Jack and the Brockmans are our wine people, so they go off with Forbes almost every morning to tour some winery or other and come back bearing bottles to share with the rest of us ... well, the Brockmans and Forbes share. Jack has a hard time uncorking any of his.
So far, nothing has sparked a good plot for my next book, although I'm taking lots of notes. The differences between our cultures are fascinating. No billboards outside the towns and very few inside. The Spanish are much more into conservation than we are. For instance, the round flush button atop the toilet is divided into two unequal parts. You press the small part if you only need a small flush, the larger for more, and both together for a really big flush. Think how much water New York could save if we adopted such toilets!
As for electricity, we've only seen one working windmill like the one Don Quixote tilted with, but there are wind farms all over this northern part of Spain—row after row of 3-bladed aerogeneradores topping tall columns. When we enter our hotel rooms, one of us must insert his key card before the light switches will work. No going out and forgetting to turn everything off because as soon as we take our key card from the slot, the room and bath go dark. Public restrooms are on a timer. Take too long and you're washing your hands in the dark.
Yesterday was the last of a 3-night stay at a country hotel near Vitoria, what they call a "parador." These are state-owned renovated historical places, minor palaces, chateaux, etc. The large room Jack and I shared had a sitting alcove that overlooked the broad lawn.
At a modern art museum yesterday, I came face-to-face with an Oscar Nauman plaster print. Without thinking, I blurted out that I had known him. I assure you that I said not a SINGLE word about you and he being lovers at the time of his death—I would NEVER talk about that to ANYone!—but Jackie was eager to hear as much as I could tell her about the man behind the art. She's going to E me a paper she wrote on him last year.
On the way back, we shopped for a picnic supper at the local mercado (grocery). Amusing to see unfamiliar products with familiar names like Kraft and Pillsbury attached to them. We bought roasted chickens, cheese, olives, etc.,ach, the rest we etc. The others joined us in the late afternoon with bottles of Rioja and we feasted like kings under the trees.
Jack later complained that this wasn't his idea of a 3-star meal, but Jackie was having such a good time that he kept his mouth shut until we were back in our room. She's a nice child, very pretty, and Luis is obviously smitten. At least it's obvious to most of us. Jack seems oblivious, which Marie assures us is a good thing. Marie seems to walk around Jack—I've learned that he's her boss as well as her brother—but she's young enough to be sympathetic to this summer romance and she covered for Jackie last night so that the kids could sneak off to a street concert.
Now we're in Oviedo. Our hotel is near the town center, directly across from a beautiful lush green park. I know you're not much for nature, dear Sigrid, but even you would be charmed by the huge old trees and the peacocks. More later. Roman
* * * *
From: RTramegra
To: SigridHarald
Date: 21 May
Subject: Cervantes
It's the “Year of the Book” over here—the 400th anniversary of the publication of Don Quixote. I never did read it all the way through. Did you? Last night, some of us went to a zarzuela performance, which is a cross between opera and a Gilbert and Sullivan. As best I could understand, what we saw was a musical version of how Cervantes was inspired to create the character of El Quijote, as he is often called.
Luis and Jackie sat several rows in front of us and their heads were together the whole evening. Ah, young love! Good thing Jack opted to stay in and watch a soccer match with Forbes. On the walk back to the hotel, Marie told me that she is Jack's second-in-command. Jackie has no interest in the business, but Marie is such an enthusiast that she almost convinced me that I need a Porsche even though you and I live but 2 blocks from the subway. If only St. Stephen's would promote my book more vigorously!! I'll bet John Grisham and Mary Higgins Clark can afford Porsches.
Despite her business acumen, Marie is as much a romantic as I. She thinks that Luis would be perfect for Jackie. He's more cosmopolitan and educated than I at first realized and can talk to her about the art and music she loves. Both women are afraid that Jack will try to drive him away if he notices because he has his heart set on seeing her married to someone who'll run the business so it can grow and prosper. He and Marie grew up poor and he has all the pride of a self-made man who wants to keep what he's built intact. Marie says he's like the dragon that's imprisoned the princess in a tower, but Jackie's young and she's been a willing prisoner thus far. She's quite aware of his wishes and seems to love him too much to wish to hurt him. I think she feels guilty that she's not the son he wanted.
