. "We found him this morning in his cell."
Tannehill stared at Murphy waiting for the next sentence, though he had a good idea about what was coming.
Murphy exhaled sharply. "He strangled himself overnight. He's dead."
[Author's Note: The first edition of May is a respectable 1047 words. With any luck, even though there are only a few days left, it won't be the last edition of May. The running total for the novel is 29414 words.]
Monday, May 25, 2020
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Chapter 26 - Croissants Baked Fresh Daily
"You're late," Vera sat in a booth doodling on the blank sheets of her order pad.
"Sorry, I lost track of time. Got caught up reading the newspaper."
Vera shrugged indifferently. "Ready then?" She stood up in anticipation without waiting for a response.
Tannehill nodded. "the place isn't too far from here. We could take a bus but it would only save us about a half mile and would probably take twice the time to get there. Do you mind walking?"
"And ruin my good shoes?" They both looked down at her feet at this comment. She was wearing the same monk straps with scuffed heels from their excursion at The Tritone a few nights prior.
"Don't you ever give a straight answer?"
"Perhaps."
"Keep this up and I'll rethink bringing you along."
"Keep that up and I'll rethink helping you along on this case."
Tannehill paused sullenly. "What are you doodling?" he responded quietly.
"A few sketches for my folks back home. I try to send them some sign that I'm alive every few days."
"That's the first time I've heard you mention anything about your past."
"That makes one of us. Other than the fact that I know you had a partner, you're a veritable man of mystery"
"Touché."
They stood in silence for a beat. "Shall we?" Vera gestured toward the door.
They walked along a gray stretch of industrial melancholy under a light mist. Both of them excited by the prospect of discovery and lost in their own worlds.
Loving's Bakery originally had been an oddity in the neighborhood it inhabited. Where the other buildings around it housed the typical distribution warehouses and processing plants that went fallow with the Great Depression, Loving's was a small standalone structure with large windows on its front exterior - not all that different from the diner they'd just departed from. The establishment's name called out prominently in large, generic, cherry red script above the front door.
At least, that's how the building would've appeared several years prior. Recent neglect helped it establish equity with its neighbors. The white façade had faded to a dull gray. The large front windows had their pick of being cracked, shattered, or boarded-up. The sign's 'g' had dropped to the ground, so now the script simply read "Lovin 's" in some representation of an actor's poor attempt at an antebellum accent.
They walked toward the storefront. Vera peered through one of the cracked windows. "Hard to tell, but there doesn't appear to be anything of value here."
"Of course it's hard to tell if you're peering through a cracked window," Tannehill responded, half his torso jutting over one of the shattered windows.
"True, but I'm no fan of French methods of execution. One misstep and you'll be fleetingly living through your own Reign of Terror, Robespierre" she pointed to the jagged plate glass edge sitting precariously below his extended body.
Tannehill carefully glanced down at the shards below him, backed away, and flashed an accepting grimace. He pulled the key out of his pocket and walked toward the front door. "Shall we?"
He placed the key in the lock and turned. Or tried to. The latch didn't move. Perplexed, he pushed against the door frame and tried again. The latch still didn't move. "What now?"
Vera looked around and found a tin garbage can nearby. She grabbed the lid, walked over to the window guillotine and dispensed with the larger shards. "We improvise." She tossed the lid aside with a clatter and gestured at Tannehill with an extended hand. "C'mon. Help me up."
He held her hand as she hopped on the sill and over the shattered window remains. She proffered her own hand in return once she was inside the bakery.
"Doesn't look like much of a gold mine does it?" he exclaimed in concert with the glass crunching beneath his feet. Overturn bakery trays, paper, sawdust, and a thick coating of dust plastered the interior. As with any abandoned building, flotsam and jetsam unassociated with the building's prior tenants also presided. In one near corner, a naked doll stared up at them pleadingly. In another, empty tins of baked beans crowded the floor.
"Unless we're looking for a Goldmine of Creepy, I don't think your partner's treasure is in here."
"Let's check the back room." They moved to the back of the building when a 6-inch rat scuttled past. Vera shoved Tannehill into the wall and squealed while dancing gracelessly away from the rodent.
"Really?" he rubbed his shoulder, "that's what scares you?"
"Rats killed 1/3 of the world population. I think it's completely reasonable to show them some respect," she sniffed indignantly.
He darted his eyes toward her briefly in response and then back into the shadows of the kitchen. There were two lighter shades of paint against a wall of caked-on dough that indicated the former position of two long evacuated industrial ovens. The overturned bakery trays and sundry items that littered the customer area multiplied copiously in the dark recesses of the kitchen. A singular cheap, splintered, laminated wood panel door faced them near the outline of the ovens. Tannehill walked over to the door, shot the bolt, and opened it.
The door opened onto a dingy alley tinged with the standing pools of the morning's rain.
"What now?" Vera asked.
"Now we go back to the diner and do a bit more thinking."
"That's an anticlimactic answer."
Tannehill could do nothing but shrug in response, "We're in an anticlimactic moment. It can't be too complicated. We're trying to out-think Richard Snell, not Professor Moriarity."
The return trip to the diner was equally as silent as the originating trip. Both of them trading the isolation of their own worlds for solitude over solving Snell's puzzle.
Their goodbyes at the door of the restaurant were brief and distracted.
As a result, both of them failed to notice the blonde woman with the funny accident sitting across the street staring at them.
[Author's Note: I was beginning to miss Vera and Tannehill, so I took advantage of our social distancing measures to get reacquainted with them. With any luck, the curve of my entries will trend up while the curve of the virus flattens. Today's edition was 1001 words and the running total, if you've lost count over the ensuing weeks, is 28,367. ]
"Sorry, I lost track of time. Got caught up reading the newspaper."
Vera shrugged indifferently. "Ready then?" She stood up in anticipation without waiting for a response.
Tannehill nodded. "the place isn't too far from here. We could take a bus but it would only save us about a half mile and would probably take twice the time to get there. Do you mind walking?"
"And ruin my good shoes?" They both looked down at her feet at this comment. She was wearing the same monk straps with scuffed heels from their excursion at The Tritone a few nights prior.
"Don't you ever give a straight answer?"
"Perhaps."
"Keep this up and I'll rethink bringing you along."
"Keep that up and I'll rethink helping you along on this case."
Tannehill paused sullenly. "What are you doodling?" he responded quietly.
"A few sketches for my folks back home. I try to send them some sign that I'm alive every few days."
"That's the first time I've heard you mention anything about your past."
"That makes one of us. Other than the fact that I know you had a partner, you're a veritable man of mystery"
"Touché."
They stood in silence for a beat. "Shall we?" Vera gestured toward the door.
They walked along a gray stretch of industrial melancholy under a light mist. Both of them excited by the prospect of discovery and lost in their own worlds.
Loving's Bakery originally had been an oddity in the neighborhood it inhabited. Where the other buildings around it housed the typical distribution warehouses and processing plants that went fallow with the Great Depression, Loving's was a small standalone structure with large windows on its front exterior - not all that different from the diner they'd just departed from. The establishment's name called out prominently in large, generic, cherry red script above the front door.
At least, that's how the building would've appeared several years prior. Recent neglect helped it establish equity with its neighbors. The white façade had faded to a dull gray. The large front windows had their pick of being cracked, shattered, or boarded-up. The sign's 'g' had dropped to the ground, so now the script simply read "Lovin 's" in some representation of an actor's poor attempt at an antebellum accent.
They walked toward the storefront. Vera peered through one of the cracked windows. "Hard to tell, but there doesn't appear to be anything of value here."
"Of course it's hard to tell if you're peering through a cracked window," Tannehill responded, half his torso jutting over one of the shattered windows.
"True, but I'm no fan of French methods of execution. One misstep and you'll be fleetingly living through your own Reign of Terror, Robespierre" she pointed to the jagged plate glass edge sitting precariously below his extended body.
Tannehill carefully glanced down at the shards below him, backed away, and flashed an accepting grimace. He pulled the key out of his pocket and walked toward the front door. "Shall we?"
He placed the key in the lock and turned. Or tried to. The latch didn't move. Perplexed, he pushed against the door frame and tried again. The latch still didn't move. "What now?"
Vera looked around and found a tin garbage can nearby. She grabbed the lid, walked over to the window guillotine and dispensed with the larger shards. "We improvise." She tossed the lid aside with a clatter and gestured at Tannehill with an extended hand. "C'mon. Help me up."
He held her hand as she hopped on the sill and over the shattered window remains. She proffered her own hand in return once she was inside the bakery.
"Doesn't look like much of a gold mine does it?" he exclaimed in concert with the glass crunching beneath his feet. Overturn bakery trays, paper, sawdust, and a thick coating of dust plastered the interior. As with any abandoned building, flotsam and jetsam unassociated with the building's prior tenants also presided. In one near corner, a naked doll stared up at them pleadingly. In another, empty tins of baked beans crowded the floor.
