Foxy's Tale Read online

  “Oh,” he said, waving a hand across his brow in a great show of angst, “I cannot think about that now.” He plopped himself down on a velvet settee and stretched out his long legs. He looked stylish in black slacks, a black-on-black striped shirt, and a black and white hound’s-tooth jacket. He wore black Kenneth Cole New York ‘Loafin’ Around’ Mock Toe Loafers with gray socks. His clothing choice seemed to match his subdued mood.

  Foxy came out from behind her desk, which was, as usual, littered with papers and general junk. “What’s the matter?” she asked him, but she had a suspicion. She never approved of his trip to New York.

  He pointed to his shoes. “You were right,” he said sadly. “These shoes say it all.” He sighed grandly. “I should not have gone loafing around New York. It was too soon. What am I going to do now?”

  “All right,” said Foxy. “Tell mama what happened.”

  “He left me. We were having a perfectly wonderful evening in my apartment last night, and all of a sudden he just went off. You know. Just like that.” Knot snapped his fingers. “I’m a cliché. That’s all I am.”

  “Poor baby. And what happened?” Foxy stopped at the settee.

  “And . . . he just changed. Like a different person. I don’t know what happened. Maybe it was the picture.”

  “Kuh-not,” Foxy began, her tone stern, “are you saying you still have someone else’s picture in your apartment?”

  “Well,” Knot sounded defensive, “that isn’t a crime, is it? I mean if this is going somewhere – which now I see it is definitely at a dead end – I would toss that picture in the trash in an instant. But now. Why should I?”

  “At least you could have hidden it,” Foxy offered.

  “It was a test. And he failed miserably.” Knot leaned down to rub an invisible speck of dirt from his shoe. These shoes didn’t look like him. They were a bit too rugged, too much of an I’m-a-tough-guy-with-taste kind of shoe.

  “Cheer up. Soon the locksmith will be here, and then you can close that sale with the DuPont woman. She certainly is set on that trunk.” Foxy looked up as the doorbell tinkled again.

  A man entered wearing a jacket that said Metro Lock & Key with an embroidered image of a key below the name.

  “He’s here,” Foxy told Knot, and motioned the man to follow her to the trunk.

  “So,” he said, “what have we got here?”

  “It’s an old trunk,” Foxy told him, although it seemed perfectly obvious what was in front of them.

  “You own it?” he asked.

  “Of course. This is my shop,” Foxy said. With a great show of effort, Knot pushed himself up and off the settee. If there was something valuable in there he wanted to see it, too.

  “We have to make sure before we unlock anything. Sign this waiver. Here on the bottom line.” He handed her a flat metal box with a paper clipped to it. Foxy signed hurriedly.

  “Okay, now open it,” Knot stood by Foxy’s side. “This is so exciting. Better than Christmas and Easter and a Cher concert combined. Maybe there’s a diamond as big as my hand in there.”

  “If there’s a diamond the size of your hand, I’m taking us all on the shopping spree of the century. We’ll hit every major mall between here and Beverly Hills,” Foxy said. She clapped her hands together fast a few times, like a child, completely taken with this fantasy.

  The locksmith, whose name according to his work jacket was Earl, looked up and grinned.

  “I’d love to join you in a shopping spree, but I’ve opened more locks in my career than the number of hairs on your pretty little head, and I’ve never found diamonds on the other side.” He slid one of his picks into the lock and popped it open. “Okay, here we go. You want to open the top?” He stood up and looked at Foxy.

  “You do it,” she said to Knot.

  “Listen,” he said bending down to grab the edge of the trunk top, “at least we know we can sell the trunk whether there’s anything in here or . . . hello, what’s this?”

  As he opened the top all the way and straightened up, the three of them peered inside and found the same box that Myron had seen last night. The box was as long as the trunk, only about four inches high, and about a third as wide as the trunk. It seemed to have been built into the trunk so it would fit exactly. And it was, of course, also locked.

