The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  #

  CHAPTER 15

  Morgana cast her eyes to the kitchen ceiling and then into the depths of her coffee cup before she spoke. “My day has been very hectic. And it’s still not over.”

  “You want to talk about it?” I said, hoping that if she did, she would make it short.

  “Do I want to? No. But I have to.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because we are having dinner out tonight.”

  “We’re going out?”

  “I know . . . with all the funeral preparations for Uncle Raymond and especially with what you went through today . . . You were actually shot at?”

  “Yep, and Peterson too.”

  “Wow. It’s unbelievable what can happen in a small town. Did Kyle arrest this Mapledale person who shot at you?”

  “No. The whole thing was a mistake, an accident of sorts. No harm done. Kyle took care of it. It was nothing.”

  “Really,” said Morgana. “And Kyle didn’t do anything?”

  “Well, he warned him.”

  “That’s all?”

  “And he got Joe, Peterson, Trooper Cobourne, himself, and me invited for cake and coffee.”

  “He did what?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I am fine. The deputy is okay. And the cake was delicious.”

  “Good to hear that. Anyway, there is an impromptu, informal reception for a team of guest researchers at the college library tonight. And since I am the English Department Chairperson, I am obliged to attend . . . And I would very much like you to be there with me. Besides, your presence has been specifically requested.”

  Disapproval was probably written all over my face. “Whose idea was this?”

  “Whom do you think—Chester Holland’s.”

  “That figures. Holland has always liked to shmooze at parties, and as the college president, he has a good mind for public relations. But why did he want me there?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Chester likes talking to you.” Surely sensing my lack of enthusiasm, Morgana added, “Hey, we don’t have to stay long; I promise.”

  “Is that why you let Kyle off easy for eating the left-over ham?”

  “I don’t think I let him off easy—”

  “You knew we weren’t eating at home tonight. You made plans for us to eat out.”

  “Well, there’s not much for you to do here at the house tonight.”

  “No? Well, for one thing, there are the funeral arrangements.”

  “Didn’t you listen to your brother? Kyle said that he has taken care of most of what has to be done for the funeral. There really isn’t much for you to do on that score.”

  “And didn’t you pay attention to who was saying that? . . . That was Kyle.”

  Morgana hugged my arm again, this time a little tighter. “Just for a little while, Richard. We will be at the reception for no more than a couple of hours, three hours at most.” Morgana then put her free hand on my thigh and said, “Maybe we could pick up where we left off the last night when we get back home from the reception. What do you say?”

  I looked down at her discreetly busy hand on my leg. “You are playing unfairly, Love.” I wanted to pull away, but I didn’t. “Besides, we’ll most likely get home late, and either you, or I, or both of us will be too tired to play.”

  “Well, then, we’ll be very motivated not to come home late.”

  “And may I inquire who are these researchers being so honored with an informal reception?”

  “A half-dozen scholars and experts have come here for the unveiling of the Stoner Papers and, more importantly, to examine them.”

  “Stoner Papers? What are those . . . some discarded pot wrappers discovered in the ruins of some ancient Celtic monastery?”

  “I told you about them.”

  “You did?”

  “In bed the last night.”

  I still didn’t make the connection.

  “When I told you about Heike Fuerst.”

  It took a second before the spark of remembrance struck its mark. “Oh, the student that had a crush on you.”

  “Yes, her,” replied Morgana as she pulled away and gave me a playful knuckle punch to my upper arm, near the shoulder.

  “Ouch! What was that for?”

  “You know what that was for. You could have said, ‘your old student.’ You’re lucky that I didn’t give a noogie somewhere else. ”

  That was true.

  “I thought your . . . ex-student was coming here to look at the Adam Brennan thing?”

  “She is, and it’s the Adamus Bremensis map. But that is only one item in the so-called Stoner Papers.”

  “How many, eh, items are there in this Stoner collection? And why the name ‘Stoner’?”

  “I really don’t really know the answer to either of those questions. I believe the term The Stoner Papers was a play on words done years ago on the Adamus Bremensis map’s discoverer’s name. But I was only half-listening to Chester when he was explaining it. I was more concerned about Heike at the time. I do know that the papers, along with the Adamus Bremensis map, were given to the college many years ago accompanied by a sizable monetary donation by an alum who wanted to remain anonymous. The college took possession of the collection with the understanding that the papers would remain under lock and seal in the box in which they arrived until a designated time. And that changes on Saturday. On Saturday, we will know exactly what’s in the box.”

  “The collection will finally be opened.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s so strange. Can that even be done?”

  “What do you mean by . . . can it be done?”

  “I would think that there must be a list of the things in the box, somewhere. How can the collection be insured if the school doesn’t know what it is?”

  “Maybe it isn’t. I don’t know; it’s not my purview. As far as I know, the collection and the Adamus Bremensis map have been off-limits to all research, cataloging, and appraising since the time that they arrived at the college.” Morgana took a sip of her coffee. “My concern is that I have to entertain these people.” Morgana sighed with resignation. “All this and Uncle Raymond’s passing.”

  “And Holland knows about Uncle Raymond’s death?”

