Copper Blade

“Copper Blade”

A Liam O’Hare Mystery

by Cherie Reich

I crouched close to the body, careful not to disturb the blood soaking into the Oriental rug. My fingertips pressed against his neck. No thump-thump pattered. With my watch face, I detected no breath. Lord Carrington the third was most definitely dead, although I could’ve surmised it with the amount of blood and, of course, the dagger embedded into his chest.

My companion paced around the room, only giving a precursory glance to the decease. He sniffed the air before examining an empty display case upon the oak desk.

“Find anything, O’Hare?”

“Hmm.” He rubbed his chin before leaning very close to the case. “How long do you presume he’s been dead, Johnson?”

I checked Lord Carrington’s fingers and arms. The blood was still damp, his flesh cool but not cold. “Rigor mortis hasn’t set in. I would estimate perhaps an hour, not much longer than that.”

“Hmm.” He straightened so quickly I jumped and almost planted my knee into the crimson stain.

“What is it?”

“I believe we need to speak with the residents at Ravenwood Manor.” He strode toward the door, only a faint hint of a limp detectable.

“Shouldn’t we contact Scotland Yard first?” No matter that the family called upon us first. This was a matter for the constable, not a former detective and a professor.

“They shall arrive shortly to arrest the murderer.” Without further word, he opened the door and exited the room.

Liam O’Hare’s confidence unnerved me, but I didn’t doubt him. The Irishman had a keen eye for details I never could see. I gazed around the room. Besides the empty glass case and the dead lord, I couldn’t fathom who committed such a crime.

“Don’t worry, old chap. We’ll find out who did this to you,” I whispered to the deceased.

***

Four people crowded into the study, not including Liam, myself, and the former Lord Carrington.

Lord Carrington’s son, James, wrapped a sturdy arm around a quite young Lady Carrington. She clutched a dainty handkerchief in her hand and leaned against her step-son. The maid who discovered the body cringed in the corner. Sobs shuddered through her slight chest as she buried her face in her hands. Last was the butler, a one Mr. George Thomas, stood pole-straight and stoic. Not a whisker twitched on the man’s face.

“This is the entire household, correct,” O’Hare inquired, his steely gaze soaking in every detail. I pondered what stories he saw with this group.

“Yes, inspector.” James Carrington moved his hand lower to his step-mother’s waist. “We have a cook as well, but Sally left a couple hours ago. George and Lydia live in-house.”

“No one else has entered this house since the cook left and we arrived?”

“George, have you let anyone else in?” James glanced toward the butler, and I followed his gaze.

“No one, sir.” The man spoke in dry, somber tones. Either he had a respect for the deceased within the room or was as dull as a weathered hansom.

O’Hare tapped his finger to his lips. “Then one of you is the killer.”

The maid let out a wail like a keening hound. I caught the butler’s eyes widening before the mask slid over them. Lady Carrington clutched to James.

“No, it can’t be.” She eyed the butler and maid, squinting with suspicion while her complexion paled.

James entwined his fingers with hers. “My step-mother is correct. There must be a fifth person here. Perhaps someone has broken into our home. None of us would murder my-my father.”

He swallowed audibly, and I noticed the first flicker of grief in the man’s moistening eyes.

O’Hare leaned against the desk and tapped along the empty container. “Do you recognize the weapon, my lady? Did it not come from this case?”

Her gaze flitted toward her husband. She wavered and I reached out a hand to steady her.

“Would you care for a seat, madam?”

“Oh, no, no.” She shook her head as if dispelling a nightmare. Her hand slipped from James’ and she twisted a rather large diamond ring around her finger. With a sigh, she said, “My husband acquired the copper dagger during a trip East. He said it was some ancient artifact. I paid little attention to it. He was always acquiring trinkets on his travels. As for the case, it did hold the weapon. Someone must’ve removed it.”

“Yes, someone must have.” O’Hare agreed before focusing his attention on Carrington’s son. “Sir, what did you remove from this desk?”

“What? Nothing’s missing.” James’ eyes darted around the room.

I followed his inquiry as well. I didn’t see anything missing, although the maid gave a loud snuffle. I should’ve offered her my handkerchief, but I didn’t.

O’Hare pointed toward the desktop. “A paper was placed here recently. Your father signed something, a document, I presume. His marks are fresh. So what did you take?”

