The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery

by Jack Flanagan

  The sequence of my night terrors ended when I revisited Kyle’s breaking the kitchen chair. And just as my brother’s broad bottom hit the floor, the panoply of disturbing thoughts would re-cycle again . . . and then again. Indeed, my mind had become a nest of vipers, and I couldn’t conjure up a single mongoose to chase them away.

  It was only when the dawn’s first rays shot through our bedroom window that my terrors finally retreated into the shadows of oblivion. Unfortunately, I had only an hour’s worth of restful repose after the nocturnal siege before the alarm blared. Duty called—Uncle Raymond had to keep his appointments.

  As Morgana and I got ready, I told her the details of what I had learned from John Katzeneinbogenin, my bad dreams, and my speculations. She silently listened and didn’t interrupt. When I finished, I asked her for her thoughts.

  “I think that you are right, Richard,” said Morgana in almost a hush. “These things may have been connected. But it’s over. Uncle Raymond is gone, and the Stoner Papers are missing with the Adamus Bremensis map.”

  She took my hand into hers. “Really after today, there is nothing more for you to trouble yourself with.” She gave me a hug, kissed me on the cheek. “Everything will turn out okay.”

  I sincerely hoped that she was right, and as the morning progressed, it appeared that she was. To my surprise, the funeral worked according to plan, though, to this very day, I am not sure whose plan it really was, Kyle’s or his assistant, Joanie Sinclair’s.

  The morning ‘festivities’ started out pleasant enough. Kyle, Joe, and Peterson assembled at our place for breakfast. To Morgana’s relief, the meal was catered by the Shafton Glen Station Restaurant, a local eatery that is partially owned by Kyle. The same restaurant was also to be the place for our luncheon after the graveside formalities. Kyle’s said it would be good PR. I let him have his way. I was too tired to argue with him.

  Between the serving of the fruit salad and the Eggs Benedict, I told our three guests what I had learned from John Katzeneinbogenin.

  “So, the end result is,” said Joe, “this Randy Katz gave you an old travel guide. And this book was given to Randy Katz by your Uncle Raymond at a biergarten party years ago. And, according to Randy, this book could be the original the one which was in with documents that were found in the Austrian woods, or it could be a copy.”

  “Yup, and old Randy Katz even left instructions for his son to get the book to me if anything happened to him. The book was important to Randy Katz because he believed it was very important to my uncle, but the old guy didn’t know why.”

  “A travel book, eh,” said Kyle, pausing a moment from his third Benedict. “Were you and Morgana planning a trip to Europe and didn’t tell me about it?”

  “Kyle,” respond Morgana, “if we were going on a trip, you’d be the first to know. Either you would have snooped out the information from the newspaper deliverer, or we would have asked you to house sit for the duration of our trip.”

  “Me, a snoop? That’s unkind, Morgana,” countered Kyle. “I’m no snoop. I’m a straightforward person. If I want to know something, I’ll ask. I’m a nice person too. After all, I did provide breakfast this morning.”

  “And well done too, Kyle,” I said, coming to Kyle’s defense. “Eggs Benedict, Danishes, juice, and fruit—it’s all here.”

  “It’s a very nice breakfast. Thank you, Kyle,” conceded Morgana.

  “You’re welcome, Morgana. And, Richard, before I forget. Manny Gomez sends us his sympathies, and he regrets that he can’t come to Uncle’s funeral mass. Manny said that he would be working at the time, and he just couldn’t get time off.”

  “Well, thank him for his efforts the next time you see him,” I said with uncertainty. “But who in the world is Manny Gomez?”

  Before Kyle could answer, Morgana said in a snap, “Manny Gomez is our newspaper deliverer.”

  A brief giggle emanated from Joe from behind his coffee cup. “So,” my friend said, after regaining composure, “your uncle gave the travel guide to Katzeneinbogenin, and Katzeneinbogenin, upon hearing of your uncle’s death, was bound and determined to give the book to you. And he doesn’t know why the book was important. Is that it?”

  “Yep, that’s it in a nutshell. Though we don’t know whether the book that I have is the one found in the woods or the one that Uncle Raymond purchased.”

