LJI Season 11, topic 3 Searching for Clues..Janie and Alex, episode 3
Greetings. This is the third installment of a continuing story. If you would like to delve into the pre-story, first check: https://furzicle.livejournal.com/458629.html. The next is https://furzicle.livejournal.com/459027.html
Hi, this is Janie again. I joined my dad today on one of his cases. You see, he’s a detective. He called me yesterday to let me know he had a case I might find interesting. Since my brother Alex disappeared two months ago, Dad and I have been talking a lot, tossing theories back and forth on what may have happened with him. We have so little to go on. I saw him once after his disappearance, though it may have only been a hallucination. Last my dad and I saw him for real was before that. He was headed off to Guinea in Africa. So far, as much as we’ve wracked our brains, we’re still both baffled.
Then yesterday, there was a mysterious death at The Majick Sorcerer, a shop that specializes in unique gimmicks for those who dabble in magic tricks. Dad thought the case would be a diversion for both of us. Of course, for the person who is now deceased, probably not so much. But I enjoy a good mystery, so I was all in.
To get to the scene, we cruised an old neighborhood near downtown LA. It felt like a trip in a time machine. The homes were stately Victorians, most in dire need of fresh paint. After three blocks of shabby homes with front yards full of derelict cars, chain link fences enclosing children’s toys, and the occasional homeless person, we found our address. The name “Majick Sorcerer” was barely discernable painted across the front bay window of a house that probably hadn’t seen renovation since the day it was built.
I was hesitant to knock, but my dad is a trained detective. He got out his badge which he wears on a lanyard around his neck and knocked forcefully on the front door. Then he just opened it.
I know everyone thinks you run into movie stars all the time in LA, but I could swear it was Ed Asner sitting on the piano stool by the roll top desk by the front door.
“Detective Morris here with LAPD,” my dad announced. “And this is my assistant for the day. You had an incident here?”
The stooped man nodded energetically. “Wilbur Rasputin,” he answered. [There went my theory about Ed Asner!] “I’m so glad you’re here. My partner collapsed yesterday. It was so upsetting!”
“Tell me what happened,” responded Detective Dad in a calm voice.
“Well my partner had been slowing down for years now. You know, he’s the one who started the business in ’98. He’s had quite the loyal clientele over the last twenty years. Very eccentric customer base we have here. They know we’re the only place they can pick up the really good stuff, like eyes of newt and Disappearing Powder.”
“Cool! You really have eyes of newt?” I interrupted. “I thought that was only in Shakespeare.”
“Oh yes, Missy, right in that fridge over there. Along with snake skins and mouse feet.”
“Your partner?” My dad brought the conversation back to the subject at hand. “You said he had been slowing down. Do you have any idea why?”
“Ah, no, not really.” Wilbur shook his head sadly. “It’s really strange though. As I said, he had been feeling his age, probably all those lavender cigarettes he kept inhaling, but then, maybe about two months ago, he had a sudden rejuvenation. It was like a miracle. Of course, he claimed the miracle WAS the lavender cigarettes, but I didn’t buy it. He seemed to be working with greater and greater energy, but then yesterday, he just collapsed.”
Dad interjected, “Well his death was fairly unexpected with unusual symptoms. The docs have sent me here, along with my assistant”--here he nodded in my direction-"to check his environment. To see if there are any clues that would explain his sudden demise. May we look around?”
Wilbur looked up hopefully. “Certainly, certainly. To get you started, I think you should check out this gizmo he had been fascinated with lately.” Wilbur turned and grabbed a homemade metallic contraption out of the roll-top desk. He cradled it in both hands, as if it were a large super-soaker water gun. But while at one end it did have a trigger of sorts, the other end had a palm-sized plunger. Wilber demonstrated how to use it. He pointed it toward a pen on the desk and announced he was firing it. The puck-like plunger shot out about a finger’s width and then immediately retracted, accompanied by satisfying electrical sparking noises. “I don’t know what it’s registering, but he said it would emit a humming tone and turn on a light if it found something.”