His jaw clenched and popped. The two men stared each other down, and I started to move between them before he reached into his jacket pocket. “All right. Father was signing a document. It was a business proposition for me to journey to France and oversee his new winery. I told him I wanted to remain in England, but father was father. When he got something in his head, he wouldn’t let it go. When I saw the signed document, I took it. I figured it would be null and void if it was never discovered.” He removed the paper, showing it to O’Hare and me.

“Henry never told me you’d be leaving for France,” Lady Carrington said, taking James’ hand again.

“I didn’t wish it.” He smiled at her, and I raised an eyebrow toward O’Hare.

He didn’t pay much heed, though. “And, Mr. Thomas, when did you last see Lord Carrington.”

“It was after dinner, sir. We passed in the corridor, and he requested to be alone in his study and I was to see no one disturbed him.” His voice remained as flat as a collapsed accordion.

“So, you were the last person to see him alive, then,” O’Hare asked.

“I presume so, except, of course, for his murderer.”

“Of course.” O’Hare chuckled slightly and shifted away from the desk.

A bell rang and all of us startled except for O’Hare and the butler.

“Mr. Thomas, would you be so kind and escort the constable and his detectives upstairs?” O’Hare ambled across the room and opened the door.

“Of course, sir.” The butler gave a slight, stiff bow and left.

“Mr. O’Hare, we preferred that you and Dr. Johnson handle this case. It is a delicate matter,” James said.

“Do you know who did this to my h-husband?” A couple tears trickled down her cheeks.

“Yes, I do, and please, gentlemen come in.” O’Hare ushered three men from Scotland Yard into the now claustrophobic office.

“O’Hare, by George, what are you doing here?” The constable threw up his arms, smacking one of his detectives in the stomach.

“I’ve solved Lord Carrington’s murder.”

“Really?”

I almost chortled when the constable rolled his eyes, but I was too keen to discover the murderer in the room.

“Who is it?” Lady Carrington’s voice was barely above a whisper.

I held a breath as I followed O’Hare’s gaze. He appeared like a hound on the hunt, but I still couldn’t follow his logic. Did the butler do it? The maid? His son? Or his wife?

“Constable, I suggest you arrest Miss Lydia Faircloth in the murder of Lord Carrington.”

***

O’Hare removed a flask from his overcoat. The harsh scent of whiskey wafted through the air. I preferred scotch myself. He sipped the liquor while the hansom bumped along the road.

“Well, O’Hare. Don’t keep me waiting any longer. How did you know the maid did it?” I leaned forward to catch every word.

“Whom did you suspect?” He twisted the lid onto the flask.

I thought about it. “I must admit I suspected the butler, although I thought it was clear that Lady Carrington and her step-son might be having an affair. They appeared particularly close.”

“Indeed, they did and are.” He ran his finger along the bridge of his nose. “Of course, neither realized Lord Carrington was diddling the maid. The butler knew, so I didn’t suspect him to interrupt his master.”

“Not even for blackmail?”

“No, not even for it.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Simple, Johnson. First one on the scene is the first suspect. The maid sounded the alarm.” He massaged his knee seconds before I heard the first splatter of rain upon the roof.

“Was that all?”

“No, of course not. Lord Carrington trusted his murderer. There was little fight. He advanced toward her, making it easier to slide the unsuspecting dagger into his chest. No blood anywhere except the carpet, so his killer stood in front of him and toppled him over.”

“Anything else?” I collapsed back, unable to fathom how much information O’Hare took in.

He shrugged, a slight grin quirked his lips up. “The scene was tidy. Not a smudge of a fingerprint upon the glass case. Only a maid would pay such attention to details.”

***

Cherie Reich is a writer, freelance editor, and library assistant living in Virginia. Her short stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. Her horror novelette Once Upon a December Nightmare is published by Wild Child Publishing. She is a member of Valley Writers, James River Writers, and the Virginia Writers Club. For further information, please visit her website, http://cheriereich.webs.com, and blog, http://cheriereich.blogspot.com.

HELIUM

Aurora lounged in a cocoon of luxury. She caressed the soft skin of her curvaceous figure. Her exposed belly appeared flattened with muscles. A long, silk skirt hung low around her hips. Her beaded brassiere sparkled with sequins. Colorful scarves adorned her head. Long black hair hung to her waist, shimmering under an exquisitely jeweled headpiece.