"Unless we're looking for a Goldmine of Creepy, I don't think your partner's treasure is in here."
"Let's check the back room." They moved to the back of the building when a 6-inch rat scuttled past. Vera shoved Tannehill into the wall and squealed while dancing gracelessly away from the rodent.
"Really?" he rubbed his shoulder, "that's what scares you?"
"Rats killed 1/3 of the world population. I think it's completely reasonable to show them some respect," she sniffed indignantly.
He darted his eyes toward her briefly in response and then back into the shadows of the kitchen. There were two lighter shades of paint against a wall of caked-on dough that indicated the former position of two long evacuated industrial ovens. The overturned bakery trays and sundry items that littered the customer area multiplied copiously in the dark recesses of the kitchen. A singular cheap, splintered, laminated wood panel door faced them near the outline of the ovens. Tannehill walked over to the door, shot the bolt, and opened it.
The door opened onto a dingy alley tinged with the standing pools of the morning's rain.
"What now?" Vera asked.
"Now we go back to the diner and do a bit more thinking."
"That's an anticlimactic answer."
Tannehill could do nothing but shrug in response, "We're in an anticlimactic moment. It can't be too complicated. We're trying to out-think Richard Snell, not Professor Moriarity."
The return trip to the diner was equally as silent as the originating trip. Both of them trading the isolation of their own worlds for solitude over solving Snell's puzzle.
Their goodbyes at the door of the restaurant were brief and distracted.
As a result, both of them failed to notice the blonde woman with the funny accident sitting across the street staring at them.
[Author's Note: I was beginning to miss Vera and Tannehill, so I took advantage of our social distancing measures to get reacquainted with them. With any luck, the curve of my entries will trend up while the curve of the virus flattens. Today's edition was 1001 words and the running total, if you've lost count over the ensuing weeks, is 28,367. ]
Sunday, March 1, 2020
Chapter 25 - You've Got Something in Your Teeth
"Sorry," Spinoza responded from the other end of the line, "I've got a mountain of work ahead of me for the next few days and the city hasn't fulfilled its promise to stop being violent for a few days so I can lend you a hand."
Tannehill chewed on his lower lip as Phil spoke, "that's alright, I've got other options. When you do have time, I'd like you to take a look though."
"Yeah, sure. My pleasure," Spinoza answered with no hint of pleasure in his voice. "Chat soon." He hung up abruptly.
Tannehill leaned back in the phone booth and wondered what an excursion to Loving's Bakery would uncover. Snell hadn't been bothered much by a moral compass and had no problems flaunting his indelicacies in the open. So, for him to spend effort hiding something, the secret must point to something of high value or nefariousness. Or both.
He left the booth and took an express bus that landed him home at the debatably reasonable hour of 10 PM. He undressed, downed a large glass of water, and crawled beneath the blankets. He placed his revolver in the drawer of his nightstand. He didn't know if Otto had access to his home address and he wasn't relishing the prospect of an unwanted excursion on his property in the middle of the night.
He turned out the light and inhaled a deep, contented breath in the pitch-black air. Still suffering the after-effects of the recent sleepless nights he fell asleep within five minutes.
He awoke nine hours later, shortly after 7 AM. He felt generally refreshed with only some residual grogginess that a strong cup of coffee could easily cure. He showered, dressed, holstered his revolver and headed for The Happy Hour.
He'd debated restricting his movements but hadn't given much credence to Otto's strategic planning. He knew he wasn't up against a criminal enterprise, so his adversaries could only spend so much time tracking his movements - if they even had the wherewithal to think that far ahead.
When he arrived, Vera eagerly seated him and poured him a cup of coffee. She serviced a couple of other customers and bussed a third table before returning to greet him formally.
She pulled a pencil from behind her ear with her order pad in hand. "So?"
"I'll have the spinach omelet."
She kicked him under the booth table and widened her eyes in a combined expression of exasperation and anticipation.
"OK," he said, bending down to rub his shin, "I'll have the spinach omelet after I tell you what happened last night."
"You have expensive tastes for a penny-pinching PI living through the worst economic downturn in US history."
"What can I say? I appreciate the finer things."
"I'm waiting."
"You're the one chit-chatting," he took a slow pull of coffee as Vera rapidly tapped her pencil against the pad. "I can start off by saying that they certainly aren't happy with me. They were expecting me to hand off the information we discovered yesterday. When that didn't happen, they tried to threaten me."
"How?"
"By implying that they had people lurking around our meeting location waiting to shake me down."
"And that doesn't concern you?"
"No, I cased the place for a couple of hours before they arrived. No one else appeared for back up and no one else was tailing me after I left. If this thing is about money - which it almost always is - they'd want to keep their operation as small as possible."
"Aren't you worried that they're following you now?"
"I don't think they're that smart."
Vera frowned mildly. Tannehill pointed at the table and mouthed "omelet." She turned away muttering very un-ladylike phrases on the way back to the counter.
10 minutes later she re-appeared with his omelet and a second cup of coffee.
"Thanks, I'm good," Tannehill pointed to his own cup.
"It's not for you. It's for me," she sat abruptly in the booth seat across from him.
A disembodied voice from the back yelled out, "Vera we've got customers!"
"I'm on break and we've got five customers, all of whom have received their orders in the last five minutes!" The voice didn't respond. "So what else did you find out?"
"Beederman's real name."
"Any reason why he hid it?" Tannehill shrugged. Vera continued, "I assume you're going to Loving's to see what's there?" Tannehill nodded. "I assume you know I'm coming with you?"
"It might be dangerous. I don't want to put you in harm's way."
"From everything you've told me about Snell he seems more like to be a simple boob than a booby trapper. Besides I've done quite a bit to help you out so far. And, you just said that you don't think your adversaries are likely to qualify the varsity chess squad."
Tannehill sighed, "Didn't you say that you have to work your hooker job on the docks? I don't want to get you in trouble with your pimp."
"I'll check with him, but we're reviewing Chaucer and Middle English exhausts me, so missing one appointment with a john should be acceptable. He's really a nice guy. He's just misunderstood like all of the working gals he takes care of are."
Tannehill shrugged again in resignation. "OK, I'll come get you shortly after 10."
Vera smiled, took a brief sip of her coffee, bared her teeth and made an up and down motion with her index finger while pointing to her central incisors. Then she left the booth.
Tannehill chewed on his lower lip as Phil spoke, "that's alright, I've got other options. When you do have time, I'd like you to take a look though."
"Yeah, sure. My pleasure," Spinoza answered with no hint of pleasure in his voice. "Chat soon." He hung up abruptly.
Tannehill leaned back in the phone booth and wondered what an excursion to Loving's Bakery would uncover. Snell hadn't been bothered much by a moral compass and had no problems flaunting his indelicacies in the open. So, for him to spend effort hiding something, the secret must point to something of high value or nefariousness. Or both.
He left the booth and took an express bus that landed him home at the debatably reasonable hour of 10 PM. He undressed, downed a large glass of water, and crawled beneath the blankets. He placed his revolver in the drawer of his nightstand. He didn't know if Otto had access to his home address and he wasn't relishing the prospect of an unwanted excursion on his property in the middle of the night.
He turned out the light and inhaled a deep, contented breath in the pitch-black air. Still suffering the after-effects of the recent sleepless nights he fell asleep within five minutes.
He awoke nine hours later, shortly after 7 AM. He felt generally refreshed with only some residual grogginess that a strong cup of coffee could easily cure. He showered, dressed, holstered his revolver and headed for The Happy Hour.
He'd debated restricting his movements but hadn't given much credence to Otto's strategic planning. He knew he wasn't up against a criminal enterprise, so his adversaries could only spend so much time tracking his movements - if they even had the wherewithal to think that far ahead.
When he arrived, Vera eagerly seated him and poured him a cup of coffee. She serviced a couple of other customers and bussed a third table before returning to greet him formally.
She pulled a pencil from behind her ear with her order pad in hand. "So?"
"I'll have the spinach omelet."
She kicked him under the booth table and widened her eyes in a combined expression of exasperation and anticipation.
"OK," he said, bending down to rub his shin, "I'll have the spinach omelet after I tell you what happened last night."
"You have expensive tastes for a penny-pinching PI living through the worst economic downturn in US history."
"What can I say? I appreciate the finer things."
"I'm waiting."
"You're the one chit-chatting," he took a slow pull of coffee as Vera rapidly tapped her pencil against the pad. "I can start off by saying that they certainly aren't happy with me. They were expecting me to hand off the information we discovered yesterday. When that didn't happen, they tried to threaten me."
"How?"
"By implying that they had people lurking around our meeting location waiting to shake me down."
"And that doesn't concern you?"
"No, I cased the place for a couple of hours before they arrived. No one else appeared for back up and no one else was tailing me after I left. If this thing is about money - which it almost always is - they'd want to keep their operation as small as possible."
