Of course, mud or blood on my brother’s jacket was absolutely unacceptable to Mother. Though it was my brother’s clothes that bore the stains of battle, it was I who got in trouble. For, as ever, I was my brother’s keeper.
“Yeah, I was always getting in trouble,” I muttered. “I got in trouble for me. I got in trouble for Kyle. Yep, it seemed that every day was Richard Gets In Trouble Day.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“Mother,” I said more in disappointment than in surprise, “what are you doing here?”
Dressed in her designer funeral attire—meaning the clothes she was buried in— she sat down next to me. “Don’t fret. I just came to visit my oldest son.” She looked unusually cheerful.
“Why don’t you pay Kyle a visit sometime? Why do you always pick on me?”
“I never picked on you.”
“That is very debatable,” I protested.
“Richard, your brother has enough on his plate now without me bothering him. Don’t you think?”
“Ah, so you admit that your little visits are bothersome.”
“My, you are still a very astute young man.”
“Young would not be the word that I would use.”
“Pshaw, you will always be my boy. Didn’t I always tell you that?”
“Yes, among other things.”
“Don’t be so glum, dear. You have such an ogre-like face when you are glum. Hasn’t whats-her-name ever mentioned that?”
“Morgana . . . Yes, she has. But that is not the point.”
“The point is, Richard, that you and your brother worked very well together. Your uncle and I, and even your father—I daresay—think that the two of you have managed this whole situation splendidly. Justice will always triumph in the end. Remember that and this too—Many things wax and wane, and some things shouldn’t.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“That is my boy, always inquisitive. Always asking questions to find the truth. That is partly why I love you, Richard.” Her white-gloved hand reached out and gently touched my cheek. “You were special to me, Richard, very, very special.”
As confusing as her words were, they also had certain tender finality to them. This was the first time I had heard—or remembered—my mother to say the words ‘love’ and ‘Richard’ in the same sentence. I tried to speak, but I was struck dumb. I tried to move, but I couldn’t.
Mother stood up, looked at me, then smiled. “Take care of yourself, Richard, and of . . . Morgana. And please don’t give up until your Uncle Raymond’s unusual situation is resolved.” She then turned and walked away into the air. And at the very last moment, before she disappeared, she cautioned, “It would be best not to drink any more coffee. Any sudden move may upset your friend. Goodbye, Richard.”
With Mother gone, I finally found the ability to move. I turned to my right. Sitting next to me and licking out of the coffee mug was Mapledale’s catamount. That same huge creature which took a deadly liking to Luger’s associate gave me a once over with its iridescent eyes but, in the end, paid me no mind. The elusive wild cat was quite content in slurping up my morning dose of caffeine, while I was quite content not to move and barely breathe.
“Rich,” called my brother from inside the house, “where are you? We better get going to the college. Rich? Rich?”
The catamount finished my coffee. It raised its head and listened. It then looked squarely at me again, cocked his head as if to give a quick acknowledgment of my presence, and, with no further ado, it quietly scampered away.
When the cat was out of sight, I took a series of very needed deep breaths, which concluded with me sighing, “I am getting too old for this.”
“If we don’t get to the college library very soon,” said Kyle rushing toward me, “Morgana will make sure that getting old will be the least of our worries.”
“Did you see it?”
“See what?”
“The puma, the catamount! It was right here, next to me.”
“Oh, no. Not you too. People are seeing giant cats all over the place.”
“Really! That thing was here.”
“And it vanished without a trace?”
“It drank all my coffee,” I said, looking down at the empty mug.
“Then thank the almighty that it preferred your coffee over you.”
Kyle’s facetious comment sent a shiver down my spine.
“In any case,” continued Kyle, “if we don’t get going, Morgana will eat both of us alive.”
I wholeheartedly agreed. Kyle and I gathered Firmino and Peterson, and we all made haste to the college library, where the others were eagerly waiting for my arrival.