She couldn’t complain about her exorbitant surroundings. Rich tapestries draped the walls of her bedroom. The enormous bed easily accommodated ten women. Plenty of room for a sultan and his harem. But only she occupied its satin sheets and vibrantly colored silken pillows.

Her head, cradled in opulence, dreamed of escaping from her solitary confinement. She’d lost track of time. How long had she been here? She craved human contact. Imprisonment kept her from the outside world. With no windows and no doors, Aurora nearly lost her mind.

She could never leave this room. Not unless her master allowed it. She wondered what had happened to him. Hours turned to days, days into weeks, and weeks into months. What if he never returned? Did anyone else know he’d trapped her in this room?

Aurora heard a noise just outside her bedroom walls.

“Aurora, I’m home,” her master said, his voice resonated the air.

Aurora smiled with anticipation. She couldn’t wait to see him, couldn’t wait to abandon the solitude of her surroundings.

She stood up and adjusted her scarves just so. She checked her appearance in the mirror, pleased with her beautiful reflection. She walked to the center of the room, waiting for her master to release her.

Aurora’s eager form shifted into a gaseous state. The helium rose her spirit up into the air. She ascended upwards, exiting through the roof of her bedroom. She landed before her master. Her form relinquished it’s gaseous state, returning her to a human-like existence.

“Hello, Master,” the genie said, finally released from her bottle.

ZINC

Luke kicked off his flip-flops and wiggled his toes in the hot sands of Playalinda Beach. Holding his brand-new Billabong surfboard, his sky-blue eyes scanned the glassy waves pounding the purity of the shores at his favorite place to surf. Playalinda Beach, part of Canaveral National Seashore, remained unblemished from any commercial development which tarnished most of Florida’s beaches.

He inhaled the salty scent of the ocean as the mist of the crashing waves lightly sprayed his face. He tossed his head to the side to remove his overgrown, sun-streaked, blonde hair from his eyes. He examined the waves, smiling at their four-to-five foot peaks as he contemplated the optimal place to put in his six-foot surfboard.

Turning to the left, he looked north towards New Smyrna Beach, the shark-bite capital of the world. Luke enjoyed the view of nothing but waves, sand, and vegetated dunes diminishing in the horizon. He turned to the right to a view just as beautiful, plus one Space Shuttle nestled against Launch Complex 39A off in the distance at Kennedy Space Center.

After deciding to start slightly north of his current location, he speared the tip of his surfboard into the sand, allowing it to stand upright. He slowly removed his Def Leppard T-shirt from his tanned, muscular upper body and threw it on the sand along with his towel. He removed his car keys from his Lightning Bolt board shorts and wished he had a girlfriend to tote all of his crap.

He opened his small canister of Zinc Oxide and dipped two fingers into the thick, cold goop. He rubbed the white sun-protection on his nose without a thought about protecting the rest if his body from the harmful rays of the sun. He grabbed his wax and slowly rubbed it on his surfboard. Luke inhaled the coconut aroma as he meticulously covered the areas where he’d soon plant his feet to ride the waves.

He grabbed the leash connected to the surfboard and secured the velcro strap around his left ankle. He pulled his surf board out of the sand, tucking it under his arm as he walked north about fifty-yards. He trekked through the sinking sand of the shoreline and tossed his board flat into the water. After guiding his floating board until the water reached his thighs, Luke lay his torso on the board and paddled through the glassy waves.

The water temperature felt perfect, warm enough to avoid the hassle of his wetsuit, yet refreshing enough to invigorate him. His arms stroked through the water as he paddled towards the open Atlantic Ocean. As the remains of a crashed wave rolled towards him, he automatically submerged the tip of his board into the water while simultaneously lifting his powerful upper body to allow the wave to flow between him and his board.

Luke paddled past the waves and sat up on his board. His legs dangled in the water as he admired the unusual clearness of the salt-water. He watched the bait fish swim briskly below him and almost wished he couldn’t see the bottom of the ocean floor. He silently debated if he wanted to see what swam in the waters beneath him; sometimes ignorance is bliss.

He regretted watching Shark Week on the Discovery channel the night before. He wished he’d never learned the close proximity of sharks to the shores of Florida’s beaches, or how sharks often confused the dangling limbs of surfers on their boards with edible seals. Luke couldn’t risk the ridicule of his friends calling him a pussy because he felt afraid to go into the water, so he sucked up his fears and said a silent prayer.

