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  “Get a doctor!” cried a desperate plea.

  Tisbe thought it was her sister’s voice but couldn’t be sure. Then two other strained voices were raised in a prolonged cry for, “Help him up!”

  “Ms. Rosebud and Goldie?” she thought. Tisbe nibbled her sandwich as several men elevated a holler of appeals.

  “Water! Get some water!”

  She heard the chattering of commands, and an “easy does it!” She watched from the side-lines as Norman and Mr. Dover carried a limp Mr. Jay up the stairs. A line of do-gooders followed with water. The commotion finally died down when they reached the first landing and deposited the sorry man into one of the spare bedrooms. The door shut behind.

  Tisbe sighed with exhaustion. “These sandwiches need a touch more lemon juice,” she thought and straining to see outside, continued to watch the rain.

  ***

  “It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You gave something to Jay; I can tell when you’re up to no good.” Javotte followed her sister into the kitchen. “You’re jealous because I was having fun, and you aren’t. And now he’s dead!”

  “Dead!”

  “Well, I think he could be dead. He’s still upstairs in bed, and Dr. Cason said if he had eaten any more of those strawberries, he would be.” The woman’s declaration ended with a tone of indignation.

  “Almost and is are two completely different things. Besides, how can you accuse me of something so heinous?” lamented Tisbe with crocodile tears. “After all the things we’ve been through.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry Tis, it’s just that you are the only one who doesn’t like him, that’s all.”

  “Well, just don’t go around telling people that I tried to kill the old codger, it’s bad luck, you know.”

  Javotte nodded her head in agreement, only after having her sister promise not to call him an old codger.

  ***

  No one sighed more loudly than Ms. Rosebud. There was an uninvited man in her spare bedroom and a small flood on the veranda. She knew about the latter only because water was seeping in from beneath the French doors. Salisbury had already made his rounds in each room and mopped up any water that he could see. “Don’t worry, Madame,” he said. “It should stop any day now.” He smiled maniacally, but the hostess was too busy herding the guests into the living room to notice his bad humor.

  “How’s Popeye?” asked Mr. Stiltskin.

  “He’ll be alright,” said Dr. Cason.

  “What happened? One minute he was fine, and the next he turned blue and couldn’t breathe,” quizzed Goldie.

  “To the best of my diagnosis and let me remind you I am only a forensic scientist, it was a reaction to something he ate. Allergic reactions can be deadly if not treated immediately.”

  “Such a shame,” lamented the elder.

  “Yes, such a shame,” agreed Tisbe.

  An hour had elapsed since the grave incident, and restlessness was now advancing among the guests. Tamaya Rosebud tapped her cane, and as if calling the court to order, she signaled everyone to find a chair. “My intentions for the weekend will now come to light,” she began. “First, I want to thank all of you for traveling here on such short notice, assembling a group from so far away is a challenge. I will begin by telling you a bit about myself. As the head librarian at the Elwood Greens Division of Libraries, I am a noted authority on classical literature. I have read many versions of your tales, which I have found notably similar for the following reason. In each situation, the authors have independently, yet collectively, characterized your personalities with insensitivity. They often villainize and defame you with descriptions such as, and I quote, ‘My man is an ogre, and there’s nothing he likes better than boys broiled on toast. You’d better be moving on, or he’ll soon be coming.’ This ogre is referring to Norman, grotesquely implicating that he eats children.” Ms. Rosebud shook her head with disgust as she continued. “The authors spared no one, not even the reputation of innocent children in their stories. Here is a line that always sticks in my throat when I read it. ‘She could not have been a good, honest little girl; for first she looked in at the window, and then she peeped in at the keyhole and seeing nobody in the house, she lifted the latch.’ This infamous scene refers to Goldie when she came upon the house in the woods.” Ms. Rosebud turned to the two sisters, hoping they would not be too offended with the detailed excerpts about them. But the youngest of the two interrupted Tamaya before she spoke.

