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  “Mr. Tilddler?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Oh, well, I’m Mrs. Hildebrandt. Mr. Tilddler is expecting me.”

  “I’m Norman.”

  “Hello, Norman, are you the houseman?”

  “No, a guest.”

  “Well, this is rather peculiar,” she complained, looking around the man and into the house. “I suppose I’ll come in and wait too,” and tossing an exaggerated glance at her belongings, inched one bag forward with her foot. A fleeting distrust for the brassy woman swelled, and his eyes grew round as Norman deciphered her gesture as impertinent. But as he reached for the luggage set before him, the pushy woman charged ahead.

  “This is all rather unconventional,” Goldie exclaimed as Norman shut the door and set her bags aside. “I don’t like the way this is all beginning to shake out. It would be so much better if Mr. Tilddler were here.” She removed her gloves and revealing her uninhibited self, wandered through the foyer into the living room. “How’d you get in?”

  “The front door was open.”

  “And you just walked in?”

  “Yes, that’s what I was told to do on the phone.”

  “Oh, my instructions were different. Mine said to arrive by way of coach, but nothing about entering on my own. I just assumed…”

  “Someone would be here?”

  “Something like that.” She sat down on the sofa and settled back into the corner. She seemed to gravitate to corners. “Have you been here long?”

  “Not really, maybe an hour.” He sat down in the sofa chair and put his feet up on the ottoman. It was the first time all day that he felt comfortable.

  “This is a very nice room in an old fashion kind of way.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, but do we know each other? You seem so familiar.”

  “So that’s why you were staring at me. I was beginning to think I had something in my teeth. Come here closer to the lamp; my eyesight is not what it once was.” The giant obeyed and leaned his face toward the light. “Hmmm, maybe, ever been to Kingston?”

  “Jamaica?”

  “No, New York.”

  “Can’t say I have.”

  Goldie put her finger to her temple and tapped. “I know! The newspaper, I bet it was a picture in the paper.”

  Norman laughed, “Newspaper? Imagine my mug in the newspaper.”

  “Perhaps, not,” agreed Goldie airing her doubts. “But sooner or later, it’ll come to me.”

  ***

  When Mr. Wolfe arrived, he could not help but to be impressed. He asked the coachman to let him off before entering through the gates. The walk would give him time to get the kinks out of his stiff legs; he told the driver. At first, there was some resistance; instructions were to drive the guests directly to the walkway. However, Wolfe’s sinister appearance must have made the driver think twice and let him out without any more appeals from the passenger.

  It was a narrow road, and so the coachman continued along until he found a sizable tract where the horses walked around a stand of trees, like a merry go round, and changed directions back from where they came. Mr. Wolfe waved as they passed him by and turned his attention to the tranquil surroundings. He could see the house in the distance, a large two-story square structure covered in ornamental ivy. Four fluted columns, two on either side of the door, supported an elongated overhang and encased the oak door. The residence’s surroundings were well wooded, a feature that made Wolfe feel more at home.

  Mr. Wolfe had been the first to arrive, greeted by a younger man in a white uniform of pleated slacks and a severely starched linen shirt. And although the houseman made no noise when he walked, Wolfe noted that it was because his feet barely touched the floor when he moved; instead, he slid. No mention had been made by Salisbury, the houseman in white, about the hostess. And as Wolfe was not much of a conversationalist, the question never arose. He was tired from his travels and the long walk with his heavy suitcase and being as there was nothing else to do, he went directly to his room where the fatigued guest lay down and promptly fell asleep.

  ***

  “Wolfe, is that you? Why you old son-of-a-gun!”

  “Norman, Norman…no wait, don’t tell me; it is you! Good Lord, how many years has it been?”

  “Too damn many!” cried Norman. “You look good, really good! A little grayer than I remember, but all and all, the same.”

  “Thanks and you too, still big, age hasn’t shortened you,” Wolfe laughed. “Still tall as a ramrod. Damn, I feel awful, should have kept in touch. But you know how it is.”