Marie's enlisted my help to keep Jack from seeing how intense they've become. She wants them to have enough time and breathing space to be sure that this is not a mere summer fling. Two weeks is a short time, but I've seen too many happy marriages based on 3 dates to say they don't know each other well enough. Indeed, the Andersons are also in on our little conspiracy because he proposed a week after they first met in college 26 years ago.
Marie's concern doesn't surprise any of us. Jack is SUCH a control freak. Honestly, every time we sit down to dinner, he's quick to decide that Jackie and Marie don't really want paella or shrimp. He tells the waiter, “We'll all three have the fish and asparagus.” If it's a meal that isn't covered in the tour cost, he'll say, “Why don't you girls split an entrée? You shouldn't be eating that much anyhow."
Not that either is fat. But they do worry about their figures. You, dear Sigrid, are the only woman I ever met who doesn't. R.
* * * *
From: RTramegra
To: SigridHarald
Date: 22 May
Subject: Sidra Festival!
Today was Oviedo's Cider Festival. You pay 3 euros for a bright green neckerchief, a clear plastic tumbler, and a scorecard. Then you go down the street, stopping at every tavern to sample and rate the hard cider. The Asturias district is proud of its native drink, but personally, they can keep my part. It's both tart and flat at the same time. The attraction is that your server is supposed to hold your tumbler in one hand as low as possible and pour from a bottle that's held as high as possible in the other hand. This bit of drama is supposed to insure full aeration and make the cider foam up in your glass like beer. According to Luis, experienced servers never spill a drop. Do NOT believe it!! By noontime, the street was sticky with puddles of sidra; and even though you only get a couple of inches of it per sample, the stuff is potent enough to send you reeling through streets jammed elbow to shoulder with fellow cider enthusiasts.
Saw Luis and Jackie kissing beneath a green umbrella. Marie saw them, too. Behind Jack's back, she signaled to me and we immediately distracted Jack by steering him in a different direction, which wasn't difficult, as much cider as he had sampled. Marie persuaded him to go back to the hotel with her and sleep it off.
I plan to incorporate this romance into my art thriller. Not that I have a plot yet. Did I tell you that the younger Brockmans own a small Oscar Nauman oil landscape that he painted down near the Portuguese border?
I'll write to you from Santiago. Now that I'm used to the Spanish keyboard, it would be a shame to waste it. R.
* * * *
From: RTramegra
To: SigridHarald
Date: 24 May
Subject: Santiago de Compostela
We have reached the end of our pilgrimage. Everything in the great cathedral is gold: crucifixes, orbs, statues, etc. Distasteful and tragic when one thinks of the cost in human lives to wrest this gold from the Aztecs. There's too much blood on the golden statue of St. James for me to want to hug it as do so many pilgrims. R.
* * * *
From: RTramegra
To: SigridHarald
Date: 25 May
Subject: Still Santiago
Things began to go sour immediately after Oviedo. Barbara Brockman, one of the wine-loving lawyers from Boston, had bought several of the coins that were struck to commemorate 400 años de El Quijote. Two were pure gold escudos, worth 800C each, the rest were sterling silver reales. She had them in the bottom of her purse and sometime during the last three days all 6 coins disappeared. Of course, we thought she'd either been careless or else a hotel maid or a pickpocket had taken them because she's always setting her purse down and going off and leaving it so that her niece or one of us has to run back for it.
Then Marie bought a gorgeous—and rather expensive—jet necklace, which she left under the seat of the van when we stopped for lunch at a restaurant on the northern coast. It disappeared and both vans had been parked right outside our window through the whole meal. No stranger could have taken it. Unfortunately, Marie didn't discover it was missing till we were unloading the vans at our hotel in Santiago.