We thanked him and turned to explore. We threaded our way through the gloomy front room between glass cases of wands and capes then ducked under a Tiffany-style lamp that hung next to the curtained entrance to the staircase. Dad tried blasting the thing at the lamp, but all he got was a lot of static.
“His room was on the third floor in the turret!” Wilbur called out to our disappearing backs.
Dad tried the zapper first-that was the name we ended up calling it-on a few things as we went up the staircase. First a fake Van Gogh painting, then a light switch. Bzzt. Bzzt. I was getting impatient. “Let me try it Dad,” I begged. He handed it over. Bzzt. Bzzt. I soon couldn’t resist zapping everything in sight.
Dad chuckled. “When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” He muttered.
“What? I couldn’t hear you, Dad. I was too busy zapping.” I buzzed a silver desk bell. It not only buzzed, it even gave out a low ringing sound. “Do you think that’s it?” I queried.
“Nah. That’s just resonance,” he replied.
I went back to buzzing and zapping. Meanwhile, Dad was pointing out objects to be tested. He indicated the ointments and powders in their vials in the bookcases. I zapped all along the row like I was mowing down victims. He pointed at the hats hanging on a hat stand in the corner. I blasted each of those individually. Since nothing we zapped sounded any different from anything else, Dad directed me to go on up another smaller, darker staircase to the third floor.
We quickly found the room in the turret. It was a simple, spare bedroom with a single narrow bed and three tall windows set in the curved walls. Did you know it’s awkward to furnish a circular room? But there was a desk opposite the bed and shelves around the desk. Curios of all kinds were neatly arranged on both.
“Dad, do you smell that?” I had stopped short in the middle of the room. I glanced at him. He, also, had come to a stop with his face lifted toward the ceiling.
“Well, I smell lavender,” he replied. “But there’s something else. I don’t know why, but it reminds me somehow of your brother Alex.”
“I know,” I breathed quietly. “Right? And he certainly never used to smell like lavender. Are any of his dirty socks around?” I looked under the bed.
Perhaps we were inspired, but we took to zapping with a frantic energy . The pillow, the slippers under the bed. The seat cushion on the chair, the clock on his desk. “Check out all this cool stuff,” I remarked. “Medals from World War I, and a signed photo of Charles Lindbergh. A tall jar of very pale sand and another of eucalyptus pods. A beer stein from Germany and a bottle of Slivovica. Wow, this guy really got around,” I whispered. A tickle of a thought rustled through my mind.
Dad had pulled open a drawer in the desk and directed me to zap the contents. Pen, zap. Coins in a dish, zap. Half a dozen small velvet boxes were pried open and their contents zapped.
“Gee, Dad, everything sounds the same. It’s always sparks and buzzes, sparks and buzzes.”
“Yep, you’re right. But we might as well keep searching. It’s what we would be doing anyway, zapper or not.”
Just then, something caught his eye. Way in the back of the drawer, behind all the little dusty velvet boxes lay a long, black feather. Carefully, he extracted it.
“Ain’t that a beauty!” I exclaimed. It curved the length of my forearm and was a beautiful iridescent blue black.
“Zap it,” commanded my dad.
I swear there was a reverence in his voice when he said it. I lifted our trusty zapper and pulled the trigger.
The zapper erupted in a sphere of blue and white sparks, like fireworks, while emitting a deep resonant hum.
“Whoa!” I swore.
“Sheesh!” he added. “This one I’m taking into evidence.” He slid the feather into an oversized Zip-Lok bag and noted the case number and date on the outside with a sharpie.
“Ooh, I’d like to keep it, Dad.” I was really captivated with it. It didn’t have any monetary value, did it?
“Sorry, hon. It has to go downtown. It’s the property of the department now. That is, until the case is closed.. Maybe if you bide your time.”