  “Yea, I read about your case.”

  “Yours too.” He tapped the side table and leaned back in the cushioned chair. There was a tinge of sorrow in his voice as he quickly recreated the events.

  “So, you got an invitation too.” Wolfe picked up his whiskey and took a sip. “Are we the only ones here?”

  “No, there’s an elderly woman. Mrs. Hildebrandt.”

  Wolfe nodded. He wasn’t very good with names, but he never forgot a face. “You drinking? I can ring for Salisbury; he’ll get you anything you need. Nice guy.”

  “Think they have a beer?”

  Wolfe shrugged and wondered why the man didn’t want something more expensive than beer. He could drink that at home. But then, he remembered, Norman was a simple kind of guy.

  As if the houseman had heard his name, he entered the room escorting Mrs. Hildebrandt carrying a wood-handled bag over her arm that was almost as large as she was. “Mr. Wolfe, I don’t believe you have met Mrs. Hildebrandt. She arrived several hours after you.”

  She waved her hand for them not to stand and nestled into an armchair like a cat. “Please, call me Goldie. We’ll be trapped here together all weekend, so we might as well forget the formalities.” She looked past the guests and turned to the Salisbury. “Can you bring me a cup of tea with lemon?”

  “And a lager for me,” added Norman.

  “Tea and a lager, and you, Sir?” He repeated the requests and turned to Wolfe, “are you content?”

  “Quite.”

  The three guests sat in silence as Salisbury slid out of the room. Mrs. Hildebrandt slipped her embroidery out of a canvas bag and began to rethread a needle. Norman sat with his eyes closed, but Wolfe remained slightly on edge. He sipped his drink and stared at the old woman sitting in front of him. “Goldie, Goldie, damn, I’m sure we know each other,” Wolfe remarked.

  “We’re both from the same side of town; only I’m a bit older than you.”

  He continued to roll her name around in his head, annoyed that this elder was playing him. “I give up,” he started to say when suddenly he sat up in his chair. “Son of a bitch! You’re Goldie…!”

  “The one and only.” She smiled and then acting coy, retreated to her needlework.

  “It seems as though our host has purposely put us together on the same collision course,” Norman surmised. “Since we all have a bit of notoriety.”

  “Shameless, isn’t it?” Goldie teased. “But, at least we know some of the players.”

  ***

  When the three guests entered the spacious dining room, an unembellished woman wearing a red velvet dress and lace collar was seated at the head. She was neither attractive nor plain, perhaps striking would be the best adjective for her looks. And no one would know that she had difficulty walking had there not been a white-handled cane leaning against the table. “Please forgive me for not being here when you all arrived, but my train was delayed by inclement weather. It appears that the storm I rode through has not yet arrived.” She smiled and floated her hand above the chair next to her. Mr. Wolfe, if you would sit to my left, Norman, to my right, and Mrs. Hildebrandt, why don’t you take the seat opposing mine. When the others arrive tomorrow morning, I will have the butler add additional leaves to the table. In the
meantime, we can have a cozy dinner. I do hope you like lamb.” She waited as they made audible noises of pleasure at the announcement of lamb, and after pulling out chairs, while Salisbury helped Goldie, all were sitting attentively like children in a classroom waiting for the teacher to speak. All eyes were on the woman in red.

  Salisbury returned with a bottle of Malbec and poured a small amount into the hostess’s glass. After taking a sip, she returned a look of approval. He slid along the floor and poured wine into the other glasses. “I hope you all are finding your accommodations comfortable,” she said, raising her glass. “Here’s to a successful weekend!”

  “To a successful weekend,” they chanted, all except Mr. Wolfe.

  “If you don’t mind, but I am a bit curious. Who are you?” he asked the bubbly woman.

  “Oh, silly me, of course, we haven’t been formally introduced. I am Tamaya Rosebud. A librarian.”

  “A very honorable career indeed,” piped in Mrs. Hildebrandt, who was enjoying her wine perhaps a bit too much, for already her glass was almost empty.