  “Let me tell everyone that may have forgotten a few of the cruel remarks written about us; these words I have condemned ever since the first day I read them!” seethed Javotte. ‘They were fair in face but foul at heart…’ And remember this one, Tisbe, ‘a widow, (that’s Mother), with two hard-featured daughters, was very proud and overbearing; and, if her two daughters had only never been born, or, being born, had died, she would then have possessed the vilest temper in all the world. As it was, the three were all equally gifted in that respect.’” Ms. Javotte pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped her brow. She was shaking, and her sister called for Salisbury to bring them both a brandy to calm their nerves.

  A climate of resentment circled the room as Ms. Rosebud spoke. Mr. Dover, pulling on his beard, sat stiff as a corpse. Even though he had not personally taken the pen and written the stories himself, he grimly felt blame sliding off the tongues of this strange group of characters. It was in his interest to temper the situation.

  “It’s my turn!” squealed Mr. Stiltskin. “And brother, do I have a story.”

  “Everyone knows it, Ray,” said Wolfe with boredom. “After all, your name is synonymous with kidnapper.”

  “My point exactly! But it’s all lies. I was cleared fair and square. But those authors, they tarnished my image; they made me loathsome!”

  “And you, Mr. Wolfe, do you wish to add anything?” asked the lawyer.

  “Add anything to this therapy group? I don’t go in for feel-good sessions. I don’t have anything to say that nobody doesn’t already know.”

  “Then you don’t mind if I point out the constant harassment you and your family have endured for centuries. I know that it goes all the back to antiquity,” Tamaya stressed.

  “Go ahead,” he shrugged. “But they’ve heard it all before.”

  “These excerpts cited from several books deem Wolfe as evil and heartless. I quote, ‘Mr. Wolfe. He is no friend of ours, and you must not talk with him, for he is cruel and will do you harm.’ And then there is this infamous and monstrous rumor precipitated by the earliest edition and repeated all too often. ‘You must be very careful while I am away. If wicked Wolfe should get in, he would certainly eat you.’ “

  Open mouths, pouting lips, silent-movie style, all were mute; even Ray Stiltskin didn’t utter a word. Ms. Rosebud continued. “I contacted other victims, but in some cases, the invitations came back marked return to sender. Some were undeliverable.” The dreary weather imparted to the afternoon a moroseness reminiscent of hearing bad news. There was no mistaking that the day was shedding despair, an exactly opposite effect the hostess had intended. “Salisbury,” said Tamaya, “please get everyone a drink, I think we could all use one. I know I do.” His starched white uniform appeared to be the only bright spot in the room.

  “Would brandy be acceptable?” he hoped. The houseman wanted nothing more to do than to fill each glass with the same drink.

  “Certainly, that will be fine.” And with an affirmative nod, he quickly glided away before she could give the next order.

  “So,” said Dr. Cason tapping her fountain pen on a pad. She liked to take notes when she talked. “I believe we need to get to the heart of why we asked you all here.”

  “Finally,” muttered Javotte under her breath.

  “It is obvious that you have all been maligned and defamed by th
e authors who have written your tales. Then, to make matters even more sordid, for decades, they have passed through the hands of different publishers without concern for any of you. Ms. Rosebud has been following your lives and amassed a sizeable collection of books with your stories. And though she cannot give many of you back the years lost in prison or personal exile, she believes it is time for monetary retribution.”

  Dr. Cason paused to look down at her notes just as Salisbury entered with several uncorked bottles of brandy. “I assume everyone would like some spirits,” he asked.

  “Lord, yes!” exclaimed Goldie.

  “Brandy all around,” squealed Ray with his usual zealous banter.

  It took several minutes for each glass to be filled and several more minutes for everyone to get settled again. The brandy was regarded as a positive improvement, one that was summed up as ‘necessary.’ “Madame, I’m going to check on our upstairs guest,” said Salisbury, making his appearance known.

