Heart vs. Humbug

by MJ Rodgers

  Heart vs. Humbug

  M.J. Rodgers

  Special Acknowledgment

  My thanks to a very special friend, T. Lorraine Vassalo, of Ottawa, Ontario, for her wonderful recipes for Loin of Veal and Grand Marnier French Toast, both of which appear briefly in this story and everlastingly on my hips.

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Octavia Osborne—A top-notch lawyer who is not afraid to let her heart lead the way to justice.

  Brett Merlin—An infamous lawyer known as “the Magician,” a man who believes the law cannot afford to have a heart.

  Mab Osborne—Octavia’s grandmother; a lady who breaks all the stereotypes.

  Dole Scroogen—His nickname is “the Scrooge.” He lives up to it—and then some.

  Nancy Scroogen—Scroogen’s wife; a lady who suffers in silence.

  John Winslow—He has a key to the crucial locked door and maybe a key to grandmother’s heart.

  Douglas Twitch—He is a genius at engineering, and maybe at murder, too.

  Constance Kope—She has a knack for design and maybe a need for revenge.

  Ronald Scroogen—His relationship with his father is full of conflict and confusion.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Prologue

  The intruder crept silently beneath the shadowy wings of the December overcast that blacked out the moon like a swooping bird of prey.

  Not much farther now. Just a few more steps.

  A few more careful steps.

  Perceptions in daylight took so many subtle visual cues for granted. Beneath the absolute black of this inky night, without even a horizontal reference, a sense of balance could falter and a sense of direction could quickly become disoriented.

  Still, the intruder welcomed the absence of the light. The weak might gather around their paltry incandescents and fluorescents trying to push the darkness aside, but the strong sought the night’s cloak to open new doors to opportunity.

  One such door lay just ahead. The intruder grasped its knob and slipped quietly inside the greenhouse.

  The relative spacing of the rows of plants to either side of the center path had been memorized, even the exact number of steps to the storeroom at its back paced out. Nothing had been left to chance. Nothing.

  The intruder started boldly forward...only to instantly trip and fall heavily to the ground, letting out a startled oath.

  Luckily, the earthen path was cushioned with moss, and the intruder’s thick clothing and gloves prevented abraded skin.

  But the intruder didn’t feel lucky. The intruder felt angry. How could this happen after all this planning!

  Muffled curses spat through the intruder’s teeth, all the more angry because they had to be muffled. Nothing was worse than having to keep silent while the rage seethed inside.

  The intruder sat back on the heels of black running shoes and dug into the deep pockets of black sweatpants to draw out a small penlight. The flashlight beam bobbed along the mossy path as the intruder searched for the obstruction.

  There it was. An electric cord strung loosely across the path, connecting a string of Christmas tree lights draped over the miniature fir trees on either side. Some fool had stopped in the middle of decorating the trees, leaving the cord swinging ankle-high over the path, marked with strings of gold tinsel and a large orange plastic caution cone.

  Lot of help those markers were in the dark. Better make sure there weren’t any more such surprises.

  The intruder pointed the thin stream of the flashlight ahead. No more gold tinsel and orange caution cones stood in the way.

  The intruder rose and began to resume the interrupted journey forward when suddenly the sounds of heavy boots crunched on the frozen gravel outside of the greenhouse.

  The watchman!

  The intruder quickly switched off the penlight, pulled up the hood of the black sweatshirt, dropped to the rich earth beside the path, jackknifed between the trunks of miniature fir trees, and lay concealed beneath the cover of their thick green branches.

  The pungent odor of the dark, rich compost burned the intruder’s nose. But that discomfort was of far less concern than the question now burning in the intruder’s mind. Would the carefully selected dark clothing blend into the black earth?

  The telltale sounds of the watchman’s boots stopped at the edge of the window-lined structure. The intruder remained stock-still as a strong beam of light flashed into the greenhouse.

  “Somebody in there?” the watchman called, his voice thick and raspy with age.

  The intruder knew about this watchman. His name was Hank. Hank had been given this job to keep him going after his wife died. Both Hank’s eyesight and hearing had seen better days. These were all things the intruder had considered before selecting this night to enter the greenhouse.

  The intruder lay facedown, absolutely still, as Hank’s flashlight swept over the plants and then the path. Once. Twice. A third time. The intruder’s hands began to sweat within the heavy gloves.

  Hank switched off his flashlight. He muttered beneath his breath as he shuffled back to the warm shed at the rear of the community center. The intruder knew Hank would now return to watching the old movies on his small TV set and carrying on conversations with his dead wife.

  The intruder exhaled in relief. Whatever Hank might have seen or heard, he had satisfied himself nothing had gotten into the greenhouse. He would not be back.

  As soon as the watchman’s footsteps faded into a soft, spongy echo, the intruder rose to hands and knees and crawled carefully forward.

  No more obstructions blocked the path. All would now go according to plan.

  And it was a brilliant plan. Getting into the locked storeroom at the back of this greenhouse had been the only risky part. As soon as it was accomplished, everything else should be easy.

  But success hinged on no one knowing the intruder had been here this night. No one.