Barbara wasn't too upset about her loss because the coins can be replaced and she has travel insurance (the rich really ARE different from you and me), but Marie's necklace was one of a kind and she does NOT have travel insurance. The police were summoned and we all insisted upon being searched. The 2 golden escudos are still missing, but the 4 silver coins were under the front floor mat of the van that Luis has been driving and the necklace was in his jacket pocket!!!
Of course, he swore he had no idea how they got there, and that someone else must have planted the necklace in his jacket, which had indeed hung on the back of his seat for most of the drive. I suppose 1600 euros worth of gold coins is a big temptation to a poor student. Not that he really is, as Mrs. Forbes was quick to tell us when she linked up with us yesterday. He's the son of her cousin here in Santiago, a middle-class businessman who believes in the work ethic for his children.
Jackie can't stop crying, but for once, she's standing up to Jack, who wants to whisk her back to Long Island immediately. She refuses to believe in Luis's guilt and accused Jack of framing him in order to break them up. But Jack says he would have had no serious objection to the romance if he had noticed, which he swears he didn't. He claims that he was rather impressed by Luis, that they'd shared a bottle of wine in Oviedo, where he learned that Luis is studying business, but spends his summers driving for Forbes because he likes cars. “He knows Porsches from bumper to tailpipe and he asked some pretty sharp questions about the franchise. Would I rather see my daughter with an American? Hell yes! But if this is the guy she wanted, I would have made him the son I never had. He could've doubled our sales to Spanish-speaking customers."
Jackie didn't want to believe him, but Marie confirmed that he'd told her pretty much the same when she walked him back to the hotel after the cider festival. And that was before the gold coins went missing. I could just weep for what might have been, but if Luis is a thief, better to know it now. Poor Jackie. She's still convinced of his innocence but who else could possibly have a motive to discredit him? Roman
* * * *
From: RTramegra
To: SigridHarald
Date: 26 May
Subject: You were RIGHT!!
Dear, dear Sigrid:
When I read your one-word reply late last night, I couldn't imagine how on earth you reached that conclusion, and when I got Jackie alone after breakfast this morning and put it to her, she was equally puzzled. Still, the more she thought about it, the more she wondered. She pleaded a headache and told the others to please go away and let her sleep it off. It was my job to convince everyone that we simply HAD to drive both vans down to La Guardia for lunch and then make a quick sidetrip across the Minho River so that we could truthfully say we'd been to Portugal. Even the Brockmans agreed when I reminded them that they could photograph the same scene that Oscar once painted.
This gave Jackie several hours to make a thorough search and when we returned, she was waiting for us in front of the hotel with the two gold escudos clutched in her hand. She had found them in a jar of cold cream in Marie's toiletries bag.
How clever of you to realize that if Jack was telling the truth, Marie was the only one left with a motive to break them up. Once Jack confided in her that he liked Luis, and once she realized how qualified that young man was, Marie knew she would soon be pushed aside if the match actually came off. She would no longer be Jack's second-in-command. No more cushy family job with paid European vacations and time off whenever she wanted. Instead, she'd be back among the working wage earners, punching a time clock. An art enthusiast was no threat to her, but an art enthusiast who can read a balance sheet and knows cars?
Jack is mortified and sent her home in disgrace as soon as the Brockmans agreed not to press charges. No trouble with Luis either. He's certainly not going to sue his fiancée's aunt—yes, FIANCÉE!!! He formally proposed last night and you should see the beautiful antique ring he gave her!!! You and I are both invited to the wedding next spring out in the Hamptons. Even though I've given you all the credit, Jackie keeps calling me Don Tramegra, her knight in shining armor.
Home on Saturday. Still no good plot, although ... what do you think about smuggling ancient gold artifacts out of Spain in the hubcaps of European cars? Maybe the smuggler could be a descendant of Aztecs?
R.
Copyright © 2006 Margaret Maron
[Back to Table of Contents]
THE PROBLEM OF THE SHEPHERD'S RING by Edward D. Hoch
The long-running Sam Hawthorne series takes a new domestic turn in the following story. Hawthorne is a reader favorite not only because of his crime-solving ability but because he's sympathetic—a country doctor, once a very eligible bachelor. He finally married in “The Problem of Bailey's Buzzard” (12/02).