  “Somebody wanted to be sure whatever was in here stayed in here,” said Earl. “This will be a small extra charge. I was only told there would be one lock. Of course you could go with the basic service charge for the visit, if you want, and that would save you a little. That lock’s smaller. I’ll have to go out to the truck and get my other pick set.”

  Knot wasn’t happy. “Somebody really wanted to keep this diamond hidden, didn’t they?”

  “Love a duck. Fine. We’ve come this far. Might as well see the whole thing,” Foxy said and turned to Earl. “We’ll pay the basic fee – all inclusive.” When Earl was out the door she said to Knot, “Can you believe that? Charges for two locks. I’ll never call them again.”

  “I can’t imagine what anyone would build into a trunk that might fit into that,” Knot pointed to the box. “A sword maybe?”

  “Oh my God,” Foxy almost gasped, “Excalibur?”

  “Oh pu-leeeeze,” Knot exaggerated, “that is so overdone, I cannot believe you even thought it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Anyway how could you prove it? It’s too ridiculous.” But Foxy could see he was thinking about the possibility. “It’s probably an old broom,” he added. “From some old cargo ship.”

  Earl was back. He spread a pick set in a leather case on the bottom of the trunk and knelt down. He tried pick after pick but they were all too big. He was puffing a little from his kneeling position. He had quite a belly. Finally he tried a tiny pick that worked. The lock squeaked a little and they heard the rasp of old metal that had not moved for a long, long time and then, a pop and the lock sprung open.

  “That’s a very old lock,” said Earl. “I was afraid it might be so brittle it would break, but she’s okay.”

  “Open it up,” Foxy told him. “Let’s see what’s in there.”

  He pulled the tab of the lock up and then slid his fingers along the box top until he got a good hold and lifted. There were very old hinges running along the back side. They also creaked with age as Earl lifted the top away from the box. When they could finally see inside, there were five fat rolls of what looked like some sort of durable paper.

  “Well, there she is,” said Earl and packed up his picks. “That’ll be thirty-five for the whole thing.”

  Foxy was surprised it was not more, after all that. She was hoping it was money well spent, like in the form of some major lucky find – long lost, never completed Frank Lloyd Wright plans maybe? Then she’d have been able to buy that bag she saw at Neiman’s last week, the one she couldn’t stop thinking about. Sometimes a great leather purse stayed in a girl’s mind longer than a marriage. After she paid him and Earl was out the door for good, Foxy muttered to Knot, “Now the big bucks to find an appraiser who can tell us what these are and what they’re worth, if anything.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The DuPont woman stood by Foxy’s desk as Foxy and Knot explained what was spread out on top of it.

  “The appraiser’s letter is right here, Mrs. D,” Knot told her. He’d gotten quite chummy by now and she didn’t seem to mind. “They’re bona fide original plans for the construction of DuPont Circle and the oldest houses surrounding it. This is a fabulous find.”

  “Well,” she said, her eyebrows arched and her reading glasses pushed down her nose to see over them, “for me especially. I mean original plans for the circle. I think they should be in a DuPont museum, don’t you? I wonder . . . I could bequeath them upon my death. Imagine.”

  Knot was imagining just such an event. But he wanted to make this sale before she keeled over. Although it didn’t seem imminent, one never knew.

  “I tell you what, considering their historic signific
ance, and the appraiser’s note with his valuation, I think you’re getting a steal for the credenza, the tapestry, the trunk and the plans at only eight thousand. I mean if we split up the trunk and the plans, you could get away for six, but then the value of each would be less.”

  Foxy thought Knot must have been a carnival barker in a former life. The way he slung it around was a thing to behold and Foxy was wild with admiration at that point. Mrs. DuPont was nodding and taking out her checkbook as if she was running on some sort of autopilot that Knot has dialed to the “on” position. They were all so intent on the plans and their deal that no one noticed the disheveled little man peering through the glass doorway until the bell tinkled and Myron entered the store.

  “So?” he began without any other greeting. “You got inside the trunk already?”