A rush of excitement filled his lungs as he saw a perfect wave rise towards him. He rotated his board to face the beach and dipped his arms into the water to paddle towards shore. He felt the wave lift him and the board up as the force propelled him forward. Luke placed his hands on the board and his strong forearms quickly pushed up as his feet automatically planted themselves on the rear half of the board.

Luke kept his knees bent as he squatted on the board. Using his hips, knees, and feet, he rotated the board back and forth as he rode the four-foot wave perpendicular to the shoreline. With the wave tunneling behind him, he rotated the board up, attempting to catch air. He felt the board coming out of the water and rotated the board back down onto the wave. He wiped out face first into the wave, swallowing salt water as the board leash yanked him towards the shore.

Praying nobody he knew witnessed his wipeout, he stood on the ocean floor in waist deep water until his bearings returned and his head stopped spinning. His ankle throbbed with pain as he recalled the fin of his board scraped him during the wipeout. He lifted his injured limb out of the water and examined the small amount of blood oozing out of the scrape.

Something swooshed near his legs, and Luke prayed the cause was merely the swirling current from the recently crashed wave. He hopped back up on the board and paddled out beyond the breaking point of the waves. He sat on his board, letting his feet dangle in the water below.

Luke saw the shark fin about twenty yards out, swimming perpendicular to the shore. He gently lifted his dangling legs out of the water, cursing for not remembering something so simple as blood attracts sharks. He lay on his floating board with all of his appendages safely out of the water, praying for the recognizable bull shark fin to pass by.

In an instant, the fin turned towards the shore, heading straight for him. Oh shit! Luke paddled frantically, scared to have his arms in the water, but more scared to risk floating on a surfboard as a shark swam towards him. As he paddled faster than he ever thought humanly possible, he heard the screams of sunbathers watching in horror from the shore.

Luke never looked back to gauge the shark’s location, he just kept paddling. He felt a strong force lift him up as his board and body rose. He knew the feeling all too well. He’d just caught a wave. Squatting up on the board, he rode the wave all the way to the shore. When the board fins dragged the bottom of the shallow waters, Luke hopped off of the board and onto the safety of the sandy beach, never looking back.

ARSENIC

Penelope stood in the attic of her ancestral home. She loved the hexagon-shaped stained glass window which dominated the top floor of her Victorian Mansion in the Garden District of New Orleans. She stood at the antique wooden podium and looked down at a group of tourists gawking at her home. She wondered if they knew how close they were to getting cursed today.

Penelope opened her spell book with the utmost respect, just as her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother did before her. Her lineage, along with her powers, traced back to the seventeenth century.

Penelope put the finishing touches on her love potion, and raised her arms above her head. She recited the words from her spell book, enjoying the ritual of her craft. It surprised her to run out so quickly. She kicked herself for not brewing the love potion in bulk sooner than today. But with Valentine’s day coming up, the orders poured in. With word of mouth increasing her sales dramatically, she barely scrounged enough ingredients together to make her final batch.

She heard a knock at her door. Are you kidding me? She closed her spell book and covered it with the black, embroidered silk cloth. She descended two flights of stairs, growing impatient with each subsequent knock her visitor delivered. If he only knew who lived here.

Penelope checked her appearance in the foyer mirror, her long black hair hung straight against her tall slender frame. Her creamy white complexion made her mismatched eyes stand out. Although most believed her one blue eye and one green eye made her a freak, Penelope knew it a sign she inherited the strongest powers of Witchcraft. Her family prayed to birth girls carrying the blue eye/green eye trait.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. Are you Penelope Manchester?” the man asked, tipping his hat like a Southern Gentleman.

“Yes, I am,” she said, admiring his good manners. Maybe he knew, after all?

“My name is James Toliver, identification 1975690. I’m an agent with the Internal Revenue Service,” he said.

“You're with the IRS?” Penelope asked.

“Yes, Ma’am. Our office made several attempt to contact you. I’ve telephoned and sent letters, but I haven’t heard a response. I’m glad to see you are alive and well, Ma’am. But I hope to schedule a time to meet with you to discuss various tax matters,” he said.

“Sure, now is as good of a time as any. Please, won’t you come in?” Penelope asked, only because he acted so nice to her.

“Thank you, Ma’am. You have a lovely home,” James said, entering the enormous mansion and marveling at its exorbitant furnishings and décor.