"Aren't you worried that they're following you now?"
"I don't think they're that smart."
Vera frowned mildly. Tannehill pointed at the table and mouthed "omelet." She turned away muttering very un-ladylike phrases on the way back to the counter.
10 minutes later she re-appeared with his omelet and a second cup of coffee.
"Thanks, I'm good," Tannehill pointed to his own cup.
"It's not for you. It's for me," she sat abruptly in the booth seat across from him.
A disembodied voice from the back yelled out, "Vera we've got customers!"
"I'm on break and we've got five customers, all of whom have received their orders in the last five minutes!" The voice didn't respond. "So what else did you find out?"
"Beederman's real name."
"Any reason why he hid it?" Tannehill shrugged. Vera continued, "I assume you're going to Loving's to see what's there?" Tannehill nodded. "I assume you know I'm coming with you?"
"It might be dangerous. I don't want to put you in harm's way."
"From everything you've told me about Snell he seems more like to be a simple boob than a booby trapper. Besides I've done quite a bit to help you out so far. And, you just said that you don't think your adversaries are likely to qualify the varsity chess squad."
Tannehill sighed, "Didn't you say that you have to work your hooker job on the docks? I don't want to get you in trouble with your pimp."
"I'll check with him, but we're reviewing Chaucer and Middle English exhausts me, so missing one appointment with a john should be acceptable. He's really a nice guy. He's just misunderstood like all of the working gals he takes care of are."
Tannehill shrugged again in resignation. "OK, I'll come get you shortly after 10."
Vera smiled, took a brief sip of her coffee, bared her teeth and made an up and down motion with her index finger while pointing to her central incisors. Then she left the booth.
[Author's Note: March is coming in like a lion with another 922 words. I've completed my broad outline, so I hope to be back on my regular cadence going forward. The running total for the story is 27,366 words.]
Monday, February 10, 2020
Chapter 24 - The City Defender
In the ensuing years between Tannehill's arrival back in the United States and Spinoza's, the PR machine of the Capital City Police Department had moved into high gear.
The department couldn't admit that one of their most promising employees had been anything more than a one-man display of unquestionable heroics and patriotism in Europe. So, when Tannehill had returned home with mild indications of shell shock, the brass promoted him to detective and assigned him to light desk duty.
The official story was that he was leading the department's efforts on new methods of detection. Behind the scenes, they were concerned about his jittery response to loud noises and his tendency to trail off occasionally during mid-thought.
In truth, Tannehill was happy for the change of pace. He actually *was* researching modern methods of detecting and using his status as a perceived war hero to request funding for lab equipment and a team to operate the equipment. And, as his time away from Europe grew longer, the symptoms of his shell shock grew less pronounced.
His recuperation occurred at a fortuitous time as the city faced a new challenge - prohibition.
At the start, the department, swept up in patriotic fervor, zealously enforced the new constitutional amendment. The drunk tanks overflowed with scofflaws while other offenders on the street paid for their negligence with creative taxes - often in the form of a split lip or a well-placed punch to the gut and a warning to obey the laws of the land.
Eventually, though, the department returned to what it knew best - investing in business propositions that enriched its coffers and those of its champions. The populace's demand for booze was just too great and the black market was just too broad for the government's strict enforcement of the law.
Instead, the department - in conjunction with the noble fathers of the city - decided to employ practical methods of judicial enforcement. They realized that their decision would sacrifice some minor law and order issues on the margins of the city's society. But they did so for the city's long term greater good. They also understood that, in order to execute their strategy successfully, they'd need to receive reasonable stipends on their own behalves, as it's difficult to realize grand political visions while under the constant threat of penury.
From the department's standpoint, the strategy worked. The bosses of the criminal organization kicked back an unofficial municipal tax to various members of the city when asked. When the bosses needed additional provisions from the city they'd pay additional unofficial taxes to expedite their requests. City officials would ensure that the taxes were earmarked for the appropriate municipal projects to enhance the city's standing.
In return, the criminal organizations were permitted to enforce the liquor distribution and territory divisions in a manner they collectively judged to be the most efficient. In order to demonstrate to the federal government that the city was following a targeted, practical strategy of enforcement instead of simply flouting the law and indulging in corruption, the department would occasionally stage showcase raids for the benefit of Washington.
When Spinoza returned from France, he resumed his crime beat in the city. The streets had been marred by bloody violence as turf wars between gangs became increasingly common and brazen. The gangs understood that, as long as they continued to bribe officials, those officials would look the other way in the name of progressive values.
When the department did stage raids, it did so with long advanced notice to the establishments it was raiding. Though the speakeasies weren't permitted divest themselves of their entire inventory prior to the raid - that would make the tip-off seem too conspicuous - they would offload much of it in order to escape the most onerous penalties. Notable members of society would be warned not to attend on those days in order to avoid any discomfort that may be associated with negative press associated with the raids.
Often as a sign of willing participation, proprietors of the establishment would offer a round (or several) on the house to the uniformed officers participating in the raid. This often led to the rather confusing image of having the officers leave the establishment drunker than the patrons they were attempting to roust.
Spinoza quickly grew frustrated with the incompetence and the corruption of the city. He wasn't naive but he'd been encapsulated by a cynical shell since the war. His take wasn't so much "Why hasn't the city taken steps to improve?" but more "Why can't this city get its shit together?"
Everywhere he looked, he found laziness, expediency, and greed. In his eyes, most of the violence was the result of others too self-interested to perform their duties properly, even if it meant people died.
When he contrasted the folly and indolence of the city with the endless ocean of death he saw in Europe, the equation he'd formulated in his head simply didn't add up. Each act of graft he witnessed during the Prohibition Era in Capital City was an insult to each act of suffering experienced in the Great War.
The primary target of his ire was the Capital City Police Department. The institution specifically chartered to protect and serve turned a blind eye as its charges were gunned down. Even more detestably, officers were often intimately complicit in these shocking acts of violence against the innocent.
That ire was further sharpened against Tannehill. Tannehill, who, during the deafening noise of daily violence, remained within the walls of the precinct hiding from the world. Tannehill, who when asked to speak on behalf of the department, would breezily talk about its progressive agenda and defense of its citizenry. Tannehill, who didn't have the decency to accept a proper bribe and at least embrace the evil he so willingly surrounded himself with. Tannehill, who received a goddamn hero's welcome and war honors when all he ever faced was one unfortunate event that challenged his sanity while Spinoza saw worse several times a day for months.
Upon his return to the city, Spinoza vowed to call out every act of corruption he witnessed until the department repented or the city collapsed under the weight of its own shame.
[Author's note - Today's version? 1036 words for a total of 26444 over 24 chapters. I may be delayed again for the next chapter. I've got to outline a few major plot points for the next few installments and I don't want to rush the quality product that I'm delivering to you dear reader.]
The department couldn't admit that one of their most promising employees had been anything more than a one-man display of unquestionable heroics and patriotism in Europe. So, when Tannehill had returned home with mild indications of shell shock, the brass promoted him to detective and assigned him to light desk duty.
The official story was that he was leading the department's efforts on new methods of detection. Behind the scenes, they were concerned about his jittery response to loud noises and his tendency to trail off occasionally during mid-thought.
In truth, Tannehill was happy for the change of pace. He actually *was* researching modern methods of detecting and using his status as a perceived war hero to request funding for lab equipment and a team to operate the equipment. And, as his time away from Europe grew longer, the symptoms of his shell shock grew less pronounced.
His recuperation occurred at a fortuitous time as the city faced a new challenge - prohibition.
At the start, the department, swept up in patriotic fervor, zealously enforced the new constitutional amendment. The drunk tanks overflowed with scofflaws while other offenders on the street paid for their negligence with creative taxes - often in the form of a split lip or a well-placed punch to the gut and a warning to obey the laws of the land.
Eventually, though, the department returned to what it knew best - investing in business propositions that enriched its coffers and those of its champions. The populace's demand for booze was just too great and the black market was just too broad for the government's strict enforcement of the law.
Instead, the department - in conjunction with the noble fathers of the city - decided to employ practical methods of judicial enforcement. They realized that their decision would sacrifice some minor law and order issues on the margins of the city's society. But they did so for the city's long term greater good. They also understood that, in order to execute their strategy successfully, they'd need to receive reasonable stipends on their own behalves, as it's difficult to realize grand political visions while under the constant threat of penury.
From the department's standpoint, the strategy worked. The bosses of the criminal organization kicked back an unofficial municipal tax to various members of the city when asked. When the bosses needed additional provisions from the city they'd pay additional unofficial taxes to expedite their requests. City officials would ensure that the taxes were earmarked for the appropriate municipal projects to enhance the city's standing.
In return, the criminal organizations were permitted to enforce the liquor distribution and territory divisions in a manner they collectively judged to be the most efficient. In order to demonstrate to the federal government that the city was following a targeted, practical strategy of enforcement instead of simply flouting the law and indulging in corruption, the department would occasionally stage showcase raids for the benefit of Washington.