  No one would. And when it all started to hit the fan, no one would ever suspect who was really behind it. The intruder smiled.

  Yes, a truly brilliant plan.

  Chapter One

  “Romantic men don’t have penises,” seventy-six-year-old Mab Osborne announced distinctly over the FM radio waves to her devoted listeners of KRIS’s “Senior-Sex-Talk” program.

  From her spectator position in the corner of the control room, Octavia Osborne nearly choked trying to subdue the resultant chuckle that rumbled in her throat as she listened to her grandmother’s outrageous pronouncement.

  Seventy-two-year-old Constance Kope did not try to stifle her response. “Mab Osborne, we cannot discuss this...topic, and it is totally unnecessary for you to use that...that...word,” Constance said, her fusty Pekingese-like face spread open in prescient horror as she barked her loud protest. She shoved her glasses farther back on her button nose and leaned forward to poke the radio program hostess in the arm with a reprimanding index finger.

  Mab took the interruption and poking with inherent good humor. “Precisely, Constance. A penis is totally unnecessary. Would you like to explain why to the radio audience?”

  Mab’s direct challenge to her would-be critic worked like a dropped stitch in the knitting of Constance Kope’s thoughts. The tiny woman’s faded brown eyes began to water behind her glasses.

  “Heavens, no! I don’t wish t
o discuss—”

  “Yes, you’re quite right, Constance,” Mab interrupted. “This is a topic that I can best do justice to, I believe.”

  Constance’s breath got caught in her throat and came out in a muffled sneeze through her tiny nostrils. She looked like she still wanted to bark but wasn’t sure at what.

  Octavia stifled another chuckle. There was no telling what the feisty, frank and fun Mab Osborne might say next. Octavia’s grandmother was a sturdy five-eight with silver-streaked red hair, bright blue eyes, an even brighter pantsuit and a sense for the dramatic that never failed to delight Octavia and daunt the myriad guests who had appeared with Mab during her forty-year radio career.

  Seventy-three-year-old John Winslow, another one of those guests who was currently sitting right next to Octavia in the tiny control room, leaned slightly forward. “Mab, I admit we agreed there were no holds barred in this discussion of ‘What Makes Good Sex in One’s Seventies,’ but don’t you think that eliminating a man’s penis is a trifle severe?”

  Mab’s resultant laugh lifted the volume needle to the middle decibels on her radio station’s control board.

  Octavia swung her attention to John Winslow’s neat presence and prescient smile. From his perfect diction to the white silk ascot tucked into his open-throat blue dress shirt, John reminded Octavia of one of those fast-disappearing, refined elderly gentlemen who actually knew what courtly dress and manners really meant.

  “John, I’m not suggesting that a man’s penis needs to be surgically removed,” Mab said. “What I’m saying is that each one of us—whether we’re twenty-five or ninety-five—must first embrace the right word images in order to receive full enjoyment from any act.”

  Seventy-five-year-old Douglas Twitch, Mab’s third and final guest on her “Senior-Sex-Talk” panel, leaned forward to grab the microphone.

  “Word images? What in the hell are you talking about?”

  Octavia watched Mab gaze calmly at the bushy-headed, rawboned man in the worn, faded jeans and gray-and-white checkered shirt. While Mab’s confident smile and bearing conjured up images of a thoroughbred charging confidently over a racetrack, Douglas Twitch’s beleaguered scowl bore far more resemblance to a plow horse chaffing under the weight of the harness.

  “I’m referring to the full spectrum of human sexuality, Douglas,” Mab replied. “All of the important books on the subject never describe men as having penises. And quite correctly, I might add.”

  Octavia watched as Constance Kope’s punched-in, Pekingese face colored to match the red Christmas bow that adorned the desk beneath the control panel. John Winslow’s hand covered the smirk spreading over his mouth as he bent his full white head of impeccably groomed hair. Douglas Twitch crossed his arms over his barrel chest as his long, horsey brow dug a deep trough.

  Mab’s eyes were resting on Douglas’s long face as the breath shot out of his flared nostrils in short, snorting whinnies.

  “Something you wanted to say, Douglas?” she asked.

  He grabbed the microphone once again.

  “You bet there is. I admit I’m not much of a reader and I never actually got through all the words in my high school biology text, but the pictures were clear enough and nothing on the male human’s torso was left out, woman.” He sent a meaningful glance around the room. “I repeat, nothing.”

  He dropped the microphone back onto the control board table as his exclamation point and gave a final satisfied snort of vented spleen.

  Mab shrugged her straight shoulders. “But then that was only a biology book, wasn’t it, Douglas?”

  Constance’s brow puckered in confusion. “Only a biology book, Mab? What books are you talking about?”

  Mab caught Octavia’s eye and winked. That was when Octavia knew that Constance had asked her grandmother the right question.

  “Why, romance books, of course, Constance,” Mab replied. “They are the only books that really explore the profound and rich universe of human emotions.”

  John leaned forward slightly. “Mab, do I understand you right? Are you saying that in romance books, romantic men don’t engage in intercourse?”

  “On the contrary, John. In romance novels, romantic men engage in intercourse quite frequently. And enjoy it tremendously, too, I might add.”