“Thank you, would you like a cup of tea?” Penelope asked.

“I’d love some, if it’s no trouble, of course,” he said.
“Excuse me while I put the kettle on,” Penelope said, disappearing into the kitchen.

“How did you find out about me?” Penelope asked, returning to the agent in the living room.

“When I audited a friend of yours, he tried to deduct your spell casting services from his income. He showed me a receipt for $5,000. Did Kyle Smith pay you to curse someone? He said it was a necessary expense for his business. Never in my 30 years with the service have I witnessed such a ridiculous deduction,” the agent said.

“Oh, yes, I remember Kyle. Did he tell you if it worked?” Penelope asked. Her blood boiled with anger.

“I didn’t ask, that’s not my job. I have a copy of your tax returns for the last several years, and I’d like to ask you a few questions,” the agent said, his tone turned harsher.

“My CPA, Terri, prepares my taxes. All of my income derives from my great-grandmother’s Dynasty trust,” Penelope said.

“Yes, I can see, your taxable income exceeds over five-million dollars each year. But I’m afraid you’re not reporting all of your income,” James said.

“I don’t understand, I pay over a million dollars in taxes every year. How much more do you want?” Penelope asked. She felt furious to pay the government so much money, especially after the way the authorities treated her ancestors.

“Do you earn money from your potions and spell casting services?” James asked.
“I suppose, but it’s nothing compared to the income I receive from my trust fund,” Penelope said.

“I’m afraid you must pay taxes on your income derived from all sources. However, your accountant can deduct your costs related to your, uh, business,” James said.

“I have to pay taxes on the money I make from Witchcraft?” Penelope asked, trying to control her anger.

“I’m afraid so,” James said. He turned his head towards the kitchen as the tea kettle whistled.

“Excuse me while I see to your tea,” Penelope said.

She hurried to the kitchen and removed the boiling water from the stove. She poured the steaming water in the tea pot, feeling furious at the nerve of this man. Taxing my Witchcraft income? Seriously?

Penelope took the back stairs straight to the attic, carrying her teapot with her. She retrieved her dark magic spell book from the bookshelf and blew off the dust. Her family only practiced good magic, but they made exceptions for demons and bad people. She felt this man fell under the latter.

She found a potion she’d never used before and lacked confidence in its success. She scrounged the required ingredients together and placed them in the steaming pot of tea. Penelope lit a candle and raised her arms above her head as she read the words to cast the spell.

As she closed the pages of her ancestral spell book, she added a sprinkle of arsenic to the Tax Man’s tea, just to be sure.

SULFUR

“Thanks for traveling across the Atlantic Ocean to join me on this excavation, Tommy,” Victoria Ventures said. She hugged her ruggedly handsome colleague.

“When a beautiful woman calls and asks me to leave the harsh winter in Scotland to play in the dirt with her in sunny Florida, I take the first flight out of Edinburgh,” Tommy Garrison said.

“You came at the best time, we finally cut through all the bureaucratic red tape so now we can start getting our hands dirty," Victoria said.

“How did you find this place?” Tommy asked.

“A condo developer demolished an old hotel near Walt Disney World. When they dug the hole for the basement, they found an entrance to a cave,” Victoria said.

“Just a cave? I thought you mentioned an excavation every archeologist dreams about,” Tommy asked.

“I promise you, Tommy, it will be. I haven't told you the best part yet, come on,” Victoria said with a wink.

They walked the cave system for over an hour, covering the distance of almost two miles. They barely spoke as they hiked through the spider web-like tunnel system. Victoria's excellent physical condition made it easy to keep up the intense pace. Her excitement to show Tommy her discovery motivated her to practically run to the find of a lifetime.

“I'm glad you marked the path with ropes, if I got lost I’d never find my way out again,” Tommy said.

“I’ve walked this tunnel so many times I don’t even need the rope anymore. But it’s good to have just in case,” she said.

“Like the guy who killed the Minotaur in Crete, didn’t he use a rope to find his way back out of the labyrinth?” Tommy asked.

“I forgot how nerdy you are,” Victoria said. She laughed, poking fun of her college boyfriend.

“Yuk! Did something die down here? It smells like rotten-eggs,” Tommy said, holding his nose to mitigate the foul smell.

“We’re getting close now. You smell the sulfur commonly found in hot spring water,” Victoria said.

