The Marsh Madness

Oh well, when life gives you lemons, time to slap on a wig and drive off.

I left Van Alst House wearing highly noticeable clothing, a great swirling vintage cape in crimson being the centerpiece of that outfit. I was accompanied by Walter in a fetching little plaid jacket. Walter kept a much better pace when he was dressed. I guess my love of fashion was rubbing off on him. He pranced around proudly as we headed for the car.

I popped Walter into the passenger seat and then got behind the wheel of the Saab with what I hoped was a flourish and not a nervous twitch and spun down the long driveway. I waved to the police officer who was keeping an eye on the house. The drive to Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques is only about ten minutes, but it takes you from the bucolic country setting of Van Alst House to the center of Harrison Falls. I pulled up in front of the family business and parked the Saab in the most conspicuous spot possible. There wasn’t too much going on in that little part of the downtown, as Uncle Mick and Uncle Lucky seemed to have bought up most of the adjoining properties, using some convenient corporation. Better I didn’t know how or why.

A dark Crown Victoria, obviously an unmarked police car, pulled in behind me and waited, idling.

Not surprising, but not good either.

Walter and I stepped up to the shop briskly, and I used my keys to open the door. Michael Kelly’s Fine Antiques (By Appointment Only) is run by Uncle Mick, when he’s in the mood. Lately that hadn’t been all that often. Uncle Lucky had always been there, but only in spirit. I grew up in the rooms behind and above the shop. Some of my happiest memories were of the shop: the dim lights, the wide, dark plank floors, the full shelves and, of course, the dusty smell that hinted at other people’s fascinating stories. I’d loved the glow and glimmer of possible treasures of glass, brass or silver set up by Uncle Mick. The gleam of the locked glass cases near the cash registers always made me happy. So many treasures so close to my old home.

I rummaged through the excellent supply of wigs that resided in a large drawer, marked “WIGS—NEVER WORN.” Uncle Mick seemed to have an unending source. They were undeniably useful for certain activities. I had purchased several of the wigs myself for fun, for costumes, for emergencies. This was an emergency.

There wasn’t a lot I could do about my blue eyes, dark brows and eyelashes, but I could ditch my dark hair. If, as my uncles claim, the Kelly legacy is from Olaf the Viking, then I must owe mine to some Spanish sailor who washed ashore half alive when the Armada had that awkwardness with the English fleet. Whoever he was, he and others like him left a genetic legacy around rocky coasts. Black Irish, some people say.