Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute ©  eocostello
Titles by  marmelmm
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker


Part Twelve.



The Ortiz mansion was two stories high and done in a fine Spanish Colonial style with the walls painted a snowy white and the tile roofs a creamy dark orange. The driveway Campoviejo had parked in was circular, connected to the street by a broad entrance in a high wall with a wrought-iron gate that stood open. The center of the circular drive held a fountain with flower beds arranged around the pool the water splashed in.

“Nice place,” Dorpf observed, craning his head up in an apparent effort to take the whole place in at a glance.

“Yeah, it’s pretty swanky,” Phlute agreed, starting to slip a small book from his inside suit pocket. The chauffeur led them up to the door before walking back to the car to get their suitcases.

The stork knocked on the door, knocked again, and started to knock to the tune of Shave and a Haircut when the heavy wooden door abruptly opened, revealing a tall canine with a marked sneer twisting his muzzle. “Yes?” he said in clear English with a slightly intimidating British accent. “Can you be helped?”

Standing eye to eye with the canine, Bernie blinked for a moment before he gave a little start and said, “Oh! I’m Agent Phlute, with Minkerton’s Detective Agency.” He put the book back, pulled his badge from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and held it out facing himself. He hastily recovered and turned it around. “See?”

“It’s upside down,” the butler said with a slight sneer.

“Oh,” and Bernie turned the badge right way up. Jacob had already produced his badge, and the terrier was looking up at the taller butler. “Can we come in now?” the stork asked. “We’re expected.”

“Yes, so I heard,” the butler said. “I didn’t have a say in it, so come with me.” He stepped back and watched as the stork and the Boston terrier wiped their feet on a small rug just inside the doorway.

When they stepped past him into the foyer, the butler kicked the small rug out onto the steps before saying, “The Professor and his family are waiting in the drawing room. Follow me, please.” He had a long stride, but Bernie kept up with him while Jacob had to pick up his pace.

“You’re not from around here,” Bernie observed.

The butler sniffed. “Yes, you’re a detective,” he said in a deadpan tone. “What gave me away? The height?”

“Er, no. Your accent.”

The butler muttered something indistinct about “Americans.” He approached a closed door and opened it. “In here,” he muttered. “Professor, may I present Agents Phlute and Dorpf.” He stood aside to let the stork and the Boston terrier into the room.

A quartet of goats, two men and two women, stood as the two agents entered. The two women were obviously mother and daughter, the elder dressed in a dark blue frock and the younger in a cream sundress. The older man was in a dark suit and had a neatly trimmed beard and eyeglasses, giving him a patrician air. The younger man was wearing a white linen suit and had an intense look about him.

“Profesor,” the younger goat was saying, “le imploro, déjeme llamar a la policía o al Peludo.”

The older raised a paw in a placating gesture. “No, Enrique, ya lo he decidido. Confiaremos en estos dos agentes. Minkerton's es una agencia muy profesional y reconocida.” He stopped talking as the butler opened the drawing room door.

Bernie turned to Jacob and said, “I’ll handle this.” He walked up to the older man and flipped pages in the small book he’d taken from his coat. “Mi modelo de tren está en la maleta azul,” he recited carefully before glancing at the goat expectantly.

The goat blinked. “Excuse me? Your model train is in the blue valise?” he asked in accented but clear English. He glanced at the others, and the younger man shrugged. “I am Professor Ortiz. You are Agent Phlute?”

Bernie stood and blinked at Ortiz for a moment. “You . . . speak English?”

Behind him, the butler smirked.

Ortiz replied, “Of course.” He gestured toward the others. “My wife Maria, and my daughter Diana. This young man is her fiancé, Enrique Guzman.” The younger man nodded, turning his intense gaze on the two Minkerton’s agents.

“Oh, ah, um, er . . . Yes! Yes, I’m Agent Bernie Phlute, and this is Agent Jacob Dorpf,” Bernie said, gesturing at Dorpf as the terrier nodded. “We’re here from Minkerton’s, yesiree . . . “ His voice trailed off as his gaze wandered down to the phrasebook in his paw. “I thought this would be helpful.”

“May I see it?” Professor Ortiz held out a paw, and Bernie reluctantly gave it to him. The Professor closed the book and studied the spine. “Ah. A. Yalt & Co., London and Budapest.” Enrique snorted, while Diana gave a soft titter and her mother merely looked stern. “Strictly substandard,” Ortiz sniffed, giving the phrasebook back to Bernie. “Out of respect, we will speak English while you are here.”

The stork brightened as he stuffed the book back in his coat pocket. “Thanks, Professor, that’s very neighborly of you. Now, your letter said that you were afraid?”

“Yes, indeed,” Ortiz said.

The young woman, Diana, rolled her eyes. “Oh, Papa, that’s a silly superstition. You’re really just treating me like a child.” She looked away from her parents to her fiancé. “Enrique and I will be fine.”

Ortiz leveled a glare at his daughter. “Until you pass your twenty-first birthday, young woman, your life – your very soul – is in danger.”

Dorpf cocked his head and squinted, looking around the room. “Yes,” the Boston terrier muttered.

“Maybe, Professor,” Bernie said, “you should start at the beginning.”

“Did you not read my letter?” Professor Ortiz asked.

The stork waggled a feathered paw. “I looked at it,” he admitted, “but I wanted to come at this case with an open mind.”

Jacob’s ears twitched as the butler smothered a chuckle.

The older goat looked pensive. “Come with me into the library, and I shall relate to you my concerns.”



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