“This all reminds me of how they discovered the ancient Roman baths, in Bath, England. During the Victorian era, hot water started leaking in someone's basement. They started digging and uncovered the archeological find of the century,” Tommy said.

“Sorry I’m walking so fast, but I’m anxious to see the look on your face when you see what I found,” Victoria said.

“You mean what your team found,” Tommy said correcting her.

“What I’m about to show you no one else has seen, at least no one still living,” Victoria said. She grinned at the joy of teasing Tommy. His perplexed look proved priceless.

“I’ve been in a holding pattern waiting for you to arrive. I need a diving partner, and no one will take the risk. The cave dead ends into a hot spring,” Victoria said.

“Sounds fascinating, but I imagine the fear of diving in an undiscovered hot spring sounds intimidating,” Tommy said.

“It’s not exactly undiscovered. In fact someone discovered it thousands of years ago. They left markings. The Ancient Egyptians discovered it before the Spanish did 500 years ago.

“Okay, now you just gave me the biggest hard on. Did you say the Ancient Egyptians were here?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, but I’m not an expert in hieroglyphics, that’s one of the reasons I called you. I merely possess the most basic knowledge, and I don't recognize much,” Victoria said.

“No one has ever found evidence of the Ancient Egyptians in the new world. But we studied Egyptian hieroglyphs together in graduate school. I’m surprised you’re so rusty. I recall feeling furious when you earned an ‘A’ when I got stuck with a ‘B+’,” Tommy said.

“Do you regret turning down your fellowship at Harvard to be with your father in Scotland after his heart attack?” Victoria asked.

“Not as much as I regret not staying in the States to be with you,” Tommy said, feeling his heart ache for the missed opportunity with his college sweetheart.

“You’re here with me now,” Victoria said, smiling through her bashful feelings.

“So if the Spanish found this cave in the 1500s, why haven’t we heard anything about the discovery?” Tommy asked.

“I think I know why this place is still a secret. Look here. Our predecessors left warnings,” Victoria said. She shined a light on the cave wall a few yards away from the start of the hot springs. She and Tommy stared at the engravings.

“Don’t feel bad for not recognizing the hieroglyphics, they’re not Ancient Egyptian,” he said.

“What are they?” she asked.

“Something older, Sumerian perhaps,” he said.

“The one below it is written in Spanish,” she said as she translated.


Do not touch the water, or you will watch everyone you love die

Ponce De Leon


“Come on, we’re almost there,” Victoria said.

She grabbed Tommy’s hand and led him to the start of the hot springs. She pulled out her lighter and ignited the incense to mask the pungent smell of sulfur. She shined her flashlights on the control box for the lights she recently installed. She placed her finger above the “on” switch and looked at Tommy.

“Ready? 3, 2, 1,” she said, as she pressed the switch and the lights shone brightly on the hot water springs. A layer of steam hovered several inches above the milky water.

“Oh my God, the only thing stopping me from diving in is Ponce De Leon’s warning,” Tommy said.

“I have a confession to make,” Victoria said, grinning up at Tommy.

“No, please don’t tell me you risked your life by touching the water?” Tommy asked.

“Only by accident. The other day when I installed the lights, I tripped and stumbled. My hand automatically reacted by going down to brace my fall. It accidentally landed in the water,” Victoria said. She held her right hand up to show Tommy.

Tommy gently took her hand in his and examined it. He enjoyed the intimate moment of caressing Victoria’s hand. He ran the tips of his fingers over her soft skin as he admired her youthful hand. He instinctively pulled her hand to his lips and kissed it.

“Your hand is as beautiful as I remember. It’s like you never dug in the dirt in your life,” Tommy said, still holding her hand as his strong feelings for Victoria came rushing back, filling his heart with love again.

“I know. That’s just it, until the other day, my right hand looked as rugged and aged as my left. Here, look,” she said, holding her left hand next to her right to allow Tommy to compare the astounding difference between the two.

Tommy looked at her hands and jerked his head back, shocked at the sight before him. While Victoria’s right hand appeared youthful and unblemished, her left hand resembled his own--wrinkled, rugged, and covered with tiny scars from digging in the dirt for a living.

“When I noticed the change, I initially thought it healed from the medicinal powers of the hot, sulfur spring water. But then I did an experiment, and I realized this is something much more,” she said.