When Spinoza returned from France, he resumed his crime beat in the city. The streets had been marred by bloody violence as turf wars between gangs became increasingly common and brazen. The gangs understood that, as long as they continued to bribe officials, those officials would look the other way in the name of progressive values.
When the department did stage raids, it did so with long advanced notice to the establishments it was raiding. Though the speakeasies weren't permitted divest themselves of their entire inventory prior to the raid - that would make the tip-off seem too conspicuous - they would offload much of it in order to escape the most onerous penalties. Notable members of society would be warned not to attend on those days in order to avoid any discomfort that may be associated with negative press associated with the raids.
Often as a sign of willing participation, proprietors of the establishment would offer a round (or several) on the house to the uniformed officers participating in the raid. This often led to the rather confusing image of having the officers leave the establishment drunker than the patrons they were attempting to roust.
Spinoza quickly grew frustrated with the incompetence and the corruption of the city. He wasn't naive but he'd been encapsulated by a cynical shell since the war. His take wasn't so much "Why hasn't the city taken steps to improve?" but more "Why can't this city get its shit together?"
Everywhere he looked, he found laziness, expediency, and greed. In his eyes, most of the violence was the result of others too self-interested to perform their duties properly, even if it meant people died.
When he contrasted the folly and indolence of the city with the endless ocean of death he saw in Europe, the equation he'd formulated in his head simply didn't add up. Each act of graft he witnessed during the Prohibition Era in Capital City was an insult to each act of suffering experienced in the Great War.
The primary target of his ire was the Capital City Police Department. The institution specifically chartered to protect and serve turned a blind eye as its charges were gunned down. Even more detestably, officers were often intimately complicit in these shocking acts of violence against the innocent.
That ire was further sharpened against Tannehill. Tannehill, who, during the deafening noise of daily violence, remained within the walls of the precinct hiding from the world. Tannehill, who when asked to speak on behalf of the department, would breezily talk about its progressive agenda and defense of its citizenry. Tannehill, who didn't have the decency to accept a proper bribe and at least embrace the evil he so willingly surrounded himself with. Tannehill, who received a goddamn hero's welcome and war honors when all he ever faced was one unfortunate event that challenged his sanity while Spinoza saw worse several times a day for months.
Upon his return to the city, Spinoza vowed to call out every act of corruption he witnessed until the department repented or the city collapsed under the weight of its own shame.
[Author's note - Today's version? 1036 words for a total of 26444 over 24 chapters. I may be delayed again for the next chapter. I've got to outline a few major plot points for the next few installments and I don't want to rush the quality product that I'm delivering to you dear reader.]
Sunday, January 26, 2020
Chapter 23 - You Bring the Champagne. I'll Bring the Brie.
"Hello?" The accent was as clipped as the previous night with a new note of tension that replaced the original note of confidence Tannehill first encountered.
"It's Tannehill." Tannehill was in a payphone booth a few blocks from Emily Brunner's apartment. The early night air was refreshingly clear and he could hear the evening's last few seagulls - he hesitated to call them night owls for fear of offending them - squawking over the back bay. Even the bus ride downtown had only taken a breezy 45 minutes.
There was a pause, "yes?"
"It's still Tannehill."
"Yes, I know that," the tension gave way to exasperation on the other end of the line, "what do you want?"
"I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to hold a cocktail party with me. You're responsible for the decorations and music. I'll be in charge of the guest list and crudites."
Another pause, "I don't understand." And it was true, there was significant confusion in Otto's voice on the other end of the line.
Now it was Tannehill's turn for exasperation, "I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to meet," he lowered his voice conspiratorially for no reason other than dramatic effect for his own amusement, "about the information."
"Oh yes," Otto responded, unwittingly lowering his voice as well, "we would like to meet about that." He imparted all of this in a tone that showed no indication that he and Tannehill had agreed to the phone call they were currently having the night before. Tannehill began to wonder who'd suffered the concussion from their encounter or how traumatic a kick to the nuts could be.
"Why don't we meet at Miss Brunner's flat?" Otto continued.
"Why don't we not?" Tannehill countered.
"Does that mean we are meeting at her flat or we're not?"
"We're not. See the thing is, Otto, I'm famished and I don't want to put you and Miss Brunner out by obligating you to cook for me."
"I see. That is indeed very kind of you."
"There's a diner near her flat where we can meet at, say, eight o'clock?" Tannehill had originally thought of meeting at the Happy Hour Diner. It was on his turf and close to his old precinct. Though he was no welcome guest at the police station, he still had a few sympathetic ears there that he could bend when he was in trouble. Then he thought of Vera. He wanted to make sure Otto and Emily stayed as far away from her as possible. He awaited Otto's response.
"So, eight o'clock?" He could hear Otto speaking German on the other side of the line and what sounded like ascent from a female voice.
"Yes," Otto responded, "we can send someone to pick you up."
"Thanks, but I'm not really a member of the tophat and chauffeur set. The bus should be fine for me. I'll leave now." Tannehill provided the diner's address and hung up. His watch read a few minutes past 6 pm. He walked toward the diner and found a spot in an alley with a clear view of the entrance. He patted the revolver in his shoulder holster for reassurance, leaned against the alley wall and stared into the diner. Currently, there were three customers seated at the counter - a woman in a red dress and her male companion and another gentleman with his back to Tannehill. A cook crouched near them attending to the evening's duties. He thought the scene would make a good still life representation of the city at night. A waitress sat in the far end of the diner waiting for the dinner shift to pick up. Over the next 30 minutes, those customers left and were replaced by other hungry sojourners completing their workday.
10 minutes before eight, Tannehill spotted Brunner and Otto with a third person trailing shortly behind them. Otto and Brunner entered the diner and sat down at a booth - both facing the same direction. Tannehill concentrated on the third person as he stood in front of the diner. Two minutes later, a well-dressed woman appeared and linked arms with him as the two moved further downtown.
Tannehill continued to watch Otto and Brunner until 8:20 pm. They ordered coffee or tea and sat staring forward, neither conversing nor betraying any exasperation at the lateness of their guest. Their hands remained above the table the entire time. He straightened and walked toward the diner checking his peripheral vision for any blurry movement headed in his direction. There was none.
He entered the diner and sat down in the booth facing them. "Sorry I'm late. You know how the buses run in the city."
"I'm not familiar with your transportation systems," Otto answered.
Tannehill shrugged in response with a slight good-natured smirk before continuing, "well, the good news is that I was able to find the information you've been after. The bad news is I'm not sure which information it is exactly."
"I'm not sure I follow," Brunner responded. Otto looked down into his coffee/tea stirring absentmindedly.
Before Tannehill could respond, the waitress interrupted him to ask for an order.
"Egg sandwich, extra butter. And a glass of milk."
As the waitress wandered away, he continued his previous conversational thread. "Turns out Snell had his fingers in a lot of pies. I found where he keeps his information but I need a few more details to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Otto looked up from his drink and sniffed loudly, "I thought you already had the information?"
"I lied."
"Then why should we trust what you're saying now?" Brunner interjected.
"You don't have any other options."
"We could use the same conversational tactics we did with Mr. Snell," Brunner looked directly at Tannehill with her response and smiled slightly.
"How'd that work out for you the first time?" Her smile faded.
"Why don't you let us examine all of the information and we'll only take what we need?" Otto chimed in. Both Brunner and Tannehill stared wide-eyed at Otto. Both remained silent.
"Maybe. But, why don't you tell me a little more about the night of Snell's mishap first."
"I did not murder him."
"I suppose that's helpful and does tell me a little more. Why don't you tell me a lot more, instead? You waited to chat with him in the same manner you waited to chat with me? By hiding behind the door and ambushing him?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, he was expecting me. He let me in." Tannehill had forgotten that detail. Snell had been in a rush to get him out of the office. Of course he was expecting company.
"Go on."
"When I arrived, he was very casual. He was in his undershirt. I think he was expecting someone else to come with me."
"You were alone?"
"Yes, I was alone."
"Go on."
"I'm not sure what the purpose of your questions is," Brunner sighed.
"I need to know what Otto and Snell discussed in order to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Brunner sighed in reluctant acquiescence to continue.
"Go on," Tannehill repeated.
"He was drinking the whiskey from the bottom drawer of your desk. He commented that you should buy something better that was worth him borrowing and then laughed."
Tannehill frowned briefly, "and then?"
"I asked him for the location of our shared interests and he laughed again."
"Your shared interests?"
"I thought you and Snell shared information," Brunner interrupted.
"I told you, I lied about that. I did stumble across the location of your shared interests though."
"It's in your best interest to provide us with the information."
Tannehill shrugged, "Maybe. For the moment you need me enough not to do anything rash."
"We have associates surrounding this diner who can be more persuasive than Otto was with your partner." At the mention of his name, Otto jerked his head in her direction and then lowered his head disappointedly.
