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 Thirty.



Dorpf looked up as the front door of the guesthouse banged open and Phlute walked in. The terrier closed his magazine and set it aside as the stork closed the door. “Anything going on?” he asked, standing up.

“Nothing,” the stork replied. “Not even any rakes. I guess Eduardo got the hint and started doing his job. Warm night, too, and the Moon’s up.” He glanced at the magazine. “What’s that you’re reading?”

“Hm? Oh, the Journal of Irrational Research. Ever read it?”

“Nah. I prefer International Hydrographic myself. They had a great paw-tinted photo spread last year showing native girls down in Brazil. There was one picture of a macaw there, and,” Phlute leered and gave an insinuating whistle. “I wouldn’t throw her out of bed for eating crackers, if you know what I mean. What article were you reading, and were there any pictures?”

“Huh? No, no pictures. The featured article is a scientific paper about possible ancient ruins found in Antarctica several years ago,” Dorpf replied.

Phlute asked, “Possibly ruins, or possibly ancient?”

“Quite possibly both.”

“Huh. Sounds like they need to find the landlord or a good building superintendent,” Phlute said. “Well, have a quiet time out there,” and he went to get a glass of water. Dorpf shrugged and stepped outside, closing the door and switching on his flashlight before starting his walk.

It was a comfortable night, and Phlute had been right about the Moon overhead. Jacob looked up at it for a moment, judging that it would be full the next night, the night of the party. For some reason, that made his lips pull back from his teeth. He finally shook himself all over and kept walking.

The Boston terrier got near the front gate and paused, seeing two figures standing on the sidewalk across the street. Both were wearing street clothes but were also wearing silver-gray luchador masks. One nodded at him, and Dorpf moved on, somewhat reassured.

When he returned to the guesthouse after his allotted patrol time, he saw that Phlute was sound asleep with a magazine draped over his face. The Boston terrier studied him for a moment and got a sudden urge to try out a prank that he’d heard about in high school. That memory was followed closely by recalling what he’d done on a dare.

He shivered, as if subjected to a brief blast of arctic cold and shoved away the memory of Miskatonic University’s library at night. He then went to the kitchen, filled a pan with warm water, returned to the living room, very gently placed Phlute’s paw in the water, and slipped out of the guesthouse to do another circuit of the estate.

The terrier paused, ears perking at a sudden “What the!?” coming from the guesthouse.


***


Eduardo was having a lot of trouble keeping his mind on both his disguise and his job. There had been several masked furs on the street leading up to the Ortiz house. None of them were making any effort to hide their presence, and all appeared able to see through his lupine form.

His first task had been to help the butler, Jackson, move the sofa out of the guesthouse so it could dry out in the sun. It appeared that one of the Yanquis had spilled something during the night.

Having the form of a wolf didn’t necessarily grant him all a wolf’s senses, but Eduardo had a good guess about what had been spilled, although it was thankfully very faint.

Midmorning Professor Ortiz stepped outside and approached him. “Eduardo?” the goat asked in a wary tone.

“Si, Profesor?” the wolf asked.

“I want you to get the strings of lights out of storage,” the Professor said, “and place them in the trees around the gardens. We have a party scheduled for tonight.” The wolf nodded and the Professor went back inside. Eduard began to gather up his tools, thinking.

A party. The trap was an obvious one, but the daughter would be twenty-one after midnight. The Queen needed to be told.

Eduardo looked around before glancing up at the sun and grimacing at the pressure the hateful thing exerted on him, trying to strip him of his disguise and kill him. He took his tools and retreated to the shade of the gardener’s shed, took a few breaths to steel himself, and braved the light again to follow his employer’s instructions.

It took the rest of the morning, but the wires had been strung among the trees and tested. Two bulbs had to be replaced, but the grounds would be well-lit that night. Satisfied with the job, Eduardo decided it was time for him to leave the estate for lunch.

Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he froze for a moment at the sight of two masked furs on the street corner. They watched him as he hurried up the street and around the corner but didn’t pursue him. Nevertheless, the disguised wolf took a roundabout route before taking the road that led up to the ruined house.


***


A pianist and a string quartet had been hired, and the strains of Chopin could be heard from the open windows while guests, in groups or singly, moved about the grounds and the first floor of the house. The dining table had been removed to clear the dining room for dancing as the guests, mostly friends of Diana and Enrique but including friends of the Ortiz Family, circulated around estate.

“Pretty easy duty for us,” Bernie Phlute remarked as he and Jacob Dorpf wandered around the ground. The stork had a glass of cola in one paw. “No little hot dogs in pastry, but this is a nice party anyway. What’s that you have, lemonade?” Dorpf nodded and Phlute gave him an approving look. “Good fellow.”

“This is a little dangerous,” Dorpf remarked.

“How d’you mean?”

“Someone might sneak in. It’s in the Minkerton’s manual,” the Boston terrier said.

“That’s true, so keep your eyes open and look sharp,” Phlute said, his back to the front gate as a group of five wolves, two femmes in evening gowns and three mels in suits, walked past the open gate and headed for the house. “Anything could happen, so we need to be on our toes.”

“Ah, Señor Phlute! Yoo-hoo!” Phlute flinched and whirled as Señora Ehecatl swept through the gate, followed by her maid. The canine had a long-suffering look on her face. “How pleasant to see you tonight!” the Mixtecan woodpecker said pleasantly. She batted her eyelashes at the stork, who grabbed at his shirt collar and tugged. His tailfeathers fanned nervously.

The woodpecker tittered. “Oh my goodness! A mating display, and in public? You norteamericanos are so forward!” She sidled up to Phlute and said quietly, “Maybe later, you show me all your moves, si?” She straightened and moved on toward the front door before pausing, glancing back at Phlute, and giving her tailfeathers a coquettish shake.

The maid and Dorpf both shook their heads before the elderly canine femme followed her employer into the house.

A liquid sound made Dorpf glance at Phlute, who stood there with his eyes almost starting from his sockets, his drink pouring out of his glass to spatter on his shoes. Dorpf nudged him. “Bernie? Bernie?”

Phlute started so badly he lost his grip on the glass and fumbled to catch it before it hit the ground. “Um, ah, er, I need a drink,” he babbled before heading to the house. Dorpf watched him go before shrugging and following him in, catching up to him as the stork grabbed two glasses of champagne off a passing waiter’s tray and downing one immediately.

“You okay, Bernie?” Dorpf asked.

Bernie was about to sip at the second glass and paused. “Huh? Oh! Oh, um, nothing’s wrong, Jacob.” He took the sip he’d been about to take, lowered the glass and looked around. “Gee, what a swell party this is,” he said. “Let’s go mingle.”

“We’re supposed to be outside, according to the plan – “ Dorpf sighed as his superior wandered off, drink in paw. The terrier took a fortifying sip of his lemonade and followed at a discreet distance.

In the impromptu ballroom, Mrs. Ortiz and Diana were greeting Mrs. Ehecatl as Dorpf stepped into the room. Two wolfesses were standing by one wall, and Dorpf froze. Not staring at them, but staring past them, at a large mirror.

A large mirror in whose surface the wolfess’s outlines were wavering.

Professor Ortiz and El Peludo walked in just then, Enrique following them, and the burly luchador suddenly stopped.

He pointed at the two wolfesses and shouted, “Sorena! I have you now!”



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