#
CHAPTER 39
“There you are,” called Morgana, sounding a little miffed as I walked into the library. “How long does it take for you—”
I kissed her on the lips before she could finish.
Joe diplomatically asked, “Much traffic?”
“No, not really,” I said calmly. “But I had a very close encounter with our phantom catamount again.”
Morgana’s anger quickly melted into concern. “The catamount? You saw it? How close were you to it? Were you in danger?”
“As close to me as you are right now.” Taking advantage of Morgana’s sympathetic nature, I deflected any further questions on my tardiness. “Mapledale was right. The legendary Green Mountain catamount has returned. So now, you tell me why you wanted me to come here, posthaste?”
Morgana had that look of hers that told me disappointing news was about to come. “Richard, The Adamus Bremensis manuscript is worthless; the map is a fake.”
“I am not surprised. But are you sure? There hasn’t been much time for examination and testing.”
“It is a good fake,” responded Heike Fuerst, “for something done in the 1930s. My fellow colleagues and I have found several documents like these before. Artifacts such as these were manufactured by the Nazis as part of their propaganda.”
“Propaganda?” remarked Kyle.
“Part of The Third Reich’s agenda,” said Heike, assuming a professorial tone, “was to show the world that the Germanic peoples were superior to all other races. It appears that The Adamus Bremensis’ map was a small part of that effort. These documents were used as proof that the Arians regularly crossed the Atlantic, years before Columbus and other Europeans did—evidence of German superiority.”
“This whole Steinmetz affair is quite embarrassing for the college,” interjected Chester. “All the time, energy, and trouble that these damn papers wasted. It is unforgivable. To a very real extent, this entire mess rests with your uncle. There will be many questions asked by some very significant people. There may even be some explorations for legal actions on the college’s behalf, I am afraid. Long, contentious law suites, bad public relations . . . firings.”
There was fear in Holland’s eyes. Yet, I interpreted his words as a personal concern and not a specific threat to Morgana or me. “Chester,” I calmly said, trying to assuage his fears, “tell anyone who asks about this matter, that the college was exploring the extent of the Nazi’s attempt to challenge historical facts, and . . . that the college had discovered some interesting evidence to support that hypothesis.”
Quickly changing the topic to something more pleasant and tangible, I asked, “Hey, were there any problems cashing Luger’s last check?”
“Oh, no, not at all,” said Chester. “I brought it to the bank myself.”
“Then don’t worry, Chester. The college made some handsome money. Trust me, everything will work out if we all keep our wits about us. The college gets a donation and contributes another chapter to world history. All are safe and sound.”
I suddenly felt that the eyes of all present were on me.
“Well, almost—” I almost forgot about the poor fellow being chomped to death. “But, one must admit to the fact that Vermont has proof that a living, breathing catamount is running ar
ound the state. And that is, for us, a very convenient distraction.”
“Thank God for small favors,” said Kyle, who continued to reflect. “But what puzzles me is why Luger was so interested in these papers?”
“And my cousin’s involvement,” echoed Heike, “why was she so . . .” her words hung in the air as she reflected.
“Yes, and what about HITF?” asked Morgana, breaking the silence.
“I had hoped,” I said, “that you would have found something along those lines.”
“Me?” shot back Morgana.
“Well, not just you. I meant you and Heike and the other experts on historical documents.”
“I’m a Lit. major. It’s Heike and her team who are historians with tech backgrounds. And I told you what was discovered. The map is a fake, a forgery, a hoax. And we are lucky to find that out. After the incident at Uncle Raymond’s, many members of the research team went back home.”
“But there must be more to it than the map is a fake,” I growled in frustration. “You said so yourself. Why is HITF interested in these papers? Why break into my uncle’s place and steal an old tourist guide? Why mugged Joe?”
“Didn’t you think the book was for some type of master code?” interjected Kyle.
“Yes, and I still do.”