“Victoria, no, what are you saying? It can’t be,” Tommy said.

“My cat is fifteen years old and ready to be put to sleep, but I can’t muster the courage to say goodbye,” Victoria said.

“You still have that calico cat from college, Amaretto?” Tommy asked.

“Yes, I brought her down here, carried her in one of those papoose things mothers use to tote their infants around. I submerged her in the water for only a second, and now she’s as good as new,” she said.

Tommy stared at Victoria incredulously; his eyes bulged from his head as the shock settled in. “Do you mean you discovered…”

“The Fountain Of Youth.”

NITROGEN

Ida ran late for her 11 a.m. tour of the Ponce De Leon hotel in St. Augustine, Florida. She only needed to descend three flights of stairs to get from her corner room in the tower to the start of the tour in the grand entrance. But today, as most days, she needed to drag herself out of the bed.

She cursed herself for staying up so late dancing and drinking with her friends. Her husband, Henry, yelled at her and made her go to her own room before the sunrise. “But this is the beginning of the season. I want to stay up and watch the sun rise at the Castillo de San Marcos,” Ida recalled pleading her case.

Ida looked down at her ivory lace dress and admired the intricate stitching of her new frock. She noticed her corset cutting into her ribs. She never remembered putting it on this morning, nor did she recall removing it last night. These lapses in her memory concerned her, but not as much as they concerned her husband. She found huge blocks of time, hours or days, often unaccounted for. She blamed the spirits for this, while Henry blamed the opium.

She felt the brooch at her throat and wished she had a mirror in her room to ascertain if her appearance proved acceptable for society. Damn you, Henry. Why did you take my mirror away? I’m not crazy, I won’t hurt myself.

Ida found her way to the grand entrance to find the tour already in progress. Stephanie always spoke during the tours, while Ida merely helped guide the crowd of guests throughout the hotel. Ida tried to speak on occasion, especially when Stephanie said something wrong. But Ida’s corrections were always met with strange looks, like she was crazy.

Ida spotted the group outside in the courtyard as Stephanie said, “Notice the centerpiece of the fountain is actually the hilt of the sword turned upside down.” Ida smiled at the beauty and uniqueness of the fountain in the courtyard of her husband’s famous hotel in Florida.

She watched the group pour back inside the grand entrance. Ida looked in horror at the wardrobe of the hotel’s guests. She’d never seen the latest fashions from Paris, but it shocked her to see so many women showing their knees.

Ida followed at the rear of the group as they turned right into the receiving room. Ida loved this room because it was the only one which never changed. And the beautiful Tiffany Chandeliers hung magnificently down the long length of the room. Her favorite part of the tour was next.

“When guests first arrived at the Ponce De Leon , the women and children were brought in here while their husbands paid for the hotel. Back then, woman were not allowed involvement in financial transactions,” Stephanie said.

“How much are these Tiffany chandeliers worth,” a guest asked.

“The Ponce De Leon hotel converted to Flagler College in 1968. Many items were sold, but not these chandeliers and the stained glass windows. We had these chandeliers appraised a few years ago, and because of their rarity, they are truly priceless. The Tiffany stained glass windows upstairs in the dining hall were appraised at $36 million,” Stephanie said.

Stephanie led the group to the other end of the long room. She pointed at the glass casings containing photographs of Henry Flagler and his family.

“Here is a photograph of Henry’s first Wife, Mary Harkness. She died young and Henry married her nurse, Ida Alice Shroud, who is photographed here. Henry had Ida declared insane and kept her locked away in the tower until she was institutionalized in 1899. In 1901 Florida passed a bill making incurable sanity grounds for divorce. Henry immediately divorced Ida who remained institutionalized until her death in 1930. In 1901, Henry married his third wife, also named Mary, who is photographed here,” Stephanie said.

“It’s a lie! I’m alive and I’m standing right here. I’m not dead and I’m not crazy,” Ida shouted.

All of the guests in the room heard her this time. They all turned and looked at Ida. But they didn’t seem to be looking at her, they looked through her.

“Did anyone else hear that? I thought I heard someone screaming right in front of me,” one of the guests said.

“I heard something too. And it is freezing right here in this spot. Look, I can see my own breath,” another guest said. She exhaled her breath into the air to demonstrate it turning into white smoke from the cold.