"No you don't. I watched you enter the diner and waited to see if there were any stragglers. What happened after Snell laughed again?" Tannehill turned his gaze to Otto and resumed his questioning without waiting for a response from Brunner.
"He angered me. I hit him."
"In the head?"
"Yes."
"With the brass knuckles?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then he became difficult. He stopped making sense. He would not respond correctly when I asked him for information."
"How did he respond?"
"He was confused. He kept calling me 'Sweetheart' after every question."
"Huh," Tannehill paused, "and that angered you more?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"And you hit him more?"
"Yes."
Tannehill stood up from the booth. "You two really are quite the pair. Your routine needs a little polishing, though. Maybe I should talk to your other partner to get his perspective?"
"Bellucci?" Brunner exclaimed and then swore under her breath immediately afterward.
Tannehill smiled broadly. "Exactly. Feel free to eat my egg sandwich. I'm afraid I have to run." He turned to leave and then turned back, "oh, don't bother following me right now. I've taken certain precautions to keep myself safe and you don't want to see what happens when I get jittery."
Brunner glared at him as he left the diner.
Tannehill zigzagged through the downtown city streets to make sure that Brunner and Otto followed his advice and then dropped into a phone booth. "Phil? It's Tannehill. I have a favor to ask of you."
[Author's Note: Well, we've arrived at the halfway point - 25408 after today's edition of 1585 words. I'm surprised I've made it this far. Without stretching, I'm relatively certain I have at least another 8000 words in me if not the entire 24592 I need to hit my goal. Still, at regular type spacing what I've written so far would stretch to about 100 pages, which is definitely novella territory.]
"It's Tannehill." Tannehill was in a payphone booth a few blocks from Emily Brunner's apartment. The early night air was refreshingly clear and he could hear the evening's last few seagulls - he hesitated to call them night owls for fear of offending them - squawking over the back bay. Even the bus ride downtown had only taken a breezy 45 minutes.
There was a pause, "yes?"
"It's still Tannehill."
"Yes, I know that," the tension gave way to exasperation on the other end of the line, "what do you want?"
"I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to hold a cocktail party with me. You're responsible for the decorations and music. I'll be in charge of the guest list and crudites."
Another pause, "I don't understand." And it was true, there was significant confusion in Otto's voice on the other end of the line.
Now it was Tannehill's turn for exasperation, "I wanted to see if you and Miss Brunner would like to meet," he lowered his voice conspiratorially for no reason other than dramatic effect for his own amusement, "about the information."
"Oh yes," Otto responded, unwittingly lowering his voice as well, "we would like to meet about that." He imparted all of this in a tone that showed no indication that he and Tannehill had agreed to the phone call they were currently having the night before. Tannehill began to wonder who'd suffered the concussion from their encounter or how traumatic a kick to the nuts could be.
"Why don't we meet at Miss Brunner's flat?" Otto continued.
"Why don't we not?" Tannehill countered.
"Does that mean we are meeting at her flat or we're not?"
"We're not. See the thing is, Otto, I'm famished and I don't want to put you and Miss Brunner out by obligating you to cook for me."
"I see. That is indeed very kind of you."
"There's a diner near her flat where we can meet at, say, eight o'clock?" Tannehill had originally thought of meeting at the Happy Hour Diner. It was on his turf and close to his old precinct. Though he was no welcome guest at the police station, he still had a few sympathetic ears there that he could bend when he was in trouble. Then he thought of Vera. He wanted to make sure Otto and Emily stayed as far away from her as possible. He awaited Otto's response.
"So, eight o'clock?" He could hear Otto speaking German on the other side of the line and what sounded like ascent from a female voice.
"Yes," Otto responded, "we can send someone to pick you up."
"Thanks, but I'm not really a member of the tophat and chauffeur set. The bus should be fine for me. I'll leave now." Tannehill provided the diner's address and hung up. His watch read a few minutes past 6 pm. He walked toward the diner and found a spot in an alley with a clear view of the entrance. He patted the revolver in his shoulder holster for reassurance, leaned against the alley wall and stared into the diner. Currently, there were three customers seated at the counter - a woman in a red dress and her male companion and another gentleman with his back to Tannehill. A cook crouched near them attending to the evening's duties. He thought the scene would make a good still life representation of the city at night. A waitress sat in the far end of the diner waiting for the dinner shift to pick up. Over the next 30 minutes, those customers left and were replaced by other hungry sojourners completing their workday.
10 minutes before eight, Tannehill spotted Brunner and Otto with a third person trailing shortly behind them. Otto and Brunner entered the diner and sat down at a booth - both facing the same direction. Tannehill concentrated on the third person as he stood in front of the diner. Two minutes later, a well-dressed woman appeared and linked arms with him as the two moved further downtown.
Tannehill continued to watch Otto and Brunner until 8:20 pm. They ordered coffee or tea and sat staring forward, neither conversing nor betraying any exasperation at the lateness of their guest. Their hands remained above the table the entire time. He straightened and walked toward the diner checking his peripheral vision for any blurry movement headed in his direction. There was none.
He entered the diner and sat down in the booth facing them. "Sorry I'm late. You know how the buses run in the city."
"I'm not familiar with your transportation systems," Otto answered.
Tannehill shrugged in response with a slight good-natured smirk before continuing, "well, the good news is that I was able to find the information you've been after. The bad news is I'm not sure which information it is exactly."
"I'm not sure I follow," Brunner responded. Otto looked down into his coffee/tea stirring absentmindedly.
Before Tannehill could respond, the waitress interrupted him to ask for an order.
"Egg sandwich, extra butter. And a glass of milk."
As the waitress wandered away, he continued his previous conversational thread. "Turns out Snell had his fingers in a lot of pies. I found where he keeps his information but I need a few more details to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Otto looked up from his drink and sniffed loudly, "I thought you already had the information?"
"I lied."
"Then why should we trust what you're saying now?" Brunner interjected.
"You don't have any other options."
"We could use the same conversational tactics we did with Mr. Snell," Brunner looked directly at Tannehill with her response and smiled slightly.
"How'd that work out for you the first time?" Her smile faded.
"Why don't you let us examine all of the information and we'll only take what we need?" Otto chimed in. Both Brunner and Tannehill stared wide-eyed at Otto. Both remained silent.
"Maybe. But, why don't you tell me a little more about the night of Snell's mishap first."
"I did not murder him."
"I suppose that's helpful and does tell me a little more. Why don't you tell me a lot more, instead? You waited to chat with him in the same manner you waited to chat with me? By hiding behind the door and ambushing him?"
"No."
"No?"
"No, he was expecting me. He let me in." Tannehill had forgotten that detail. Snell had been in a rush to get him out of the office. Of course he was expecting company.
"Go on."
"When I arrived, he was very casual. He was in his undershirt. I think he was expecting someone else to come with me."
"You were alone?"
"Yes, I was alone."
"Go on."
"I'm not sure what the purpose of your questions is," Brunner sighed.
"I need to know what Otto and Snell discussed in order to make sure I'm giving you the right information."
Brunner sighed in reluctant acquiescence to continue.
"Go on," Tannehill repeated.
"He was drinking the whiskey from the bottom drawer of your desk. He commented that you should buy something better that was worth him borrowing and then laughed."
Tannehill frowned briefly, "and then?"
"I asked him for the location of our shared interests and he laughed again."
"Your shared interests?"
"I thought you and Snell shared information," Brunner interrupted.
"I told you, I lied about that. I did stumble across the location of your shared interests though."
"It's in your best interest to provide us with the information."
Tannehill shrugged, "Maybe. For the moment you need me enough not to do anything rash."
"We have associates surrounding this diner who can be more persuasive than Otto was with your partner." At the mention of his name, Otto jerked his head in her direction and then lowered his head disappointedly.
"No you don't. I watched you enter the diner and waited to see if there were any stragglers. What happened after Snell laughed again?" Tannehill turned his gaze to Otto and resumed his questioning without waiting for a response from Brunner.
"He angered me. I hit him."
"In the head?"
"Yes."
"With the brass knuckles?"
"Yes."
"And then?"
"And then he became difficult. He stopped making sense. He would not respond correctly when I asked him for information."
"How did he respond?"
"He was confused. He kept calling me 'Sweetheart' after every question."
"Huh," Tannehill paused, "and that angered you more?"
"Yes. Exactly."
"And you hit him more?"
"Yes."
Tannehill stood up from the booth. "You two really are quite the pair. Your routine needs a little polishing, though. Maybe I should talk to your other partner to get his perspective?"
"Bellucci?" Brunner exclaimed and then swore under her breath immediately afterward.
Tannehill smiled broadly. "Exactly. Feel free to eat my egg sandwich. I'm afraid I have to run." He turned to leave and then turned back, "oh, don't bother following me right now. I've taken certain precautions to keep myself safe and you don't want to see what happens when I get jittery."