We quickly poked around in the closet next and then took a brief glance in the other rooms. We decided we must have found what we came for, whatever its significance.
Passing by Wilbur on our way out, we let him know we were keeping the feather for analysis.
“Aye yup,” he responded. "You know, Alexei was remarkably fond of that feather. He said it brought back many memories.”
“Did you say Alexei?” My father’s voice was strained. I simply stared, mouth agape. “And what did you say his last name was?” Dad added.
Wilbur scratched his head. “I didn’t. But his full name was Alexei Morsky. He had a pretty thick Russian accent, too, by the way.”
Dad seemed somewhat rushed as he had Wilbur sign some paperwork to transfer custody of the feather into his hands. He handed him his business card, but then he and I hustled out of there without speaking until we were in the car and had the doors locked. He still didn’t speak as he started the car and drove around the corner. He then slowed and stopped by the curb, then turned off the engine.
Excitedly we turned to each other and simultaneously began throwing down our thoughts.
“Alexei Morsky!”
“Alex Morris!”
“The sand.”
“The eucalyptus pods!”
We paused for breath, then, with almost one voice shouted, “Two months ago!”
By this time, my heart was pounding. I noticed my dad’s hands shaking as he turned the keys in the ignition.
“Now I really want to know what the lab analysis on that feather reveals,” he said.
“Me, too,” I agreed. “And I can’t wait to get ahold of that feather myself.”
Dad looked at me sharply. “Slow down, Janie. You know you can't remove it from the bag. Furthermore, I think high caution will be in order. If it indeed has anything to do with Alex, I don’t want you getting mixed up with it.”
I clenched my teeth. “On the other hand, it appears to be the only link we have with him. Dad, do we really have to turn in that feather right away? I have some ideas.”
Dad was quiet for a bit. I could tell his gears were turning. “Well, I don’t know…and you can't touch it!”
“I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow evening, I swear.” Inwardly I smiled grimly. I don’t know if what I felt was elation or dread.
Probably both. Time to experiment.
{C}{C}{C}
Hi, this is Janie again. I joined my dad today on one of his cases. You see, he’s a detective. He called me yesterday to let me know he had a case I might find interesting. Since my brother Alex disappeared two months ago, Dad and I have been talking a lot, tossing theories back and forth on what may have happened with him. We have so little to go on. I saw him once after his disappearance, though it may have only been a hallucination. Last my dad and I saw him for real was before that. He was headed off to Guinea in Africa. So far, as much as we’ve wracked our brains, we’re still both baffled.
Then yesterday, there was a mysterious death at The Majick Sorcerer, a shop that specializes in unique gimmicks for those who dabble in magic tricks. Dad thought the case would be a diversion for both of us. Of course, for the person who is now deceased, probably not so much. But I enjoy a good mystery, so I was all in.
To get to the scene, we cruised an old neighborhood near downtown LA. It felt like a trip in a time machine. The homes were stately Victorians, most in dire need of fresh paint. After three blocks of shabby homes with front yards full of derelict cars, chain link fences enclosing children’s toys, and the occasional homeless person, we found our address. The name “Majick Sorcerer” was barely discernable painted across the front bay window of a house that probably hadn’t seen renovation since the day it was built.
I was hesitant to knock, but my dad is a trained detective. He got out his badge which he wears on a lanyard around his neck and knocked forcefully on the front door. Then he just opened it.
I know everyone thinks you run into movie stars all the time in LA, but I could swear it was Ed Asner sitting on the piano stool by the roll top desk by the front door.
“Detective Morris here with LAPD,” my dad announced. “And this is my assistant for the day. You had an incident here?”
The stooped man nodded energetically. “Wilbur Rasputin,” he answered. [There went my theory about Ed Asner!] “I’m so glad you’re here. My partner collapsed yesterday. It was so upsetting!”
“Tell me what happened,” responded Detective Dad in a calm voice.