  Foxy stepped aside so he could see the plans unrolled on her desk. “Why, yes, Mr. Standlish, we did and look what we found. It turns out these old architectural plans were inside the trunk and Mrs. DuPont here feels she should keep them all together with the trunk for historic purposes.”

  “Plans?” Myron seemed confused. “You mean like vaht a builder vould use? To build vith?” He tried to get a little closer to see the plans but the DuPont woman blocked his path.

  “That is exactly right,” she stated firmly.

  “Plans for this house?” He asked.

  Knot jumped in. “No no. Not this one per se,” he told Myron. “For the circle and the old houses constructed around it. From a long time ago.”

  “Long time?” Myron asked. “You vahnt long time, I give you long time. Back in Poland ve got long time. Here? Ach, vaht do you know from long time?”

  “But the fact is, Mr. Standlish,” Foxy tried to soothe him, “Mrs. DuPont has offered a great deal of money for both the trunk and the plans, since she wants to keep them together. We can always find you another trunk, I’m sure. Probably a much better one.”

  Myron looked from Foxy to Knot to Mrs. DuPont. His eyes were watery. His shoulders slumped. His shoes were scuffed and he looked as if he needed a good night’s sleep. “Ach – who needed that trunk anyvay? Piece of junk.” He shrugged and turned to go. At the door he looked back toward them and said, “Maybe you could just for a squeak of a minute, let me take a peeking at the old papers? I’m someone who can’t help but have an interest in history, even when it isn’t so old history.” He walked back toward them in a way that said he was going to do this one thing.

  Foxy was bewildered that he would have been willing to plunk down several thousand dollars for the thing yesterday that today he called a piece of junk. Still, she felt a little sorry for the poor man so she stood beside him and lifted page after page as he slowly took them in. As they examined the last of them – there were ten unrolled sheets in all – Myron grunted as if he was satisfied.

  “Yes,” he said as Foxy placed the very last one on top of the pile. “It’s vaht I’m thinking. Not so old. And not so many of the houses,” he seemed to say to himself, “Not so big deal.” With that he turned and walked to the door.

  Outside Amanda was fiddling with the door key. It was a damp day and the key stuck from moisture. She was cursing a little and her backpack was sliding down one shoulder. Just as it slipped off, Myron reached out and caught it as it slid off her shoulder almost to the ground.

  “Oof, such a bag,” he muttered. He lifted it and hugged it to his chest, leaving him standing there in an awkward position.

  Amanda finally got the key in and turned the lock. “Thanks,” she said to Myron as they both entered the small vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ll take it.” She reached out to retrieve the backpack.

  “No, no, such a heavy bag, I vill carry for you. To the door.” They started up the steps, clomping one after the other. At her apartment, they stopped as she unlocked the door. Myron stood patiently and, when he handed her the backpack, he said, casually, as if he’d just thought of it for the first time, “So? For a nice cuppa, now vould be a good moment of time?”

  Amanda took the bag and stood there for a minute, halfway inside her apartment and halfway still in the hall. “Cuppa?” Sometimes this little man’s words were a total mystery.

  “Cuppa,” Myron nodded and smiled. “Cuppa tea, vy not?”

  “Oh . . .” Amanda smiled now, too.

  She considered the strange man, the backpack, how lost he looked, how her day at school had not gone well, how Foxy had told her to steer clear of this man, and she nodded, hugged the backpack to her chest, and shut the door, letting it lock behind her. “Sure,” she said. “Tea would be great.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “This is a nice apartment.” Amanda was being polite. She didn’t quite know what to say once she was in there. There was not much to look at. Nothing on the walls. Not a rug or any books or a desk. There was a small table and one chair. He must sit there to eat, Amanda supposed. The kitchen was bare. No fruit bowl or even a box of crackers. There was a twin bed over in a corner alcove. No curtains on the two windows that faced the back garden. Just pull-down shades. There was an old suitcase on the floor against one wall. And what looked like a satchel of some sort. And on the counter between the kitchenette and the living space stood a small Igloo cooler, with its top open to one side as if it was just unpacked or was ready to be packed with drinks for a day at the beach.