Brunner glared at him as he left the diner.
Tannehill zigzagged through the downtown city streets to make sure that Brunner and Otto followed his advice and then dropped into a phone booth. "Phil? It's Tannehill. I have a favor to ask of you."
[Author's Note: Well, we've arrived at the halfway point - 25408 after today's edition of 1585 words. I'm surprised I've made it this far. Without stretching, I'm relatively certain I have at least another 8000 words in me if not the entire 24592 I need to hit my goal. Still, at regular type spacing what I've written so far would stretch to about 100 pages, which is definitely novella territory.]
Sunday, January 19, 2020
Chapter 22 - Our Town
The desert wind swirled around the barren landscape as the 19-year-old woman stood, clapboard suitcase in hand, waiting for the bus to take her north toward Capital City. She'd grown up 10 miles west of the bus stop on an inconsequential farm located on the outskirts of a village. The village itself bordered the state's second-largest city, situated placidly on the shores of a deep blue ocean. She couldn't wait to leave.
She was a precocious and diligent girl surrounded by doting parents and two rambunctious older brothers. When not occupied with her chores or attending the one-room schoolhouse a mile from the farm, she'd walk an additional two miles to spend time at the library framing the eastern edge of the town square.
Every book in the modest library was fair game - history, fiction, biographies, ornithology. Even non-traditional volumes, like survey maps of the surrounding areas or minutes of town council meetings from the turn of the century could provide solid sources of entertainment or knowledge. She got to know the library staff - all four of them - and on cold or rainy Saturdays, they'd prepare sandwiches for her marathon sessions in the building after offering her a towel and blanket to warm her up at the end of her three-mile trek.
On sunny weekends, she'd run through the surrounding fields and climb every tree she encountered, undaunted by any army of thorns, cut or scrape that would hinder lesser children. She'd proudly display her long, knobby limbs to her classmates and compare the latest scab or oldest scar with any willing confederate.
At age 10 her hair was a deep chestnut hue, her freckles spread prominently across her face, and she was tall enough to look down on most of the boys in her class. She had long, fine fingers to match her gangly limbs and a wide smile with perfect teeth.
It was the long fingers that caught the special attention of her teacher, Mrs. Polly, a middle-aged widow who lived in town. In previous generations, Mrs. Polly's family had been fortunate enough to squander a significant fortune through a series of misplaced financial adventures. However, one of the adventures resulted in an upright piano sitting in the teacher's parlor years after the family regressed to modest means. Behind it stood a Victrola surrounded by the latest jazz, opera, and classical recordings. Mrs. Polly was an indiscriminate audiophile who'd listen to any genre of music from shores near or far. Her well-trained ear allowed her to play much of what she heard and transpose it for those who were equally interested in music but not as aurally talented.
She hadn't intended to take on piano students but, noticing the girl's voracious appetite for learning anything new, decided to try.
Mrs. Polly's gamble paid off. What the girl originally lacked in natural ability she compensated for with curiosity and a strong work ethic. She studied the great masters from the previous centuries and all of the corresponding major and minor modes. She took a keen interest in an emerging cornetist from New Orleans nicknamed Satchmo and, with the help of Mrs. Polly and the library staff, was able to locate a third-hand trumpet to complement her budding piano skills.
Not infrequently the duo could be heard playing into the gloaming on a weekend, one of them on the trumpet, the other hammering away rhythm and ragtime on the piano.
As the years passed, the girl's curiosity and yearning for freedom didn't wane. When she was younger, the boys used to marvel at her scabs, scars, and gawky height. Now, her dark freckles faded to something more sensual, her chestnut hair had lightened into a shade of late autumn hay, and, while most of the boys now had the height advantage, they continued to marvel at her for completely new reasons.
It was during these years that talent scouts and producers from the city would wind their way through town. The city had supplanted New York as the film capital of the world due to its unending supply of good weather and picturesque backdrops. Filmmakers would drive through the local area in their polished motor cars scouting new locations or simply marveling at an American experience so near to them in distance but rapidly diminishing in recognition from their day-to-day lives.
One of the filmmakers - a large man with a center of gravity set comically low to the ground, a cone-shaped head with dark hair surrounding it on three sides but not on top, and always dressed in poorly fitted tans and browns better matching the Sahara than the local desert - wandered into the library one Saturday to ask for directions to the nearest diner and spotted the girl at one of the large tables near the circulation desk. He decided to take a direct approach, as he always did.
"Hello, sweetness. I'm Louis Buchhalter, producer and silver screen executive. Who are you?"
"I've heard of you," was the opening reply. "You helped usher in the sound era for film. I've been impressed with your efforts." The girl didn't look up from the copy of Vanity Fair she was reading.
Buchhalter cocked his head back, surprised that the girl knew who he was without mentioning any particular pictures. This was going to be far easier than expected. "How old are you honey?"
"Seventeen." The girl thought she saw him lick his lips at the reply.
"Any interest in being an actress?"
"I've done a pretty mean Ophelia at our local community theater."
"Would you like to go for a drive?"
"Not at the moment. I'm busy."
Buchhalter, never one to back away from a challenge, left, and on the way out, asked the librarian about the girl and her habits. The librarian, eager to sing the girl's praises, wasn't shy about providing details.
And thus began the "courtship" between Buchhalter and the girl. He'd send roses to the library or stop by - never bothering to learn the staff's names. She'd arrange the roses politely on the circulation desk or give them away to determined lovers hovering around the town square in need of assistance. He'd treat her to the diner and she'd eagerly wolf down the cheeseburger and chocolate shake that had become her decadent treat. He'd drive her along the seaside and she'd close her eyes, letting her light brown hair float freely, inhaling the salt air.
Every time they met he'd let her know how big a star he was going to make her. She always said she'd need more time to consider.
Until one day, while giving her a tour of the studio lot he asked again, "you sure you don't want to be an actress?"
"Sure," she said, momentarily swept up in the spectacle, "I'd be happy to audition." Buchhalter's grin grew wide as he placed a hand on the small of her back. He ushered her toward his office.
Five minutes later he was standing in front of the couch in his office, naked from waist to ankles, with his tan pants in puddles around his feet.
"This is an awfully unusual audition," quipped the girl.
Buchhalter shrugged dramatically with a wide grin, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"Funny. That doesn't look like your back and I'm assuming you don't want me to scratch it."
"The options are endless sweetheart," he responded still in the same position.
"No thanks."
Five minutes after that she was walking away from the studio gate with a red-faced Buchhalter screaming at her a few steps behind, "YOU BITCH. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS WILLING TO PROVIDE YOU?!"
She continued without breaking stride or turning around, "simple math."
Buchhalter stopped and sputtered before resuming, "FUCK YOU! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN! NEVER!"
"Guess I'll have to work somewhere else then."
She spent the next few months applying to schools in the state and found a women's college in Capital City willing to provide her a partial scholarship toward dual degrees in English and music.
The day before she left she promised her parents, Mrs. Polly and the library staff that she'd write once a week - not to each of them individually, of course, because a girl, even a prolific one, only has so many hours in the day. But, she promised to mention each of them in every letter.
A day later, Vera shaded her eyes and watched as the bus to Capital City rumbled in her direction from a half-mile down a dusty desert highway.
[Author's Note: I had a lot of fun imagining Vera's background. I wanted where she grew up to be something idyllic like in "The Music Man." However, given the time period, I had to recognize that women had a lot of obstacles to overcome, so I had to temper the chapter somewhat. This chapter's word count: 1426. Running total: 23823]
She was a precocious and diligent girl surrounded by doting parents and two rambunctious older brothers. When not occupied with her chores or attending the one-room schoolhouse a mile from the farm, she'd walk an additional two miles to spend time at the library framing the eastern edge of the town square.
Every book in the modest library was fair game - history, fiction, biographies, ornithology. Even non-traditional volumes, like survey maps of the surrounding areas or minutes of town council meetings from the turn of the century could provide solid sources of entertainment or knowledge. She got to know the library staff - all four of them - and on cold or rainy Saturdays, they'd prepare sandwiches for her marathon sessions in the building after offering her a towel and blanket to warm her up at the end of her three-mile trek.
On sunny weekends, she'd run through the surrounding fields and climb every tree she encountered, undaunted by any army of thorns, cut or scrape that would hinder lesser children. She'd proudly display her long, knobby limbs to her classmates and compare the latest scab or oldest scar with any willing confederate.
At age 10 her hair was a deep chestnut hue, her freckles spread prominently across her face, and she was tall enough to look down on most of the boys in her class. She had long, fine fingers to match her gangly limbs and a wide smile with perfect teeth.