  Octavia felt certain Douglas Twitch’s resultant sharp snort registered on some Richter scale as he did his best to scoot his chair away from Mab in the tiny control room. Constance’s sigh dissembled into a reprobation.

  John’s smile spread big enough to hurt. “Okay, Mab. I admit I’m stumped. If these romantic men engage in intercourse frequently and enjoy it tremendously and they don’t have penises, what do they use?”

  “Why, their pulsing manhoods or hardened desire or—”

  “Oh, you’re saying that it’s the word penis that isn’t used in connection with these romantic men?”

  Mab’s mischievous eyes twinkled. “Exactly, John. I’m so glad you finally understand.”

  John let out an amused chortle at being so intellectually reprimanded. “Well, I do and I don’t, Mab. Aren’t we just dealing with semantics here?”

  “Yeah,” Douglas said. “You tell her, John. They’re the same thing.”

  Mab shook her head. “No, they are not. Every act in life can be made ordinary or special, depending on how we approach it. The essential part of our approach involves the words we use. Words create the important messages that define our thoughts and feelings for everything.”

  John arched a sliver of silver eyebrow. “Care to provide an example of what you mean, Mab?”

  “Certainly, John. If I tell you I’m hungry and I’m going to grab something to eat, what image comes to mind?”

  “You’re looking for something quick, whatever is handy.”

  “Yes, quick and handy. Not very exciting words, are they? But, if, on the other hand, I asked you to dine with me this evening, what images would then come to your mind?”

  “Well, I suppose a white tablecloth, candlelight, something special to eat, probably carefully selected.”

  “Precisely, John—a beautifully set table offering something carefully selected. Words have lifted the ordinary act of eating into the stimulation of feelings that go beyond the mere satiation of hunger. In place of quick we now have special. In place of handy we now have carefully selected. The act of eating has been transcended into an act of caring and sharing appealing to all the senses. That’s why romantic men never have sex. They make love.”

  Douglas squirmed in his chair, his big bony knee slamming into the edge of the control desk in the tiny room. “What in the hell does eating have to do with sex?”

  Mab let out a little puff of impatience. “Words, Douglas, images of emotion—where true sensuality and romance come from. Sex is quick and handy. Insignificant. Making love is special and carefully selected. Important. The words we use so clearly create the emotion we anticipate and receive from the act.”

  Constance nodded. “Oh, I see. You’re saying that the right words stimulate feelings that go beyond a mere sexual gratification?”

  “Exactly, Constance. It’s the stimulation of those other feelings that makes us romantic, transforms an act of physical need into one of emotional fulfillment, and brings out the truly human part of ourselves. The feelings that lead up to and result from doing it are what make the sexual act, or any act, worthwhile.”

  Douglas rubbed his stiff, grayish beard in apparent irritation. “Yeah, well I still don’t see what that has to do with using hardened desire in place of penis.”

  Mab let out the frustrated sigh of a teacher trying to get through to her backward pupil.

  “Douglas, when you describe a man using his penis in sexual intercourse, you’re talking biology, and clinical images come to mind. But when a man joins a woman to him with his hardened desire within the pages of a romance novel, he’s mated with her on an emotional plane, as well. It’s that emotional joining that causes the act to transce
nd the mere elimination of hunger and makes it become a feast at life’s most tasty and tantalizing banquet.”

  Octavia smiled, thoroughly delighted with Mab’s triumphant crossing of her finish line. Her grandmother pointed meaningfully to the two incoming lines lit up on her console and announced that it was time for the panel to take calls from their listeners.

  As the seniors chatted with the first caller, Octavia leaned back and let her mind wander. It had been years since she’d last been here. Yet in a way, it felt just like yesterday.

  Some of her fondest memories with her grandmother were garnered in this tiny control room. Every day after school, she’d stop by. Hour after hour, she’d sit and watch and listen as Mab’s fingers reached out to connect with the switches on the control board and her voice reached out to connect with her listeners—sometimes offering them an interesting new thought about the world, sometimes just an irreverent spate of her own special brand of humor, but always with an honest compassion that came from her heart.

  Octavia smiled as she looked up to see the colorful tinsel and the many, many Christmas cards from Mab’s devoted listeners taped across the top of the room’s walls.

  Christmas time had always been the best time to sit in on Mab’s broadcasts. It was during the holiday season that Octavia and Mab had laughed the most in this room. And probably cried the most, too. Octavia knew she was who she was today because of what she had learned about life from her grandmother, right here.

  And, after witnessing this morning’s program, Octavia was delighted to find Mab still as fun and fresh and feisty as ever.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, I see our time is up,” Mab was saying. “I’d like to thank my guests from the executive committee of the Silver Power League for being with us this morning. Constance Kope, Douglas Twitch and Dr. John Winslow.

  “Coming up now is some beautiful Christmas music to keep you company. I’ll return at two with our community’s news. Until then, this is Mab Osborne and KRIS, Bremerton’s senior citizens’ radio, reminding you to keep calling and writing the chamber of commerce and the Department of Community Development. Your action is needed to save our community center. Bye for now.”