  “Puzzling . . . and sadly troubling,” said Morgana.

  “Sadly troubling?” I said as I served myself another helping of fruit.

  “Yes, don’t you think?” asked Morgana.

  All of us at the table looked perplexed, except Morgana.

  “Don’t you see? Mr. Katzeneinbogenin is dying. As you said, he is at death’s door. He didn’t look well to me.”

  “I agree that it’s sad, but why is it sadly troubling?” I asked, trying to follow her train of thought.

  “Well, this book may have been the one thing that motivated him to stay alive . . . Being without it, well, it may kill him.”

  “Gee, that is a troubling thought,” I concurred.

  “His raison d'être,” commented Joe. “Old John Katzeneinbogenin probably felt so strongly about his promise to your uncle that he couldn’t die until he fulfilled his commitment. From what you have told me, I would not be surprised that . . .” Joe stopped. “Well, may God bless his soul.” Joe cleared his throat then added, “But it does seem strange that there was so much ado about these travel guides.”

  We all mumbled agreement.

  My brother asked if he could see the book. I gave it to him. “As you can see, Kyle, the book was a bit outdated even when Uncle Raymond purchased his copy. I did some research on the net this morning. This is the 1952 edition. The next edition of this guide came out around 1956. Uncle was to have been in Austria around 1955 . . . 56, or so. And, as far as I can tell, he didn’t use it much. It is in excellent condition—very curious.”

  My brother’s meaty fingers flipped through the pages several times. “Ayup, not dog-eared, no wear or tear on the covers . . . The book looks like new.”

  As he was about to flip through the book again, Morgana abruptly shouted, “Kyle, stop that!”

  We all instantly stared at her in surprise.

  With more decorum, she continued, “Please. Stop doing that.” She then motioned to Kyle to pass her the travel book. With wary obedience, he did.

  Morgana set the book down with its spine on the table, letting its pages fan open. She gently played with the book as if she was trying to balance it to stay in an upright position. All the while, she leaned forward and examined the book at eye level.

  “Good going, Old Girl,” I said.

  “Mind what you say, Old Man,” Morgana countered, keeping her eyes on the book.

  “What is she doing?” asked Peterson.

  “Isn’t obvious?” I said. “Since the book looks brand new, she is trying to see if the book was ever opened to specific pages. I did the same thing when I taught high school to determine if my students cracked open their summer reading novels.”

  “Also by doing this,” piped up Joe, “you can sometimes find the risqué parts in a book if it has been read a lot.”

  Before anyone could comment, Joe answered, “Hey, I am human. I enjoy a good trashy story every now and then. Besides, as I have often said, I wasn’t always a priest.”

  “Not for anything, people,” interjected Morgana, still intensely staring at the upright pages of the red book, “but there are several places in this guide book that appear to have been opened more profoundly than others. Richard, be so kind as to rip a dozen or so strips of paper that I can use as bookmarkers.”

  I promptly grabbed a blank index card from the kitchen utility drawer by the wall phone and did as I was requested. Keeping an eye for tell-tale gaps among the pages, Morgana gingerly slipped the improvised bookmarks into places of interest.

  When the last strip of paper went into the book, Morgana said, “ Though this book may be as pr
istine as the day it was purchased, we may have been lucky. Of course, it has gained a little more stiffness because of its age, but I found a few places where the book had been forced to stay open. These may not be anything important, but who knows?”

  As Morgana passed the book back to me, Joe asked to examine the book.

  “Not now, Padré,” said Kyle, looking at his phone, “We have to get this show on the road. The limo is waiting outside.”

  “You heard the man, Joe,” I said as I was about to put the book into my jacket pocket. “It’s time to go. I wouldn’t mind being late for my own funeral, but being late for Uncle Raymond’s . . . Well, that just wouldn’t be right.”

  “Of course, ‘Damn everything, but the circus,’ as e.e. cummings wrote,” replied Joe. “It’s time for me to go to work, but I would really like to take a good look at the book.” My friend flashed me a grin. Yet, I couldn’t help reading in it some traces of disappointment. “We can all examine the book after my uncle’s gig.”