“It’s from the nitrogen in the air. When ghosts appear, they carry a strong dose of nitrogen with them. It’s what makes it feel so cold when they’re near,” Stephanie said.

“Excuse me, did you say ghost?” the guest asked, instinctively stepping away from the cold spot.

“Yes, Flagler College is haunted. One of the spirits is Henry’s second wife, Ida Alice Flagler.”

SILVER

“You’re fired!”

Cat, short for Catherine, heard the dreaded words from her now ex-boss.

She didn’t feel surprised to lose her job in the recessed economy. When the stock market tanks, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to calculate all the brokerage houses on Wall Street suffered. It surprised her the layoff didn’t happen sooner, and she patted herself on the back for holding her head up high and taking it like a man.

She exited her building on Wall Street with her generous severance package in hand. She looked up at the sky where the Twin Towers once stood and felt the sun warm her face. So this is what daylight feels like during the work week? Unsure what to do with herself, she stepped into the nearest bar.

“What can I get you, Cat?” the bartender, Mike, asked.

“Chilled Petron with a Corona light back,” she said, looking at Mike with her sad, baby-blue eyes. Cat appreciated the lack of questions. When she glanced down the long line of bar stools, she noticed lots of “suits” occupying the bar with a drink in front of them.

The bartender poured the clear goodness without judgment. An abundance of Wall Streeters found themselves without a job these days, but a depressed economy and record unemployment equated thriving business for bar owners.

Cat savored the shot and declined another round. She exited the bar without speaking to anyone. Day drinkers craved solitude. She felt lightheaded as she walked down the sidewalk. A liquid lunch proved a new experience for her.

She decided to take advantage of her newly found free time to try new experiences. That’s probably why she found herself walking into a strip club called “The Silver Pole.” The sign in the front window “auditioning dancers” drew her in like a mosquito to a bug zapper.

“Nice, the naughty librarian look, let’s see want you got,” the manager of the Silver Pole said.

“Can you play Ten Seconds To Love, by Mötley Crüe?” Cat asked. She licked her lips and arched her back, the job interview started now.

“Dirty girl, you’ll make a fortune here,” he said.

Cat really felt like dancing, and her buzz blocked any hesitation about taking her top off. She stepped up on stage and removed the pins which held her long brunette hair in a chignon. She tousled her hair to frame her perfect ivory complexion and slowly moved her hips from side to side.

She grabbed the “silver pole” and thought the name ironic because manufactures typically forged stripper poles from either brass or aluminum. She twirled her six-foot slender frame around the pole and kicked her leg up over her head to provide a nice view of her thong.

Cat let the music take her away. She closed her eyes and gyrated her hips, picking up the tempo to the music. She unbuttoned her blouse and revealed her voluptuous breasts spilling out over her Victoria Secret black lace bra. She shimmied out of her skirt as she bent over, giving her future employer a fantastic view of her toned ass.

She circled back to the pole and twirled herself around without stumbling in her three-inch stilettos. It amused her to think the same power suit appropriate for a Wall Street broker doubled as a great costume for a stripper.

She went on her knees and tried not to think of all the germs on the stage floor. She approached the manager sitting in the front row facing the stage, also known as pervert row. She desperately needed this job to pay her exorbitant rent in Manhattan. She licked her lips and stared into his eyes as she removed her bra. The look in his eyes resembled that of a kid in a candy store. This is just too easy.

Cat grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face between her naked breasts. She pushed her puppies together and nearly smothered the guy.

“You’re hired. Come back at 4, the joint picks up as soon as the stock market closes,” he said. He stood up and grabbed his crotch to adjust his positive reaction to the Silver Pole’s newest dancer.

Cat put her clothes back on and smiled at her good fortune. She found a new job within an hour of losing her old one. And this one didn’t require her to think past which pair of shoes to wear.

Fifty dollars a lap dance added up quick. In the first hour, Cat cleared five-hundred dollars. If she worked ten hours a day from four p.m. to two a.m., she’d cover her expenses for one month with one day’s work. She laughed at the thought of making so much more money taking off her clothes as opposed to managing other peoples’ money.

Now she planned to manage her own money. After she set aside enough tax-free tips to cover her expenses for a year, she planned to dump the rest into the stock market. The same depressed stock market which cost her a job on Wall Street, proved to make her a killing when it came back.

Cat found her silver lining: the fortune she’d make by dancing at the Silver Pole.