  “Thank you, Salisbury,” and with a light dusting of her hand, shooed the man away like a pesky fly.

  “We were discussing retribution.” Peri Cason looked around the room with a changed attitude towards the serious. “This is where Mr. Dover fits in. We see that all of your copyrights are with Babbitt Publishing, and to date, they continue to publish and distribute your stories.”

  “If you don’t mind, I would like to say something before you get too far along,” interrupted Norman. Today he chose to sit on the sofa, where his knees were bent almost up to his shoulders. Feather pillows were his nemesis. “We are all too familiar with the Babbit’s tactics since they distribute our royalty checks.” He then turned to look around and noticed everyone was wagging their heads in agreement.

  “Except mine bounced!” grumbled Wolfe.

  “I think I can explain. That wasn’t supposed to happen,” Mr. Dover lifted his drink and took a sip after he spoke. He’d be damned if he was going to apologize for the accounting department.

  “Damn right!” barked Wolfe.

  “Gentlemen, please,” scoffed the youngest sister. “I want to hear about this monetary thing.”

  “Me too!” snapped the little man who was looking around for Salisbury to pour him another round.

  Harold Dover had the feeling this wasn’t going to be easy. He had gotten their attention and hoped there wouldn’t be any more interruptions until he finished with what he had come to say. “I have been instructed to offer each of you a full year’s compensation package in addition to the release of all publication rights. Babbitt Publishing has agreed to publish your stories no longer.”

  “And a public apology?” asked Javotte.

  Mr. Dover looked at Ms. Rosebud and then to Dr. Cason. “I’m afraid we aren’t able to do that,” he said.

  “Why not?” demanded Norman.

  “Because they’re not liable for any wrongdoing,” explained the lawyer. “It was the courts that found you all guilty, morally, yes, the authors and original publishers could have been found liable if you had taken them to court. Although not impossible, it was doubtful you would have been awarded any compensation. The applicant would have to prove (1) use of defamatory words relating to the plaintiff, (2) publication to third parties, (3) falsity of facts, (4) culpability, and (5) injury. But this is now all hearsay since those responsible are all dead.” She looked up from her notes stony-faced.

  “Which means?” asked Goldie.

  “You’re shit out of luck if you think the Babbit’s will offer an apology,” said Wolfe.

  “Crudely blunt, but correct,” agreed Mr. Dover.

  “So, let me see if I get this straight. You’ll give me compensation and agree not to publish the book ever again in exchange for not sending me any more royalty checks,” pressed Mr. Stiltskin.

  “Exactly.”

  “Sounds like you guys are getting off easy!” snapped Wolfe.

  A sudden murmur like bees in a hive filled the room as they digested the deal placed in front of them. “I think things are going rather well,” whispered Javotte to Tisbe. “With a lump sum and that dreadful story forever shelved, we can finally travel and not go incognito.”

  “Well, I don’t like it!” exclaimed Goldie to Norman. “Between my husband’s pension and my royalty checks, I can live without worrying about finances. What the hell am I going to do with a lump sum?”

  “Invest it,” said Ray, who was eavesdropping.

  “In what?”

  “Gold!” he laughed. “I obviously won’t live forever, as you can see,” he grinned stroking his white beard. “Take the money and run; that’s my motto!”

  “I suppose a lump sum isn’t such a bad idea,” remarked Norman. A sense of peace suddenly overcame the large man as he thought that his story could no longer be published. Naturally, there were old copies around, but gradually they would be weeded out of the libraries and fade away like a bad memory.

  “You’re both fools!” harped the elderly woman. “Sure, once upon a time, no pun intended, I would have liked the entire bundle. But now, it seems more prudent to take the royalty checks. That way, we have a constant flow of income.”

  Norman appeared to flounder and now thought more enthusiastically about her logic. “You do have a point,” he nodded in agreement.

  “Glad to see you’re coming on to our side, Norman,” said Mr. Wolfe as he lifted his drink and took a long hard swallow. A drop of brandy dripped from his jaw as he surrendered his glass to Salisbury.