“And what about Operation Hotspur?” Kyle said with a tone of indignation. “What about me being disarmed and manhandled?”
“And thank God that you’re okay,” said Morgana with a slight smirk. “But, Richard, I don’t know if we will ever find the answers to your questions. The experts have determined that the map and the associated documents are fakes.”
“But there has to be—”
“Richard, I agree with you that there must be more to the Stoner Papers. But maybe we are not the ones who can find out. Sometimes, things are out of our control. Sometimes things just happen . . . coincidences.” As soon as Morgana said, “coincidences,” she looked as if she dropped a piece of fine china and was powerless to stop it from hitting the floor.
“I don’t believe in coincidences!”
“I know, dear, I know. But things, sometimes, just happen. The mountain lion that killed that poor but deserving fellow at your Uncle Raymond’s. That was,” Morgana cautiously paused, “ a coincidence with some benefits . . . God rest his soul.”
“I wouldn’t call it a coincidence.”
“Well, what would you call it?”
“Hey Rich,” called Kyle from the reading area of the library. He was leaning over a long wooden table appointed with a coffee urn, a column of white plastic cups, and an assortment of muffins. “I hate to interrupt, but there’s about one cup of coffee left in the urn. Do you want it?”
“Coffee? . . . Coffee!” My brain suddenly sparked. Ideas flashed into consciousness.
“Morgana,” I blurted, “where are Steinmetz’s notes and papers?”
“Didn’t you understand what I just said to you?”
“Yes, you believe in coincidences, but where are the papers?”
“They’re in that metal box on the desk over there,” said Chester, pointing. “True to God, I don’t know what to do with them, now that the map is a fake. I can’t keep—”
As Chester was blathering on, I ran to the box. Being unlocked, I flipped open the lid and grabbed a bundle consisting of four notebooks. I untied the binding string and started to quickly page through the leaves of the thickest book. It wasn’t long before the others in the room surrounded me.
“Richard,” asked Morgana, “what are you looking for?”
“Lions, tigers—”
“And bears?” quipped Kyle.
“No bears,” I said with a deadpan face, ignoring the joke. “Anything that has to with cats.”
“What?” asked Morgana, probably doubting my sanity.
“Cats, my Love, cats! Too difficult to explain, but look through the documents and search for anything that has anything to with cats, big ones, little ones . . . cats. That may give us a key. By the way, what is German for ‘cat’?”
“Katze,” answered Heike.
“And in Hungarian?”
“Macska,” replied Firmino, who hadn’t spoken since our arrival at the library. “That is M-A-C-S-K-A.”
“Good. Thank you,” I said. ”So, instead of wasting time and wondering about my mental health, will everyone just grab some papers, sit yourself down, and look for cats.”
To my surprise, they all did. And in fifteen minutes or so we found . . . nothing.
“There is no mention of cats of any kind on this thing,” complained Kyle as he folded up some sort of diagram. “Nothing. Is there anything else to look at?”
“That’s the whole shebang, Sheriff. Nothing is left in the box,” replied Peterson, fruitlessly shaking a manilla envelope for its contents, “or in here.” Disappointed, he passed the empty tan sleeve to Morgana.
“Well, this was a colossal waste of time,” declared my brother as he pushed himself back onto the rear two legs of his chair. “No signs of cats anywhere. And that brings me to the big question, why are we looking for cats?”
“Forget it. It was just a hunch,” I said most defeatedly.
“Kyle Robert MacKenzie, I have had it!” hollered Morgana from out of the blue. She dashed across the room to where my brother was sitting and started hitting him across the head with the rolled-up manilla envelope. “You may break my kitchen chairs, but you are not, do you understand, not going to break the college library’s chairs!”
The scene in the library’s rare books room was both frightening and funny. I couldn’t stop myself from laughing while poor Chester looked on in horror.
“Professor MacKenzie, Morgana,” begged Holland, “please stop. He’s the Sheriff.”