  Myron had put a small kettle on the electric stove to boil water. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a tin of tea and a tea strainer.

  “You like lemon in your cuppa? Sugar? Honey? Milk? Vaht?” Myron asked.

  Amanda shrugged. “I don’t know really. I never had tea before.”

  “Ach,” Myron sniffed, “a child who never had tea. Vaht a country. I think sugar and milk for you then.”

  As he went to the refrigerator, Amanda followed him as far as the kitchen entryway. It was just an open space at the end of the short counter. As Myron opened the refrigerator door and bent down slightly to take a carton of milk from inside the door, Amanda had a clear view of the inside shelves.

  “What are all those?” she asked and came right up behind him to peer over his back at box upon box of vials of blood, each set in its own hole row upon row in the boxes, as if some lab had dropped off blood drawn from dozens and dozens of patients. Amanda pointed at the vials and then saw, on the bottom shelf, flat bags of blood. The kind she’d seen at blood drives at school. “Wow,” she said. “That’s a whole lot of blood.”

  Myron snapped up, the carton of milk in his hands. He almost collided with Amanda as he tried to hurriedly shut the refrigerator door. “Nothing. That is nothing,” he mouthed but it came out dry as if he had a cough in his throat.

  “But it’s a lot of blood,” Amanda insisted. “What’s it all for?”

  “Come, ve have some tea, now, and ve talk about things of interest.” He poured hot water into a tea pot and dropped the strainer inside with a little plop. He bustled over to get two mugs and brought out a bowl of sugar.

  “But that’s interesting. You have no food except milk and sugar and tea and all that blood?”

  “An old man like me, vhat do I need but tea and a little milk now and then? You’ll see. Vhen you are getting old like me. So many disappointments in life.” He shook his baldish head. “You are young. Your disappointments are ahead of you. Come, ve drink tea, ve talk about life’s disappointments, eh?” Myron poured the tea and shoved the sugar bowl over to Amanda. They sat on bar stools at the counter facing the kitchen. Amanda glanced warily at the refrigerator. She was not about to let this go. But she’d think about another way to find out what was going on later. She sipped at the tea. It was sweet and milky and a little spicy. She liked it.

  “Next time I’ll have for you a cookie.” Myron seemed sad that he had nothing else to offer and Amanda felt sorry for him.

  “Oh, that’s totally okay. I shouldn’t eat sweets anyway. Foxy says I’ll get fat. And then boys won’t go for me. Foxy’s full of opinions. Espec
ially about what boys like and don’t like in girls. I don’t care myself. Most of the boys are stupid anyway. Except for this one boy, Nick. He’s been really nice so far. But we’re not going out or anything. Just hanging out, sort of. Not even that really. Do you want to see a picture of him?”

  “Picture? Sure, sure.” Myron was surprised at the turn of the conversation. He watched as Amanda reached down and picked up her backpack and set it on the counter. He expected her to pull out a photograph but instead she placed her laptop on the counter and shoved the backpack out of the way. She popped it open, booted up, and, as Myron watched in fascination, a photo of Nick materialized as her desktop background.

  “I took it with my camera phone,” she said. It showed him leaning against the hood of his old car, his arms folded across his chest. He was wearing a school track jersey and torn jeans. He was smiling.

  “Hmmm, nice boy,” said Myron, but he was thinking about why anyone would wear such torn clothes in this rich country. “How does this verk?” He pointed at the laptop.

  “Haven’t you ever used a computer?” Amanda was stunned.

  “Who needs such a thing?”

  “Everyone,” Amanda said it in a deadpan, as if any fool would know that for a fact.

  “Vaht can you do vith such a thing?”

  “Everything,” said Amanda in the same deadpan. “You can find out anything, for instance. Anything you want to know.”

  “Anything?” Myron was stunned, contemplating this statement.

  “Sure. Like, well, is there something you wanted to know, like this week, that you couldn’t find out?”