  “He does. He offered his condolences when he came to my office this afternoon. That is when he told me about the reception and asked that you be there. He was almost insistent that you do.”

  “He was? Why?”

  “Specifically, I don’t know. But I do know that Chester is in sort of a bind. The college trustees are on his back.”

  “Yeah, but I had a really rough day—”

  “Chester has been very kind and supportive of me since I became department chair. He arranged our having this house as part of my contract. I have a twelve-minute drive to my office. He rarely asks me for favors. I could see that he was embarrassed to even ask for you to attend the reception tonight . . . I never have seen a black man blush, but I swear he did.”

  “Okay, okay, I like Chester too.” Then letting my curiosity get the better of me, I asked, “So you haven’t seen what is in the collection?”

  “Richard,” Morgana growled, “you really don’t pay attention to me, do you. No, I have not seen the papers. The papers are sealed and locked up. Yes, I have seen the gray metal safe-like thing that they are in and some black and white photos of the Adamus Bremensis, but—”

  I was about to speak, but Morgana cut me off.

  “Yes, the Adamus Bremensis map was also locked up with the other papers when everything came to the college. The photos were taken before they were locked away, at the time of its discovery, sometime before World War Two . . . so I was told.”

  Morgana softly put her cup on the table. She then looked at me and said, “I’m sorry if I sound grouchy. It has been a hectic day for me, too. Please come with me to the reception tonight. I need some moral support. I really hate these soirees. The reception could give you a little respit
e from all the craziness around here. There won’t be many people attending, maybe thirty—tops. You know that the food will be good. Free drinks. Good single malt Scotch . . . I’ll drive?”

  Naughty me, but as Morgana was talking, my brain started repeating scenes from the night before—her wearing that enticing veil of nothingness as she approached our bed in the moonlight. “Maybe we could have some appetizers before the reception,” I suggested as I kissed her neck.

  “Fun thought, but no.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I know you. Appetizers will quickly become a full course meal, and then I would have thrown away my best card. And secondly, I wouldn’t enjoy it. I want some real-time with you. I don’t want to be scheduled in like I’m booking an emergency dental appointment on a Saturday.”

  Morgana must have seen my disappointment. She took my hands into hers and made a counteroffer, “But to the reception, I will wear the black lingerie that I bought for last Valentine’s Day beneath that designer royal blue dress that I wore to the concert last spring.”

  Though she was playing unfairly, I have to say that was a good move on her part. For one thing, the St. Valentine Day underwear handsomely revealed and accented Morgana’s God-given gifts in such a way it was a shame to have her take them off for our intimate celebration of the feast day. As for the dress, well, it was one of those outfits that would have looked too informal on someone else—possibly inappropriate. But on her, the dress looked classic, decorous, and bedazzling. Miriam Nickel, one of the music department instructors, told me after the concert, on the sly that Morgana looked like she walked out of French fashion magazine. That same evening, Chester Holland commented that Morgana looked absolutely “Fabulous!”

  “Okay, I’ll go, but we’ll come home early. But we are there for two hours, two and a half hours tops.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And, as promised, you drive us back home.”

  “Agreed, but with one condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “That you don’t drink yourself silly. It is an open bar, and I know how you are. I want you to enjoy yourself, but I want you in a proper state of mind when we are back home. Is it a deal?”

  I agreed to the terms.

  Morgana gave me a kiss on the cheek and went upstairs to get ready for the evening’s affair. Of course, as usual, Morgana was correct. I did need a short break from the craziness of the day. Knowing that I could shower, shave, and get dressed within fifteen minutes, I decided to take advantage of the downtime and have myself a well-deserved nap on the living room couch. Though I was leaving the reception early, that didn’t mean I wasn’t staying up late—I always like being prepared.

  #

  CHAPTER 16

  I must have zonked out within the very minute when my head touched the flower print throw pillow. Initially, my mind dwelled in restful oblivion, but eventually, an awareness of a mist-covered, pine-forested mountain—God knows where—took hold of me. The sun felt warm, but the air was damp and cool to my skin. I found myself sitting on a stone wall of a scenic overlook and peering at the river in the mountain valley below.

  “What are you looking for, Richard?” The familiar voice came from behind me.

  “I’m trying to see the river, Mother,” I said.

  “Why?”

  I thought a bit. “I don’t know, really.”

  “And people said that you were the smart one.”

  I turned my head in the direction of the voice, “And you?”

  “What about me?”

  My mother was standing next to me in her long blue coat and a small white hat that I remembered her wearing when I was a child. Her curious head covering consisted of a wide mesh of velvet strands, each studded with several embroider flowers, and connecting them all was some sort of veil. My first impression of the contraption was that a strange bird’s nest had gotten stuck in my mother’s hair.

  “Not about you, Mother,” I said, trying to be pleasant. “I meant, what did you think of me?”

  “Think? Why I thought about the two of you all the time. That is all I did after your father and I divorced. I thought about Kyle and you. That is what a mother does. She thinks and worries about her children.” She unexpectedly put her hand on my head and affectionately mussed my hair. “I still do.”