It was the long fingers that caught the special attention of her teacher, Mrs. Polly, a middle-aged widow who lived in town. In previous generations, Mrs. Polly's family had been fortunate enough to squander a significant fortune through a series of misplaced financial adventures. However, one of the adventures resulted in an upright piano sitting in the teacher's parlor years after the family regressed to modest means. Behind it stood a Victrola surrounded by the latest jazz, opera, and classical recordings. Mrs. Polly was an indiscriminate audiophile who'd listen to any genre of music from shores near or far. Her well-trained ear allowed her to play much of what she heard and transpose it for those who were equally interested in music but not as aurally talented.
She hadn't intended to take on piano students but, noticing the girl's voracious appetite for learning anything new, decided to try.
Mrs. Polly's gamble paid off. What the girl originally lacked in natural ability she compensated for with curiosity and a strong work ethic. She studied the great masters from the previous centuries and all of the corresponding major and minor modes. She took a keen interest in an emerging cornetist from New Orleans nicknamed Satchmo and, with the help of Mrs. Polly and the library staff, was able to locate a third-hand trumpet to complement her budding piano skills.
Not infrequently the duo could be heard playing into the gloaming on a weekend, one of them on the trumpet, the other hammering away rhythm and ragtime on the piano.
As the years passed, the girl's curiosity and yearning for freedom didn't wane. When she was younger, the boys used to marvel at her scabs, scars, and gawky height. Now, her dark freckles faded to something more sensual, her chestnut hair had lightened into a shade of late autumn hay, and, while most of the boys now had the height advantage, they continued to marvel at her for completely new reasons.
It was during these years that talent scouts and producers from the city would wind their way through town. The city had supplanted New York as the film capital of the world due to its unending supply of good weather and picturesque backdrops. Filmmakers would drive through the local area in their polished motor cars scouting new locations or simply marveling at an American experience so near to them in distance but rapidly diminishing in recognition from their day-to-day lives.
One of the filmmakers - a large man with a center of gravity set comically low to the ground, a cone-shaped head with dark hair surrounding it on three sides but not on top, and always dressed in poorly fitted tans and browns better matching the Sahara than the local desert - wandered into the library one Saturday to ask for directions to the nearest diner and spotted the girl at one of the large tables near the circulation desk. He decided to take a direct approach, as he always did.
"Hello, sweetness. I'm Louis Buchhalter, producer and silver screen executive. Who are you?"
"I've heard of you," was the opening reply. "You helped usher in the sound era for film. I've been impressed with your efforts." The girl didn't look up from the copy of Vanity Fair she was reading.
Buchhalter cocked his head back, surprised that the girl knew who he was without mentioning any particular pictures. This was going to be far easier than expected. "How old are you honey?"
"Seventeen." The girl thought she saw him lick his lips at the reply.
"Any interest in being an actress?"
"I've done a pretty mean Ophelia at our local community theater."
"Would you like to go for a drive?"
"Not at the moment. I'm busy."
Buchhalter, never one to back away from a challenge, left, and on the way out, asked the librarian about the girl and her habits. The librarian, eager to sing the girl's praises, wasn't shy about providing details.
And thus began the "courtship" between Buchhalter and the girl. He'd send roses to the library or stop by - never bothering to learn the staff's names. She'd arrange the roses politely on the circulation desk or give them away to determined lovers hovering around the town square in need of assistance. He'd treat her to the diner and she'd eagerly wolf down the cheeseburger and chocolate shake that had become her decadent treat. He'd drive her along the seaside and she'd close her eyes, letting her light brown hair float freely, inhaling the salt air.
Every time they met he'd let her know how big a star he was going to make her. She always said she'd need more time to consider.
Until one day, while giving her a tour of the studio lot he asked again, "you sure you don't want to be an actress?"
"Sure," she said, momentarily swept up in the spectacle, "I'd be happy to audition." Buchhalter's grin grew wide as he placed a hand on the small of her back. He ushered her toward his office.
Five minutes later he was standing in front of the couch in his office, naked from waist to ankles, with his tan pants in puddles around his feet.
"This is an awfully unusual audition," quipped the girl.
Buchhalter shrugged dramatically with a wide grin, "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours."
"Funny. That doesn't look like your back and I'm assuming you don't want me to scratch it."
"The options are endless sweetheart," he responded still in the same position.
"No thanks."
Five minutes after that she was walking away from the studio gate with a red-faced Buchhalter screaming at her a few steps behind, "YOU BITCH. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER THAN WHAT I WAS WILLING TO PROVIDE YOU?!"
She continued without breaking stride or turning around, "simple math."
Buchhalter stopped and sputtered before resuming, "FUCK YOU! YOU'LL NEVER WORK IN THIS TOWN! NEVER!"
"Guess I'll have to work somewhere else then."
She spent the next few months applying to schools in the state and found a women's college in Capital City willing to provide her a partial scholarship toward dual degrees in English and music.
The day before she left she promised her parents, Mrs. Polly and the library staff that she'd write once a week - not to each of them individually, of course, because a girl, even a prolific one, only has so many hours in the day. But, she promised to mention each of them in every letter.
A day later, Vera shaded her eyes and watched as the bus to Capital City rumbled in her direction from a half-mile down a dusty desert highway.
[Author's Note: I had a lot of fun imagining Vera's background. I wanted where she grew up to be something idyllic like in "The Music Man." However, given the time period, I had to recognize that women had a lot of obstacles to overcome, so I had to temper the chapter somewhat. This chapter's word count: 1426. Running total: 23823]
Sunday, January 5, 2020
Chapter 21 - Watching Rome Burn
"...and he didn't give you further details? He just wanted 'information?'" Tannehill stirred sugar and cream into his coffee while relaying the previous night's events to Vera. Whether due to the mild concussion Otto gifted him with or sheer exhaustion from two nights of no sleep, Tannehill was able to rest his weary head for a solid 10 hours in peaceful, dreamless slumber the night before.
Tannehill took a drawn-out slurp from his bittersweet concoction. "Yup."
"Do you have any idea what type of information he was asking for?"
"Nope." He took another long slurp. Vera folded her arms and stared ahead at him. Realizing this answer wasn't going to satisfy her, he continued, "but I wasn't going to let him know that."
"So you fought it out like a couple of chess grandmasters, I suppose, with the prized family jewels at stake." She looked down at her folded arms and back up again. "Well played but how are you going to continue to bluff your way through this?"
"Uhh," Tannehill felt the confidence from last night's encounter with Otto begin to drain.
"I guess you can wow them with your knowledge of the latest jazz artists when you meet them later." Tannehill took another insecure sip of coffee as Vera sighed theatrically.
He colored slightly, "where's your yellow outfit? You're back in mint green again."
"Well, Sherlock, I wore my yellow one yesterday when we didn't see each other. I know your solipsistic mind may have problems grasping the continuity of people moving in and out of the frame of your quotidian happenings but I was, in fact, in existence yesterday wearing my yellow uniform."
Tannehill's next sip of coffee was no more secure than his prior one.
Vera groaned slightly, "anyway, quit deflecting from the matter at hand. Let's go through the timeline of events that occurred yesterday and see if we get any closer to the 'information' you and your new pet ape are seeking."
Tannehill straightened a bit and took a slightly more confident sip of coffee. Vera continued. "You started off meeting the detective on the case right? The one who's an inch shy of staring down Frankenstein?"
"Yes, and then I stopped by here for breakfast."
Vera's face brightened, "Oh, so you encountered Flo?" She whistled and rolled her eyes.
"Yes. What is it you do in between shifts here, anyway?"
"Turn tricks down at the pier."
"Fine, I won't ask."
"Geez, I go to school. C'mon, quit procrastinating. There's got to be something here that'll help us out."
Tannehill was intrigued by Vera's use of the word 'us' but didn't correct her. "Ok. After my initial interview with Lieutenant Murphy, I stopped by here and then went home to grab some shut-eye."
"And then?"
"Murphy called me back into the precinct to deliver the news that they'd identified a suspect - one who'd recently confessed."
"Your uncle friend from the apartment building, right?"
"Yes."
"What then?"
"He handed me an envelope with Snell's belongings and sent me on my way."
"And then you encountered your new friend in your office?"
"Correct."
"And all you know about him is that he's asking for 'information'?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think the story as it plays out now with your uncle friend as the murderer isn't straight?"
"Too coincidental. And Beederman - the uncle - was in the same location I was in when Snell was getting offed." Snell glanced toward the ceiling thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Otto - my assailant last night - didn't get Beederman's name right. You'd think that if they're connected in this, he wouldn't make that mistake."
Vera shrugged, "maybe they weren't close."
Tannehill shook his head, "no, I don't think that's it. This isn't some vast conspiracy where everyone connected only refers to one another by some secretive, theatrical name."
"What does that imply then?"
"I don't know. I'll have to chew on it."
"What was in the envelope?"
"What envelope?"
"The envelope Murphy gave you with Snell's belongings."
"His wallet and a cigarette case. I found that somewhat odd since Snell didn't smoke."
Vera raised an eyebrow. "Do you have the envelope with you?"
"No, but I can run to my place and grab it."