“He is also my brother-in-law, the chair crusher.” And with one more swipe to Kyle’s head, Morgana ordered, “Sit like a normal person, for crying out loud!”
“Okay, okay,” replied my brother, “I will.”
Threatening Kyle with the rolled-up envelope, Morgana sternly warned, “You’d better if you know what is good for you.”
As Kyle gazed at the paper implement of his submission, his cowering countenance disappeared. “Morgana,” he said calmly and without sarcasm, “you are the greatest thing that happened to Richard and me.”
The awkward and unexpected compliment caught Morgana by surprise. “What?”
“You’re the best.”
“Don’t you try to talk yourself—”
“Look at the corner of the envelope,” directed Kyle, smiling.
Morgana unrolled the envelope that she held and stared at the front upper right corner. “The stamps . . . There are leopards on the stamps,” she quietly declared. She then handed the envelope to me.
There were two identical steel-blue colored stamps with a pair of leopards on each of them. The African wild cats were looking at a small airplane in flight. From what I could tell, the postage stamps were issued for airmail use in the 1930s by Italian Somalia.
“Where did this envelope come from?” I asked, studying the stamps.
“It was folded within one of the notebooks,” replied Heike.
Again, everyone in the room huddled around me and confirmed what was now so clearly seen—cat stamps. But it was Kyle who asked the inevitable question, “Now what?”
I didn’t know. I had assumed the answer to the question would be self-evident when we found the ‘cat’ link. But I couldn’t see it, nor could anyone else.
“Rich,” asked Joe in his counseling fashion, “what are you looking for?”
“To tell you the truth, Joe, I don’t know.”
“What were you hoping to find?”
“Something connecting HITF, Luger, and Operation Hotspur with Steinmetz. Maybe a list, a document, a photo. I don’t know . . . ” My voice drifted into a “humph” of disappointment.
“Richard,” said Morgana, looking over my arm at the envelope, “have you given a good look
to the cancellation marks?”
I look at the envelope again. “The postmaster could have used more ink on his cancel-stamper,” I quipped.
Morgana reached over and put her right index finger just beneath the postage stamps. “The cancellation marks on the envelope don’t match up with those on the two stamps. And if you look very carefully, though the leopard stamps are next to each other, the ink lines of cancelation are ever so slightly askew from each other.”
“Hmm, odd,” Kyle remarked. “The cancelation appears to have been done in a single stroke. I mean, there is no double strike. Yet the lines don’t exactly line up.”
“They were removed and replaced,” I concluded aloud.
“What was?” asked Kyle.
“The stamps, Kyle. The bloody stamps were removed and re-adhered to the envelope.”
“You think so?”
I pressed my fingertips on the leopard stamps. “It could be my imagination, but I feel some ridges beneath these cat stamps that ought not to be there.”
Morgana grabbed the envelope from me and gave a feel herself. “I see what you mean. Something squarish is under each leopard stamp.” Morgana looked about and asked Peterson for his pocketknife. Obligingly, he reached into his pocket and gave her his Swiss Army, opening it in the process.
“Thank you, Deputy,” said Morgana smiling. “Kyle, grab me a cup of water and some paper napkins.” Without hesitation, her requests were fulfilled.
Morgana put the envelope on a long table. She then dipped the tip of the knife into the cup of water and meticulously ferried water droplets to the edges of one of the leopard stamps. The laborious process was repeated several times until Morgana could free the stamp’s corner from the paper to which it was affixed. She then pried up the stamp to reveal a tiny gray plastic-like panel.
“Mircofiche! Not some type of fish.” The connection hit me like a thunderbolt. “Claire thought she heard the word fish, but it was fiche.”
“What’s that?” asked Peterson as Morgana placed the discovery onto a paper napkin to absorb any moisture on it.
“That, Deputy,” I said triumphantly, “is microfilm . . .a microfiche photograph.”
The Hotspur Affair: A Richard & Morgana MacKenzie Mystery Page 35