  “You have some on your chin,” Javotte pointed and handed him a cocktail napkin.

  “It would be easier if I used a straw,” he laughed and nodded appreciatively at the woman. “Funny old spinster,” he thought and tossed the napkin on the end table.

  The afternoon had created a melodrama in contrast to the invitation’s rhetoric of a leisurely few days. Ms. Rosebud looked dubiously at the ring of guests while at the same time, she smiled with quiet satisfaction.

  Chapter 5

  It had become quite evident that what was supposed to be a united front had turned into a war of sides. Those who opposed the deliberate split from the publisher slowly made their way around the cribbage board, while those decidedly wishing to maintain the status quo were relegated to the chairs and sofa by the fireplace. Only the hostess, lawyer, and agent remained in their original seats. “Well, that went well,” remarked Peri Cason with a helping of sarcasm.

  Ms. Rosebud sulked and leaned her chin on her hands. She clutched the cane’s pearly handle and exhaled a deep sigh of consternation. “Cheer up!” remarked Mr. Dover, “I’ve been in negotiations like these before. All I need to do is get in touch with Babbit’s counsel and sweeten the pie.” He looked at his watch. “It’s still relatively early, may I use your telephone?” The eager man rose as he looked to the hostess who pointed in the direction of the open door.

  “Use the one in my study,” she said.

  “Ladies,” he replied and turned away.

  “Wonder what that weasel is up too?” griped Goldie. Norman turned towards the doorway just in time to see the Dover exit into another room and shrugged. The hostess was feeling betrayed by her guests and brooded. According to her casual interpretation, it was apparent that she had better do something to set the mood right. There was way too much-disgruntled mumbling.

  “I must agree with you, Mr. Stiltskin,” whispered Javotte, who had found herself sitting between Ray and Tisbe. “I could never have imagined that we would be of the same mind.”

  “Speak up, sister!” cranked the little man. “I can’t hear you.”

  “She said she agrees with you,” parroted Tisbe in a louder voice.

  “About what?”

  “For heaven’s sake, Man, are you daft?”

  “Daft? No, I’m not daft, but maybe just a bit deaf,” he chuckled.

  “We’re just surprised
that the three of us prefer a payout,” clarified Javotte.

  “I’m not,” Mr. Stiltskin claimed. “You’re just as greedy as I am, only you got manners, and I got a big mouth!”

  The unlikely trio was now in a heated discussion, while those on the opposing side of the room appeared to ruminate in their private thoughts with Norman bantering back and forth with indecision. “I have such a headache,” complained Ms. Rosebud to her lawyer friend. “I did hope my years of research would have amounted to something positive. Now it looks as though I have created a mess.”

  “The phones are out,” Mr. Dover said, returning with a disappointed expression. He sat down and drummed his fingers on his knee as if in serious thought.

  “The storm,” replied Dr. Cason smiling smugly.

  “So it seems,” retorted the annoyed man.

  “Looks like you’ll need to make a decision on your own,” Dr. Cason reminded him. But he didn’t need reminding; he was already making a mental list.

  Ms. Rosebud had moved on from the present matter at hand and began to contemplate dinner when Salisbury glided in looking paler than usual. “It appears we have a problem, Madame,” he announced.

  “Problem?”

  “Yes, Madame.”

  “And what is this problem?” she asked with impatience.

  “It appears that Mr. Jay may be dead, Ma’am.”

  “Dead?” squealed Roy. “Who’s dead!”

  “The old sailor,” replied Salisbury. A loud gasp of horror suddenly circulated the room.

  “Oh, that lovely old fellow,” whimpered Javotte.

  “Dead, dead, how?” mumbled the hostess, her hands trembling as she tried to lift herself out of her chair but too shaken, fell back into her seat.

  “I really couldn’t say, Madame. All I can tell you is that when I went in to check on him, he appeared more than asleep. Should I call for the doctor?”