It was in early December of 1943, just two years after our marriage, that Anna-bel told me she was pregnant. (Old Dr. Sam Hawthorne paused to refill his visitor's glass before continuing his story.) Of course, I was overjoyed by the news, even though it meant bringing a child into a world ravaged by war. Churchill, Roosevelt, and Stalin had just met for the first time in Teheran, agreeing on a plan for the invasion of western Europe during the coming year, and we hoped the worst might soon be over.
Our good friend and Northmont's first black doctor, Lincoln Jones, had gone into obstetrics and opened his own office. He'd been slow in building a practice, but Annabel and I quickly agreed there was no one we'd trust more to deliver our first baby. Lincoln examined Annabel on Monday morning, our wedding anniversary, and estimated that the baby was due toward the end of July. She was already making plans for her assistant to take over the veterinary practice at Annabel's Ark during her confinement. I'd be forty-seven years old when my child was born, but Annabel was ten years younger, still a beauty with her blond hair and hazel eyes.
"I'll need you, Sam,” she told me. “When it gets closer you'll have to cut back on your detective work."
I assured her I'd be happy to abandon it completely if Northmont would only settle down to being a quiet New England town. But that wasn't about to happen right away.
I arrived at my office the following morning, another anniversary day, but this one far from joyous. It was two years since the attack on Pearl Harbor, and I knew my nurse April would be thinking of her husband André, still fighting the war in the Pacific. I couldn't resist telling her the good news about Annabel's pregnancy and she was overjoyed. I was the godfather of her son Sam, named for me and now a seven-year-old second-grader, living here with his mother while they awaited his father's return from the war. When I'd finished with my news she told me Sheriff Lens was coming in to see me. I knew it wouldn't be just a social visit.
"How's it going, Doc?” he asked a
s he came through the door a bit after ten.
"Just fine, Sheriff. Annabel and I were out to see Lincoln Jones yesterday."
"Oh? How's he doing with his practice?"
"It's growing. We brought him some new business."
"Who—?” he started to ask, and then understood what I was telling him. “You and Annabel are expecting?"
"Well, just Annabel actually."
"Doc, that's great news. Wait till I tell Vera! When's she due?"
"Late July, near as we can tell."
"Maybe by then the war will be over. The invasion's getting closer."
I shook my head. “I hate to think of all the boys who'll die over there. But what can I do for you, Sheriff?"
"You've got a patient named Julius Finesaw?"
I gave a silent groan. “I suppose you could call him my patient. I set his broken leg a few weeks ago when his tractor rolled over. But the man needs more help than I can give him. He needs a psychiatrist."
"Don't have any of them in Northmont,” the sheriff pointed out.
"I know."
"So you think he's crazy?"
I shrugged. “Deranged, certainly."
"Same thing, isn't it?"
"I suppose so. What's he done now?"
"Says he's going to kill Ralph Cedric for selling him that defective tractor. His wife Millie was so upset she called me out to talk to him."
"Did you convince him to behave himself?"
"Far from it. Says we can't stop him, that he can make himself invisible and walk down the road to Cedric's place."
"He's not likely to do it with a broken leg, invisible or not.” I glanced at the day's schedule. “Tell you what—I've got a house call this afternoon out at the McGregor farm. One of their kids is in bed with chicken pox. On my way back I'll stop at Finesaw's place. I should check on that cast anyway, make sure there's no swelling."
"Maybe you can talk some sense into him, Doc."
* * * *
The McGregor lad was coming along fine as the chicken pox ran its course. When I'd finished with him I cut across to Chestnut Hill Road. The old Buick was still running pretty well, and I hoped it would last till the war ended. I pulled into the driveway at the Finesaw farm, once more admiring the main house, even though it was an old place dating from the last century and badly in need of a paint job. As I left my car I saw Millie Finesaw come to the door. She was a petite blonde a bit younger than I was who had never seemed the right match for the tall, brooding Julius. Their son had fled home as soon as possible, joining the army when he turned eighteen. He was somewhere in Italy at that time.
EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006 Page 7
