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 Thirteen.


At the door to the library, Ortiz paused. “Jackson?”

“Yes, Professor?” the butler asked.

“We will have drinks in the library. I will have ice water, please.”

“Of course, Sir.” He eyed the terrier and the stork. “And you?”

“I’ll have ice water too,” Jacob said. “Mother is a great believer in hydrotherapy.”

The butler was about to ask Bernie; he paused, looked at Jacob again, and shook his head before asking the stork, “And you?”

“I’ll have a cola.”

“A cola.” Jackson’s voice was leaden.

“Yeah.”

The butler sighed and turned away, muttering something about ‘Americans’ again as he walked away and Ortiz opened the door of the library, ushering the two agents inside.

The library held shelves lining the walls and the air held the homely, musty smell of old books. A few comfortable armchairs with side tables and a reader’s lectern were the sole pieces of furniture. The library stand bore a ponderous tome bound in leather and fitted with iron clasps, the book open to a certain page and held open with a weighted cloth ribbon. A small fireplace, currently cold, held a framed portrait of the family on the wall over it, with a smaller framed portrait on the mantelpiece.

“This book,” Ortiz said, indicating the book on the stand, “has been in my family for generations. Printed in 1750, with paw-tinted drawings.” Jackson the butler appeared with a tray of drinks, and after the goat, stork, and terrier had gotten their glasses the tall canine took up a position by the door.

“Who’s this?” Bernie asked, pointing at the framed portrait on the mantelpiece.

“That is Rebecca Ortiz,” the Professor replied. “The woman who had been targeted by this evil.” Dorpf’s ears perked and the terrier tore himself away from studying the titles on the spines of the books and crossed the room to look at the portrait, coming to stand beside Bernie.

The portrait was of a female goat, dressed in the fashion of the time, and the stork gave a small snort. He leaned toward Dorpf and muttered, “I don’t know what the artist got for making this picture, but he should’ve gotten life.” He grinned while Dorpf’s ears twitched to the sound of pages being carefully turned.

“Come here, my friends,” Professor Ortiz said, “and see the adversary that covets my daughter’s life and soul.” Bernie sipped from his glass of sweet fizzy cola as he and Jacob left the portrait to stand on either side of the Professor as the goat pointed at the indicated page.

A crouched, quadrupedal vision of pure malevolence gazed out at them. There was no fur; the artist had taken pains to highlight the drying blood maroon of its glabrous hide, its hooked claws and back spines only a complement to its mouthful of jagged teeth and gleaming yellow eyes.

Jacob slipped his notebook from his coat and started jotting notes, while Bernie peered at the image and finally snorted. “Looks like someone’s feral pet got shaved,” the stork said. “Gotta admit, though, I wouldn’t want to meet it in a dark alley without its owner around.”

“The book says that they are quite vicious demons,” Professor Ortiz said. One finger traced along the lines of text. “In the form you see here, they will burn in the sunlight, so they only go around at night, disguising themselves as anthro wolves when they must walk among us.” He paused, glancing at Dorpf as the terrier scribbled furiously in his notebook before saying to Bernie, “Your partner appears to be taking this seriously.”

“Jacob’s a new agent,” Bernie said. “This is his first assignment.” He craned closer to the book and lost his balance momentarily. The cola in his glass sloshed over the rim of its container, its arc conforming to gravity. The dark brown liquid descended toward the aged pages of the book . . .

And missed, splattering on the library stand.

“Bueno! Excelente, my young friend!” Ortiz congratulated Jacob, who had dropped his pencil and notebook, seized the tome and swept it out from under the threat. The terrier was staggering under the weight of the book, doing a short pirouette before landing in one of the armchairs with the book in his lap. The chair went straight backward, leaving Dorpf on his back and clutching the book to his chest. “You must be more careful, Agent Phlute,” Ortiz admonished Bernie.

The stork whipped out his pawkerchief and was mopping up the spilled beverage. “Sorry about that, Chief.” He set the glass on a nearby table before leaning into the library stand to finish his cleaning. His added weight and the angle served to cause the library stand to teeter and fall over with Phlute on top of it. One of his flailing arms hit the table, which rocked and caused the glass to fall over and deposit its remaining contents on the rug.

As the stork tried to disentangle himself, the butler sighed and rolled his eyes. “I shall get this cleaned up, Sir,” the tall canine said to Ortiz.

“Thank you, Jackson,” the goat said as Bernie got back on his feet. “We have a guest house here on the estate to accommodate you and Agent Dorpf, so you two can rest before dinner.”

“What?” Bernie asked. “Don’t you want us to get to work?”

“They only come out at night,” Ortiz said patiently.

Phlute blinked at him until realization dawned. “Ohh, okay,” the stork said. “Yeah, we could probably use some shuteye. C’mon, Jacob.”

“Um,” Dorpf said, “could someone help me, please? I’m sort of stuck under the book.” The stork and the goat hastened to pull the volume off the Boston terrier, and Ortiz closed the clasps on the book before restoring it to its place on a shelf.

Ortiz patted the book and said, “Please come with me, my friends, and I shall show you to your quarters.” He led the stork and the terrier from the room as Jackson explained in fluent Spanish to one of the maids what had happened and what needed to be done.

The maid shook her head.


***


The guest house was on the grounds of the estate, nestled against the wall in the northeast corner. It was a small but cozy building, with a single bedroom with two beds, a living room and a bathroom. Phlute and Dorpf’s bags were already in the bedroom, and as the terrier and the stork looked around the goat said, “I shall have Lucinda bring you some lunch at noon, and we have the evening meal at six. I hope you shall be comfortable here.”

“This is very nice, Professor, thank you,” Dorpf said.

Phlute nodded. “Yeah, this is fine, Professor.” He claimed the bed closest to the window by placing his suitcase on it and added, “We’ll just get some shuteye, yessir . . .” His voice drifted off as he began to unpack.

“Er, yes,” Ortiz said. “I shall leave you gentlemen. Until later,” and the tall goat left the small house.

“Nice guy,” Phlute said as he put his things away and set the suitcase back on the floor before he doffed his suit jacket and stretched out on his bed. His feet hung over the end almost to his knees.

Dorpf nodded, putting his own clothes away but pausing before he closed the closet door. In a corner of the closet was a blue valise, and out of curiosity the terrier opened it and peeked inside to find an old Carlisle and Finch electric train set.

Jacob Dorpf recalled what his partner had said to Professor Ortiz earlier that morning. He closed the valise, closed the closet and took out his notebook.

Scribbling the word Foreshadowing? he closed the book, put it and the pencil away, then took off his coat and shoes before laying down on the bed to get a nap.



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