  “Great. Maybe then we can figure out why all this interest in the darn thing.”

  “Or maybe,” said Kyle, “we can plan a trip to Austria.”

  “Or maybe,” said Morgana, “we can have the funeral here. Let’s go. Let’s not keep your uncle waiting.”

  Morgana’s abrupt, harsh tone made her sound like a marine drill sergeant, and prompt action was the result. Without thinking, like Pavlov’s dog, I jumped out of my chair and grabbed my jacket off the coat hook.

  “You are going to wear that thing?” asked my wife with prejudice. “You said it had a hole in the breast pocket. And it looks a little ratty.”

  “I’m not collecting business cards, so I won’t need the pocket. And I’m wearing a coat over it. So, even if it’s a little wrinkled, it doesn’t matter. Besides, Uncle Raymond liked me in this jacket. He gave it to me.”

  “He gave it to you because it didn’t fit him. And that was fifteen years ago. But do what you will. We have to get going.”

  Peterson, Joe, and I wasted no time in dropping our dishes in the sink and dashed outside—Peterson to his patrol car and Joe and me to the limousine. After their trips to the bathroom, Kyle and Morgana soon joined us. It was a tight fit—Kyle made sure of that in more ways than one. As Morgana tried to free the edge of her coat from under Kyle’s bottom, she asked with forced decorum why he had ordered a small sedan.

  “I got this at half price,” answered Kyle as he struggled to ease himself away from Morgana’s coat. “If I asked for a larger car, we would be charged the full amount. I don’t think Uncle would want us to pay for full price for a car if a half-price one would do.”

  I knew that Morgana would have ideally wanted me to sit next to my brother, but she didn’t offer any protest. She knew as well as I that she had to sit where she was if we were to fit in the car at all.

  According to plan, we went first to the funeral home to meet up with Uncle Raymond. From there, we escorted Uncle’s hearse to the church. After the service, we were all to go to the cemetery for final goodbyes. But by the time we left the funeral home—we had fallen behind schedule, and I was getting irritable. Though I didn’t realize it then, not keeping to the plan would be the least of my concerns before the day was out.

  #

  CHAPTER 26

  For the most part, Uncle Raymond’s last hurrah went off without a hitch. And I had to admit that Kyle and Joanie had done an excellent job of organizing things. The funeral was solemn but not overly somber. The ceremony had touches of style and dignity but wasn’t at all ostentatious. All nine church choir members were there for Uncle Raymond, and they sang on key—no small feat for that group. Kyle, Peterson, with their buddies at the sheriff’s department, and the Grafton Glen Volunteer Fire Department, served as honor guard and pallbearers. They made an impressive sight.

  To my brother’s credit, Kyle looked especially dignified at the church—though his uniform must have been fitted for him twenty-five pounds ago. His deportment throughout the funeral rituals gave the proceedings the appropriate amount of gravitas.

  Morgana and I were called upon to read several selections from scripture, which we gladly did. Joe, God love him, volunteered to co-celebrate the funeral mass with Father Dunderhill, the pastor of St. Boniface’s parish.

  Joe also took it upon himself to give the homily. Whether it was one of Joe’s stock sermons or not, I don’t know, and I didn’t care. I thought what he said was a fine piece of oration about God, redemption, hope, the human condition, and Uncle Raymond.

  Our car trip from the church to the cemetery was a short one, but the motorcade to the cemetery that followed us was quite long. Who were all those people, I wondered. All I can say is that my uncle must have made some kind of impression on them, and, in turn, they must have felt obligated to honor that fact. To me, it seemed that the entire county showed up at the cemetery. A few days after the funeral, the joke in town was that the motorcade was longer than the actual quarter of a mile trip to the graveyard. I don’t think that was true, but I do know that Uncle Raymond’s hearse—after dropping him off at his final destination—was hired by some folks to ferry them back and forth from town to the graveside rituals.

