Constance Caraway P.I. ~ Episode 78

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Constance Caraway P.I. ~ Episode 78

…no phone calls, telegrams, letters, walks along the Midway Plaissance or sit-down Chinese food…

“I hate to be the one to tell you Willard, but you are dead… sorry.” Constance delivers news few dead people ever hear.

“When is the funeral, I’d love to see who shows up.”

“I love that angle. Who could resist eavesdropping on a steady stream of science-types, speculating on what you were working on at the time of your death and about what a good guy you were?”

“Or listen to the whispers from the folks who only pretended to like you,” Libby is aware of the petty jealous nature of scientific research.

“I don’t want to burst your bubble, but the rest of the world knows you as merely missing. World Agnostica-001Your death, as an unidentified indigent in Elgin, is for the benefit of Wolfgram and the other Mastadon creepy creeps,” Constance clarifies. “Oh and by-the-by, it appears that misspelled Mastadon is a just a cheesy front for a more globally active organization named WORLD AGNOSTICA UNLIMITED.

Indubitably! Our ambassador to the U.N. warned me at Tolentine about some nefarious society with bad intent, so that doesn’t surprise me,” the former basket-case concludes. “So what am I supposed to do with myself while my friend Martin and his beautiful sidekicks are out defending Creation’s honor?”

Lay low, that’s all we ask. Your input is critical to our ultimate success, with your informational conference (in the future) as the dangling carrot for your cooperation, so no phone calls, telegrams, letters, walks along the Midway Plaissance or sit-down Chinese food. Martin will be your guardian and will help you from behind the scenes. He will be your mouthpiece, right Marty?”

“He hates being called Marty.”

“This is the real Willard Libby is, that proves it!” Fanny refers to how Eddie D. gets under Martin’s skin with that flippant nickname. “The hospital nicknamed you, Whacked-out Willy.”

Ouch!

From the mouth of babes…


Constance Caraway P.I.

Forever Mastadon


page 73

Constance Caraway P.I. ~ Episode 30

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Constance Caraway P.I. ~ Episode 30

…”Can you pass the ketchup Marty?” He hates being called Marty…

Once they safely gain White Castle’s dining area, standing at the counter, Eddie does the ordering, “A Variety Sack of 30 and three Cokes.”

Constance picked out a booth by the front window, where Homewood meets Glenwood. “Busy street,” she comments.

“I need to use the little girls’ room,” Fanny offers, “how about you Connie?”

“No, I’ll wait until we hit the road.”

“30 divided by 4 is….,” Eddie starts divvying up the bite-sized hamburgers and yet another family factoid. “The hamburger was invented in Seymour, Wisconsin. They have a Burger Festival every year and me and the family make the drive there pretty much every year, mostly for the bun toss and the parade. Great fun.

“7.5. You can have my portion,” Martin does the math.

“Eat up. Can you pass the ketchup Marty?”

He hates being called Marty.

Conversation is spotty at the booth, perhaps having to do with that mystery briefcase in the trunk or is it that Fanny Renwick’s is conspicuous by her absence?

“It’s been 15 minutes,” Of course it is Constance who would notice the prolonged potty pause.

Just then, there was the screeching noise of spinning tires, a black four-door sedan tearing out of the parking lot, heading north on Halsted Street.

“That is the same idiot who nearly ran us off the road,” notices Eddie, who knows his automobiles. “That ain’t no family car.”

“Relax, he is long gone by now,” Constance gets up to head for the ladies room. “I am going to check on Fanny.”

A “Castle” cleaning woman points the way to the washroom when asked. It is small, three stalls.

“Fanny???” She expects a rapid response, but gets none. The privacy booths are empty, doors partially ajar.

A quick visual sweep is easy, her friend’s purse is still on the wash basin, opened to the makeup compartment but it is what she sees on the mirror shocks her. The letters F  M are scrawled on the reflective glass, using a bar of soap.


Constance Caraway P.I.

Forever Mastadon


page 29