  That was unexpected too. My mother demonstrating any sign of warm maternal instincts was not a common occurrence.

  “So, Richard, this is how you envision Austria. I must say there is something to that imagination of yours, but Lintz doesn’t look like this. And, for the Lord’s sake, don’t let your brother believe that it does.”

  “Kyle? Why would I—”

  “I didn’t come here to argue. You were always difficult to talk to.” She glanced at her finely crafted silver-banded wristwatch. “Well, enough chit-chat, I must be on my way. Say hello to your wife. Yet, on the other hand, it is probably best that you don’t.” She gave me one of her knowing smiles. “Take care of Kyle. Remember, he would do anything for you.”

  “Mother, you are being enigmatic again. Just say what you want to say.”

  “Brothers take care of each other, Dear.” My mother turned about and started to walk away. I tried to follow, but I couldn’t move. It was almost as if I were part of the wall that I was sitting on. “Mother,” I called out, demandingly, “what did you want to tell me?”

  Mother stopped and turned to look at me. “Richard, brothers look after each other whether they like each other or not. It’s just what brothers do.”

  “We do.”

  “Good boys, I have.”

  She was about to turn away when I, for some unknown reason, blurted out, “You wore that coat and hat at my First Holy Communion.”

  “Ah, you remember; that is nice. Maybe people are right. Maybe you are not as stupid as you look. As a mother, I am always in doubt when assessing my children. I never know if I am objective or not. I suppose that is just another hardship of motherhood. The list goes on and on . . . Goodbye, Richard. Enjoy the reception.”

  With my mother’s last words, my surroundings quickly faded to black. But strangely, it wasn’t my mother who was disappearing from the landscape—it was me. And while I was blending into blackness, I heard my name.

  “Richard, wake up.”

  Like a buoy’s bell, Morgana’s voice guided me through the nothingness to the familiar here and now.

  “Richard, wake up.” I felt her fingers gently going through my hair. “I know you’re tired, but it is almost time to go.”

  I opened my eyes as wide as I could. “I took a nap.”

  “I know. I let you sleep as long as I could. But you have twenty-five minutes to shower and get yourself handsome for our outing tonight.”

  I sat up. My mind and eyes made their adjustments to my new state of consciousness. “Let me get this straight. We go to this hoopla, but we don’t stay long.”

  “Right. And as an added incentive, I am wearing the dress that you like—”

  Her royal blue dress with the eye-catching neckline had become one of my favorites. “And underneath . . . the special lingerie?”

  “Of course . . . But as you know, with the little that I have on, I will get chilly. You must allow me to bring a shawl—”

  “That will be draped only over your shoulders and not across your chest like you’re a beleaguered refugee,” I said with insistence.”

  “In exchange for your driving us there. Don’t fret; I’ll drive home. That will give you more than enough time to enjoy yourself at the open bar . . . But please, Richard, don’t drink yourself silly.”

  “I promise—” and I meant it too. “But I have one more condition.”

  “And that is?”

  “At this soiree, neither of us will talk about Uncle Raymond or anything discussed this afternoon in the kitchen. Promise.”

  “I don’t know why—”

  “There is too much happening. I need time to think things throu
gh. Just promise.”

  “If you insist. So, is it a deal?”

  “It is a deal.” What else could I say when she looked so seductive in her dress. She could have asked me to scrub the kitchen floors right then, and I would have done it. Wasting no time, I showered and dressed just shy of fifteen minutes, a personal record for me. I shamefully motivated myself with the delusion that the sooner Morgana and I got to the reception, the sooner we would get home.

  Hope springs eternal.

  #

  CHAPTER 17

  Not being fashionably late—for a change—Morgana and I found a convenient parking space near the college library’s great hall. The hall itself had been decked out for the usual buffet and cocktail reception event. Clusters of round tables with white table cloths and chairs dotted the spacious room. Long tables had been set up along the room’s perimeter for serving stations. There was a station for cheese, crackers, cold cuts, fruits, and salads. Another station was for hot dishes of various sorts; another was for desserts, coffee, and tea. The station that I was seeking was the bar station. That was positioned, oddly enough, in front of the glass cabinet, which had Morgana’s latest book on display. And as fate would have it, the line at this station for its liquid refreshments was disappointingly long.

  “Morgana, do you want a drink? I really should queue up now before they run out.”

  “What? . . . Not now. I should meet Chester and our honored guests before I have wine on my breath. And, please, Richard, there is no rush. They are not going to run out of booze any time soon, for Pete’s sake. The evening’s festivities have just barely started.”

  “You never know about these things. The college is constantly talking about cutting expenses. Alcohol could be the budgetary wizards’ first cut to save a dime.”

  Morgana’s response was a slight jab in between my ribs.

  “Do you always have to do that?” I said.

  “No, only when you start acting like a jerk.”

  As with any special college event, many of the school’s bigwigs attended. I could see that most of the board of trustees were present. I recognized several college faculty members, sans wives, along with some of the icons of the local community’s social scene. Chester Holland, Stark Monument College’s president, arrived shortly after us and, to the surprise to many of those present—including me—he didn’t come alone.