  “And if you don’t mind me asking, just what is your connection with this whole event?” asked Wolfe, ignoring the older guest’s giddiness.

  “It is I who arranged our meeting. My attorney, Mr. Tilddler, sent your invitations. I didn’t think you’d come if you received one from a librarian.”

  “Probably not,” agreed Norman with a note of wariness in his attitude.

  But it was the smell of dinner that began to lighten the mood as Ms. Rosebud, elated by Salisbury’s perfect timing by carrying a tray of roast lamb with mint sauce into the dining room. “Oh, let’s not ruin our digestion with a lot of business talk,” bubbled the librarian. “I want you to enjoy your meal, and after dinner, we can get to small talk.”

  “Bon appetite!” cried Mrs. Hildebrandt. She had decided that if Norman and Wolfe wanted to be a pair of spoiled sports, let them. As for her, she was going to milk this weekend for all it was worth.

  Chapter 3

  “A great deal of planning went into this living room,” remarked Norman. He was awestruck by the fineries around him, along with feeling a bit out of sorts, having surrendered to the straight back chair. A few extra seats had been brought in from the dining room to accommodate the arriving guests.

  “Oh, do sit on this comfy sofa,” Mrs. Hildebrandt said, tapping the cushion. After eating such a big meal, she was feeling quite content. But Norman did not take the invitation to move and remained where he was lest his great weight would cause a see-saw effect, causing the plush sofa cushion to plunge like a deflated balloon.

  The fireplace with its white marble mantle was the focal point of the room. Cattycorner, a pair of French doors opened to the veranda that wrapped around the entire rear of the house. Four windows draped in floor-length brocade exposed either the sunlight or moonlight, depending upon the time of day. On the opposite wall stood a sideboard and mahogany bookshelf. In the far corner, a miniature grand piano poised like an awkward child.

  “Do you play?” Norman asked, pointing to the piano.

  “Not well, but I do a great rendition of Mary had a little lamb,” Ms. Rosebud chuckled, but no one else in the room seemed to find her joke funny.

  Mr. Wolfe picked up his demitasse and brought it to his nose. It had a wonderful aroma, and it made him almost drowsy. He turned to the hostess and smiled, but remembering what his wife said, he toned his expression down to a grin. “Tell us exactly why you have gone to such great lengths to gather us here.” He had grown especially tired being as he was in the habit of taking naps during the day. It was time she gave them some answers.

  But the calm of the evening was suddenly interrupted by a great rumbling, followed by a flash of lightning that cut like a blade. The wind clawed down the chimney, and then it began to rain. “I believe this is the tenth anniversary of the great flood. But don’t worry; we get rainstorms like this all the time,” Ms. Rosebud remarked. “I do hope it doesn’t prevent the next group from arriving, though,” she muttered under her breath. She looked at her watch and then turned back to her guests. “It all started when I read an article in one of my library journals about Morgan Babbitt Publishing Company. There is often a write-up about a successful entrepreneur. Well, anyway, it got me thinking about their books, and how many of them are my favorites.” Norman turned to Mr. Wolfe and shrugged. She pulled the cane towards her and slowly made her way up out of the chair to the breakfront, where she opened the drawer and removed a dog-eared magazine. “I’ve been saving it for just this moment.” She shuffled through the yellowing pages until she came to one that made her clear her throat before reading aloud.

  Morgan Bobbitt Publishers was launched in 1923 by a Swiss émigré, Almond Renoir, publishing fictional novels and handsomely designed editions of classics, anthologies, and fairy tales, for which he commissioned a studio of full-time illustrators. After his death in 1951, Renoir’s widow, Francesca Cosse Renoir, took control of the business in addition to perpetuating her passion as a collector of children’s literature. After retiring from the company, she turned the publishing dynasty over to their children, Maurice and Evette Babbitt. The firm continued to initiate and encourage the careers of many talented authors and illustrators. However, their greatest achievement became known as the “second golden age of children’s literature” by lucratively remarketing and reviving favorite classic fairytales.” Tamaya folded the article and placed it back in the drawer before returning to her chair.