“Well my partner had been slowing down for years now. You know, he’s the one who started the business in ’98. He’s had quite the loyal clientele over the last twenty years. Very eccentric customer base we have here. They know we’re the only place they can pick up the really good stuff, like eyes of newt and Disappearing Powder.”
“Cool! You really have eyes of newt?” I interrupted. “I thought that was only in Shakespeare.”
“Oh yes, Missy, right in that fridge over there. Along with snake skins and mouse feet.”
“Your partner?” My dad brought the conversation back to the subject at hand. “You said he had been slowing down. Do you have any idea why?”
“Ah, no, not really.” Wilbur shook his head sadly. “It’s really strange though. As I said, he had been feeling his age, probably all those lavender cigarettes he kept inhaling, but then, maybe about two months ago, he had a sudden rejuvenation. It was like a miracle. Of course, he claimed the miracle WAS the lavender cigarettes, but I didn’t buy it. He seemed to be working with greater and greater energy, but then yesterday, he just collapsed.”
Dad interjected, “Well his death was fairly unexpected with unusual symptoms. The docs have sent me here, along with my assistant”--here he nodded in my direction-"to check his environment. To see if there are any clues that would explain his sudden demise. May we look around?”
Wilbur looked up hopefully. “Certainly, certainly. To get you started, I think you should check out this gizmo he had been fascinated with lately.” Wilbur turned and grabbed a homemade metallic contraption out of the roll-top desk. He cradled it in both hands, as if it were a large super-soaker water gun. But while at one end it did have a trigger of sorts, the other end had a palm-sized plunger. Wilber demonstrated how to use it. He pointed it toward a pen on the desk and announced he was firing it. The puck-like plunger shot out about a finger’s width and then immediately retracted, accompanied by satisfying electrical sparking noises. “I don’t know what it’s registering, but he said it would emit a humming tone and turn on a light if it found something.”
We thanked him and turned to explore. We threaded our way through the gloomy front room between glass cases of wands and capes then ducked under a Tiffany-style lamp that hung next to the curtained entrance to the staircase. Dad tried blasting the thing at the lamp, but all he got was a lot of static.
“His room was on the third floor in the turret!” Wilbur called out to our disappearing backs.
Dad tried the zapper first-that was the name we ended up calling it-on a few things as we went up the staircase. First a fake Van Gogh painting, then a light switch. Bzzt. Bzzt. I was getting impatient. “Let me try it Dad,” I begged. He handed it over. Bzzt. Bzzt. I soon couldn’t resist zapping everything in sight.
Dad chuckled. “When you’re a hammer, everything looks like a nail.” He muttered.
“What? I couldn’t hear you, Dad. I was too busy zapping.” I buzzed a silver desk bell. It not only buzzed, it even gave out a low ringing sound. “Do you think that’s it?” I queried.
“Nah. That’s just resonance,” he replied.
I went back to buzzing and zapping. Meanwhile, Dad was pointing out objects to be tested. He indicated the ointments and powders in their vials in the bookcases. I zapped all along the row like I was mowing down victims. He pointed at the hats hanging on a hat stand in the corner. I blasted each of those individually. Since nothing we zapped sounded any different from anything else, Dad directed me to go on up another smaller, darker staircase to the third floor.
We quickly found the room in the turret. It was a simple, spare bedroom with a single narrow bed and three tall windows set in the curved walls. Did you know it’s awkward to furnish a circular room? But there was a desk opposite the bed and shelves around the desk. Curios of all kinds were neatly arranged on both.
“Dad, do you smell that?” I had stopped short in the middle of the room. I glanced at him. He, also, had come to a stop with his face lifted toward the ceiling.
“Well, I smell lavender,” he replied. “But there’s something else. I don’t know why, but it reminds me somehow of your brother Alex.”
“I know,” I breathed quietly. “Right? And he certainly never used to smell like lavender. Are any of his dirty socks around?” I looked under the bed.