"Ok. I'll wait here for you. I don't have much going on."
A voice boomed from the kitchen "Vera! Stop chit-chatting! We've got a breakfast rush."
Vera rolled her eyes again and sighed, standing up in deliberate fashion. Before walking back to the counter, she leaned over to Tannehill and whispered, "come back at 10. I've got some free time before I need to head to the pier." Tannehill glanced at her sideways and smirked, taking another confident slurp of coffee.
---
When Tannehill reappeared, Vera was camped comfortably in a booth with her own cup of coffee intently working on the day's crossword.
"Who was the last emperor of the Julian-Claudian dynasty?" she asked as Tannehill approached. He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised an exuberant finger in the air and exclaimed "Nero!" before he could indicate he had no clue.
She put her pencil down and eyed the manila envelope tucked under Tannehill's arm. "Let's see the goods." Tannehill settled into the booth and slid the envelope across to her.
She pulled out the wallet first and flipped it over, revealing nothing. "No cash?"
"It's already been passed through precinct processing so I'm sure they've collected any requisite city taxes on Snell's behalf for dying."
She continued thumbing through the wallet to find anything of use, pulling out Snell's identification card in the process. "Huh, he was older than I expected. Didn't look half bad for his age." She paused briefly, "his middle name was Augustus?"
Tannehill shrugged. "I suppose. I forget my middle name pretty frequently, so I'm not likely to remember anyone else's."
She replaced the identification card and tossed the wallet aside. She slid the cigarette case from the envelope and looked at the engraving - "RAS". The A stood out prominently, one and a half times as large as the "R" and the "S". "The initials fit - Richard Augustus Snell. He didn't smoke?"
"Nope."
"It could be a keepsake. Do you know if his father had the same initials?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Not sure, but he wasn't a sentimental individual by any means."
Vera opened the case up. It was completely stocked with a cheap brand of cigarettes. She began removing them one by one until the entire lot was scattered on the table. She ducked her head closer to the case with a quizzical look. "What's that?" She placed the case on the table and pointed.
Tannehill stared at the case and noticed a small slip of cardstock peeking from one corner. He looked briefly at Vera and matched the bemused look that had appeared on her face with his own. He pulled on the crossbar of the case and both of them watched as the interior of the case separated from its exterior. A silver key clinked on to the table unceremoniously.
Floating belatedly behind it was a torn matchbook cover with an address scrawled inside the cover - Loving's Bakery 9360 S. Oceanside.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1190 words for a New Year's total of 22397. I hope to be a bit more consistent in my upcoming chapters but I often rush to write my 1000 words on the weekend which causes me (a little) anxiety. If I can write a few words throughout the week I'll still stick to the Sunday release schedule. Otherwise, I'll slow things down a bit so I don't stress myself out for some arbitrary goal.]
Tannehill took a drawn-out slurp from his bittersweet concoction. "Yup."
"Do you have any idea what type of information he was asking for?"
"Nope." He took another long slurp. Vera folded her arms and stared ahead at him. Realizing this answer wasn't going to satisfy her, he continued, "but I wasn't going to let him know that."
"So you fought it out like a couple of chess grandmasters, I suppose, with the prized family jewels at stake." She looked down at her folded arms and back up again. "Well played but how are you going to continue to bluff your way through this?"
"Uhh," Tannehill felt the confidence from last night's encounter with Otto begin to drain.
"I guess you can wow them with your knowledge of the latest jazz artists when you meet them later." Tannehill took another insecure sip of coffee as Vera sighed theatrically.
He colored slightly, "where's your yellow outfit? You're back in mint green again."
"Well, Sherlock, I wore my yellow one yesterday when we didn't see each other. I know your solipsistic mind may have problems grasping the continuity of people moving in and out of the frame of your quotidian happenings but I was, in fact, in existence yesterday wearing my yellow uniform."
Tannehill's next sip of coffee was no more secure than his prior one.
Vera groaned slightly, "anyway, quit deflecting from the matter at hand. Let's go through the timeline of events that occurred yesterday and see if we get any closer to the 'information' you and your new pet ape are seeking."
Tannehill straightened a bit and took a slightly more confident sip of coffee. Vera continued. "You started off meeting the detective on the case right? The one who's an inch shy of staring down Frankenstein?"
"Yes, and then I stopped by here for breakfast."
Vera's face brightened, "Oh, so you encountered Flo?" She whistled and rolled her eyes.
"Yes. What is it you do in between shifts here, anyway?"
"Turn tricks down at the pier."
"Fine, I won't ask."
"Geez, I go to school. C'mon, quit procrastinating. There's got to be something here that'll help us out."
Tannehill was intrigued by Vera's use of the word 'us' but didn't correct her. "Ok. After my initial interview with Lieutenant Murphy, I stopped by here and then went home to grab some shut-eye."
"And then?"
"Murphy called me back into the precinct to deliver the news that they'd identified a suspect - one who'd recently confessed."
"Your uncle friend from the apartment building, right?"
"Yes."
"What then?"
"He handed me an envelope with Snell's belongings and sent me on my way."
"And then you encountered your new friend in your office?"
"Correct."
"And all you know about him is that he's asking for 'information'?"
"Yes."
"What makes you think the story as it plays out now with your uncle friend as the murderer isn't straight?"
"Too coincidental. And Beederman - the uncle - was in the same location I was in when Snell was getting offed." Snell glanced toward the ceiling thoughtfully.
"What?"
"Otto - my assailant last night - didn't get Beederman's name right. You'd think that if they're connected in this, he wouldn't make that mistake."
Vera shrugged, "maybe they weren't close."
Tannehill shook his head, "no, I don't think that's it. This isn't some vast conspiracy where everyone connected only refers to one another by some secretive, theatrical name."
"What does that imply then?"
"I don't know. I'll have to chew on it."
"What was in the envelope?"
"What envelope?"
"The envelope Murphy gave you with Snell's belongings."
"His wallet and a cigarette case. I found that somewhat odd since Snell didn't smoke."
Vera raised an eyebrow. "Do you have the envelope with you?"
"No, but I can run to my place and grab it."
"Ok. I'll wait here for you. I don't have much going on."
A voice boomed from the kitchen "Vera! Stop chit-chatting! We've got a breakfast rush."
Vera rolled her eyes again and sighed, standing up in deliberate fashion. Before walking back to the counter, she leaned over to Tannehill and whispered, "come back at 10. I've got some free time before I need to head to the pier." Tannehill glanced at her sideways and smirked, taking another confident slurp of coffee.
---
When Tannehill reappeared, Vera was camped comfortably in a booth with her own cup of coffee intently working on the day's crossword.
"Who was the last emperor of the Julian-Claudian dynasty?" she asked as Tannehill approached. He opened his mouth to respond, but she raised an exuberant finger in the air and exclaimed "Nero!" before he could indicate he had no clue.
She put her pencil down and eyed the manila envelope tucked under Tannehill's arm. "Let's see the goods." Tannehill settled into the booth and slid the envelope across to her.
She pulled out the wallet first and flipped it over, revealing nothing. "No cash?"
"It's already been passed through precinct processing so I'm sure they've collected any requisite city taxes on Snell's behalf for dying."
She continued thumbing through the wallet to find anything of use, pulling out Snell's identification card in the process. "Huh, he was older than I expected. Didn't look half bad for his age." She paused briefly, "his middle name was Augustus?"
Tannehill shrugged. "I suppose. I forget my middle name pretty frequently, so I'm not likely to remember anyone else's."
She replaced the identification card and tossed the wallet aside. She slid the cigarette case from the envelope and looked at the engraving - "RAS". The A stood out prominently, one and a half times as large as the "R" and the "S". "The initials fit - Richard Augustus Snell. He didn't smoke?"
"Nope."
"It could be a keepsake. Do you know if his father had the same initials?"
Tannehill shrugged again. "Not sure, but he wasn't a sentimental individual by any means."
Vera opened the case up. It was completely stocked with a cheap brand of cigarettes. She began removing them one by one until the entire lot was scattered on the table. She ducked her head closer to the case with a quizzical look. "What's that?" She placed the case on the table and pointed.
Tannehill stared at the case and noticed a small slip of cardstock peeking from one corner. He looked briefly at Vera and matched the bemused look that had appeared on her face with his own. He pulled on the crossbar of the case and both of them watched as the interior of the case separated from its exterior. A silver key clinked on to the table unceremoniously.
Floating belatedly behind it was a torn matchbook cover with an address scrawled inside the cover - Loving's Bakery 9360 S. Oceanside.
[Author's Note: Today's edition is 1190 words for a New Year's total of 22397. I hope to be a bit more consistent in my upcoming chapters but I often rush to write my 1000 words on the weekend which causes me (a little) anxiety. If I can write a few words throughout the week I'll still stick to the Sunday release schedule. Otherwise, I'll slow things down a bit so I don't stress myself out for some arbitrary goal.]
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