  “I’m afraid I don’t see the point,” explained Mr. Wolfe, a bit disappointed by the anticlimactic set up by Ms. Rosebud’s train of thought. He sipped his demitasse and sighed.

  “But I see a connection!” piped in Goldie. “Morgan Babbitt Publishers, they’re the ones who have the rights to my story.”

  “Me too!” added Norman, who came alive with this bit of proclamation.

  “And you, Mr. Wolfe?” asked the librarian.

  He put his cup down and scowled. “It seems so.”

  “And the other guests will also confirm they too are connected. You are all part of the great publishing empire we know as Morgan Babbitt Ltd,” added Ms. Rosebud.

  “So, what’s the point of having us here? I’m sure it’s not because of our infamy,” declared Wolfe.

  “Infamy,” pouted Goldie. “I rather like to think of it as notoriety. Look, even Ms. Rosebud is a fan of our youthful escapades.”

  “Well, if you ask me, I have to agree with Wolfe,” nodded Norman, still appearing out of sorts in the too-small chair for the large man. “I believe most literary critics have branded us fiends, even villains.”

  “Precisely, my point!” the librarian gloated.

  “Bastards,” grumbled Mr. Wolfe sitting up in his wingback.

  “I believe we have had enough chatter for one evening,” the hostess suggested seeing as the discussion was not sitting well with her guest. “In the morning, after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast, we will rectify these wrongs.”

  “An excellent idea,” remarked Salisbury, who had slid into the room towards Mrs. Hildebrandt. “Let me help you to your room, Madame,” he said. And placing her hand on his forearm, he pulled the cranky woman to her feet.

  “I hope the storm doesn’t keep you all up,” remarked the hostess. “I, for one, find it quite soothing.”

  The earlier stages of the evening were wearing off with tired affirmatives, and ‘good night’ salutations. Each guest went their separate way, and as the lights of the storm-filled each bedroom room, there was a volley of anticipation floating throughout the house of what the next day would bring.

  ***

  Norman placed his knife under the pillow, a ritual he performed before bed ever since his release from prison. He was never going to be vulnerable again. Being big was once a curse, but he learned the hard way how to use his size to manipulate situation
s. The concealment of the knife was for one of those “just in case” moments. He closed his eyes, and in a matter of only a few minutes, he was asleep.

  ***

  Mr. Wolfe was old, but his hearing was still as keen as when he was a pup. He lay on his back and closed his eyes. He hadn’t been apart from his wife since prison, and now so many miles away, he regretted this trip. He turned over on his side and pulled the pillow under his chin. His instincts told him something was not right. The storm was subsiding, and as he listened to the rain, he found himself slowly drifting off to sleep.

  ***

  Goldie Hildebrandt was too keyed up to sleep. She liked things in a particular order and found she couldn’t go to bed until her clothes were placed in the dresser, and her dresses and blouses hung up in the closet. She arranged bottles of her homemade remedies on the bureau, and like every night before retiring, she took a teaspoon of cod liver oil. She stood in her dressing gown by the French door and peeked outside. Such a lovely room, she thought nosing about. The crystal ashtray was especially lovely, too pretty to snuff out dirty cigar butts. She set it back on the writing desk, deciding it would make a nice souvenir to take home. She pulled down the comforter and lay down between the sheets. Not too hard, not too soft, the bed was just right. And then, she also fell right off to sleep.

  ***

  Mr. Stiltskin’s knock was more than robust for an early morning arrival. Salisbury opened the door to the older man measuring little more than four feet tall. With white hair and a well-groomed beard, he was much like St. Nick but not quite as round. His brows were thick and bushy arching over pale blue eyes. He had a friendly appearance, and though he was not a hearty looking fellow, his demeanor was rugged for his diminutive size. “I’m here on account of the invite,” he cheerfully said, and handing the houseman his duffle bag, he poked his head through the threshold.