Perhaps we were inspired, but we took to zapping with a frantic energy . The pillow, the slippers under the bed. The seat cushion on the chair, the clock on his desk. “Check out all this cool stuff,” I remarked. “Medals from World War I, and a signed photo of Charles Lindbergh. A tall jar of very pale sand and another of eucalyptus pods. A beer stein from Germany and a bottle of Slivovica. Wow, this guy really got around,” I whispered. A tickle of a thought rustled through my mind.
Dad had pulled open a drawer in the desk and directed me to zap the contents. Pen, zap. Coins in a dish, zap. Half a dozen small velvet boxes were pried open and their contents zapped.
“Gee, Dad, everything sounds the same. It’s always sparks and buzzes, sparks and buzzes.”
“Yep, you’re right. But we might as well keep searching. It’s what we would be doing anyway, zapper or not.”
Just then, something caught his eye. Way in the back of the drawer, behind all the little dusty velvet boxes lay a long, black feather. Carefully, he extracted it.
“Ain’t that a beauty!” I exclaimed. It curved the length of my forearm and was a beautiful iridescent blue black.
“Zap it,” commanded my dad.
I swear there was a reverence in his voice when he said it. I lifted our trusty zapper and pulled the trigger.
The zapper erupted in a sphere of blue and white sparks, like fireworks, while emitting a deep resonant hum.
“Whoa!” I swore.
“Sheesh!” he added. “This one I’m taking into evidence.” He slid the feather into an oversized Zip-Lok bag and noted the case number and date on the outside with a sharpie.
“Ooh, I’d like to keep it, Dad.” I was really captivated with it. It didn’t have any monetary value, did it?
“Sorry, hon. It has to go downtown. It’s the property of the department now. That is, until the case is closed.. Maybe if you bide your time.”
We quickly poked around in the closet next and then took a brief glance in the other rooms. We decided we must have found what we came for, whatever its significance.
Passing by Wilbur on our way out, we let him know we were keeping the feather for analysis.
“Aye yup,” he responded. "You know, Alexei was remarkably fond of that feather. He said it brought back many memories.”
“Did you say Alexei?” My father’s voice was strained. I simply stared, mouth agape. “And what did you say his last name was?” Dad added.
Wilbur scratched his head. “I didn’t. But his full name was Alexei Morsky. He had a pretty thick Russian accent, too, by the way.”
Dad seemed somewhat rushed as he had Wilbur sign some paperwork to transfer custody of the feather into his hands. He handed him his business card, but then he and I hustled out of there without speaking until we were in the car and had the doors locked. He still didn’t speak as he started the car and drove around the corner. He then slowed and stopped by the curb, then turned off the engine.
Excitedly we turned to each other and simultaneously began throwing down our thoughts.
“Alexei Morsky!”
“Alex Morris!”
“The sand.”
“The eucalyptus pods!”
We paused for breath, then, with almost one voice shouted, “Two months ago!”
By this time, my heart was pounding. I noticed my dad’s hands shaking as he turned the keys in the ignition.
“Now I really want to know what the lab analysis on that feather reveals,” he said.
“Me, too,” I agreed. “And I can’t wait to get ahold of that feather myself.”
Dad looked at me sharply. “Slow down, Janie. You know you can't remove it from the bag. Furthermore, I think high caution will be in order. If it indeed has anything to do with Alex, I don’t want you getting mixed up with it.”
I clenched my teeth. “On the other hand, it appears to be the only link we have with him. Dad, do we really have to turn in that feather right away? I have some ideas.”
Dad was quiet for a bit. I could tell his gears were turning. “Well, I don’t know…and you can't touch it!”
“I’ll get it back to you by tomorrow evening, I swear.” Inwardly I smiled grimly. I don’t know if what I felt was elation or dread.
Probably both. Time to experiment.
{C}{C}{C}