  The autumn Vermont weather behaved itself that day, and I was very thankful. I had attended too many graveside services done in the rain. At my mother’s, for instance, it poured. Everyone at the cemetery got drenched—she thought it was funny.

  Naturally, Uncle’s final resting place was in the family plot, located on a small grassy knoll in the cemetery. It always impresses me when I think that my grandparents, my great-grandparents, and other relations going back five generations are buried on that little hill. Whoever initially bought the land chose well. The plot has a grand view of the mountains that line the horizon. It is also partially surrounded on three sides with an array of native maples and oaks, which were ablaze in seasonal colors at the time. The autumnal display, somehow, assuaged the sorrow that I felt. That and the fact that Uncle Raymond’s grave was steps away from mother’s lightened my leaden heart. “Well, Uncle Raymond,” I joked to myself, “Mother is your problem now.”

  When we reached the gravesite, we were met by members of the local National Guard unit. They conducted a fitting military tribute to Uncle Raymond. The military ritual included a bugler playing taps, some firing of guns, and an American flag given to me in his honor. Uncle would have liked that. He always enjoyed musicals, fireworks, and getting something for free.

  After the Guard did their thing, all went well at graveside until the last few moments of the service. When Uncle Raymond was about to be lowered into his grave, family members, as per custom, were to put a rose on his casket. Morgana and I were the first to place down our tokens. We said a short prayer and our goodbyes. When we finished, we backed away a few paces from the grave and waited for Kyle to do his bit.

  At this point in time, the loss of my uncle began to take its toll on me; I became a little teary. I briefly glanced at Morgana, and I saw her struggling too. And it was precisely at this time when things at the grave went . . . well, a little awry.

  Facing the mourning assembly, Kyle leaned over to place his floral tribute on Uncle Raymond’s casket. I closed my eyes to fight back the tears. In my dreary darkness, I suddenly heard Morgana let loose an unnerving, gasping cry. Instinctively, my right hand went out to her waist and pulled her close to me.

  Morgana’s uncharacteristic outburst caught me by surprise. In fact, it caught everyone present by surprise. The break in the ritual’s rhythm had all observing eyes on Morgana and me and not on the honoree of the moment.

  “Morgana, are you—”

  “I am okay, Richard,” she whispered softly between breaths. “I’m okay, really.”

  I didn’t believe her. I saw Morgana’s eyes turning bright red and welling up with tears. “If you start crying,” I gently admonished, “you’ll get me started . . . And Uncle Raymond wouldn’t want that. He’d say it isn’t proper.”


  Still fighting back the tears and almost biting her lip, Morgana squeaked, “It’s not your Uncle Raymond. It’s your brother. Look.”

  My attention instantly went to Kyle.

  He was a few feet in front of us at the grave’s edge with his back to us. He was stiffly standing at attention as if he were guarding the Tomb Of The Unknown Soldier—though an image of an avocado upright on a table came first to my mind. With his rose gone, he had removed his campaign hat and held it with both his hands behind his back. At first, I saw nothing unusual, though, in my opinion, he was over-doing the wooden soldier routine. I couldn’t see anything to get upset about.

  It was when Kyle unexpectedly sneezed, probably brought on by his seasonal allergies, that I saw that his hat was hiding more than just his big bottom. For in that brief, singular moment, Kyle’s right hand instinctively went to his nose, letting his left hand, which tightly gripped the wide brim hat, to lower a bit. The result of this spontaneous, involuntary action was the revelation that my brother had chosen to wear red, white, and blue vertically striped boxer shorts that day.

  Yes, my brother had ripped his pants from the waist to the crotch.

  It wasn’t grief that had my Morgana gasping for air. She was, as people say, busting a gut to keep herself from laughing. My brother’s statuesque posture and campaign hat were the only things that kept the assembly from saluting his shorts.

  Kyle walked backward a few steps towards us with his head bowed and his spine straight as a Vermont balsam pine. Folks told me some weeks later that from the crowd’s point of view, Kyle’s retreat from the grave looked quite solemn and added an extra touch of dignity to the occasion. Some attendees also told me that their hearts went out to Morgana, who appeared to be overcome with grief—if they only knew.