Time It Was.” She finished and I knew what time it was. So I went to bed.
I have a lifelong habit of oversleeping (I refuse to be a slave to an alarm clock) but on Friday morning I managed to wake in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. I was glad I wasn’t still snoozing for Ursi had whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes she served with little turkey sausages. What a great way to start a new day!
Father had his nose deep in his morning newspaper, so mother and I did all the chatting, mostly about a shopping trip she and Ursi were planning to replenish the McNally larder and Hobo’s supply of Alpo and kibble. I was on my second cup of black coffee when I remembered what I wanted to ask her.
“By the way, moms,” I said, “there’s something I need to know. When Mrs. Westmore was telling your bridge club about her investment adviser, did she happen to mention his name?”
“Oh, Archy, I’m sure she must have. Now let me think...” She pressed the tip of a forefinger against a soft cheek. “Of course!” she cried, brightening. “A very unusual name. Twain. I distinctly remember because it was just like the writer Mark Twain. But his name is Frederick Twain.”
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
Breakfast concluded, the family separated. I returned to my aerie to don a sport jacket I had recently purchased: a tweed blazer with bone toggles instead of buttons. Natty is the word. Then I dallied at my bedroom window. It overlooks the graveled turnaround fronting our garage.
I waited patiently and finally saw father leave for the office in his black Lexus. A few moments later Ursi and mother departed on their shopping trip in Mrs. McNally’s ancient wood-bodied Ford station wagon. I trotted downstairs and went directly to papa’s study. I sat behind his desk in his high-backed swivel chair feeling like a czarevitch eager to ascend the throne.
Really all I wanted to do was use the old man’s telephone directories stacked in the lower drawer. I pulled out the thickest with listings for the entire West Palm Beach area and searched for Frederick Twain. Nothing. Then I tried the Boca Raton book. Nothing again.
Of course it was possible he had recently moved to our region or had an unlisted number. But both seemed unlikely for a man in his business desirous of being easily available to clients and potential clients. Perhaps his surname was spelled differently: Twayne or Twane. But mother had been definite about the name being the same as that of the author of Huckleberry Finn.
I was trying to puzzle it out when suddenly a light bulb flashed on in the air above my head—just as in the comic strips—and I laughed aloud. My solution of the problem was due to my knowledge of the giddy way my mother’s mind works. I grabbed the telephone directories again and began looking for the name Frederick Clemens.
I found him. He was a resident of West Palm Beach but was not listed in the Yellow Pages in the investment adviser category. Incidentally, the title means diddly-squat. You or I or anyone can anoint ourself an investment adviser, financial consultant, or money manager.
My first thought was to phone him immediately, use a false name, and attempt to set up an appointment. My second thought was better because I remembered the Caller ID that had solved the Franklin kidnapping. If Frederick Clemens’s phone was similarly equipped he’d know at once I was calling from the residence of Prescott McNally. It would hardly honor my father’s injunction to conduct the inquiry with the utmost discretion.
But I knew how to finesse the problem. I phoned Binky Watrous.
“You’re home?” I greeted him. “I thought you might be with Bridget Houlihan.” I was referring to his light-o’-love.
“She’s gone,” he said gloomily.
“Gone? You mean she’s given you the old heave-ho?”
“No, no,” he protested. “She left yesterday for Ireland to spend some time with
I have a lifelong habit of oversleeping (I refuse to be a slave to an alarm clock) but on Friday morning I managed to wake in time to breakfast with my parents in the dining room. I was glad I wasn’t still snoozing for Ursi had whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes she served with little turkey sausages. What a great way to start a new day!
Father had his nose deep in his morning newspaper, so mother and I did all the chatting, mostly about a shopping trip she and Ursi were planning to replenish the McNally larder and Hobo’s supply of Alpo and kibble. I was on my second cup of black coffee when I remembered what I wanted to ask her.
“By the way, moms,” I said, “there’s something I need to know. When Mrs. Westmore was telling your bridge club about her investment adviser, did she happen to mention his name?”
“Oh, Archy, I’m sure she must have. Now let me think...” She pressed the tip of a forefinger against a soft cheek. “Of course!” she cried, brightening. “A very unusual name. Twain. I distinctly remember because it was just like the writer Mark Twain. But his name is Frederick Twain.”
“Thank you, dear,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”
Breakfast concluded, the family separated. I returned to my aerie to don a sport jacket I had recently purchased: a tweed blazer with bone toggles instead of buttons. Natty is the word. Then I dallied at my bedroom window. It overlooks the graveled turnaround fronting our garage.
I waited patiently and finally saw father leave for the office in his black Lexus. A few moments later Ursi and mother departed on their shopping trip in Mrs. McNally’s ancient wood-bodied Ford station wagon. I trotted downstairs and went directly to papa’s study. I sat behind his desk in his high-backed swivel chair feeling like a czarevitch eager to ascend the throne.
Really all I wanted to do was use the old man’s telephone directories stacked in the lower drawer. I pulled out the thickest with listings for the entire West Palm Beach area and searched for Frederick Twain. Nothing. Then I tried the Boca Raton book. Nothing again.
Of course it was possible he had recently moved to our region or had an unlisted number. But both seemed unlikely for a man in his business desirous of being easily available to clients and potential clients. Perhaps his surname was spelled differently: Twayne or Twane. But mother had been definite about the name being the same as that of the author of Huckleberry Finn.
I was trying to puzzle it out when suddenly a light bulb flashed on in the air above my head—just as in the comic strips—and I laughed aloud. My solution of the problem was due to my knowledge of the giddy way my mother’s mind works. I grabbed the telephone directories again and began looking for the name Frederick Clemens.
I found him. He was a resident of West Palm Beach but was not listed in the Yellow Pages in the investment adviser category. Incidentally, the title means diddly-squat. You or I or anyone can anoint ourself an investment adviser, financial consultant, or money manager.
My first thought was to phone him immediately, use a false name, and attempt to set up an appointment. My second thought was better because I remembered the Caller ID that had solved the Franklin kidnapping. If Frederick Clemens’s phone was similarly equipped he’d know at once I was calling from the residence of Prescott McNally. It would hardly honor my father’s injunction to conduct the inquiry with the utmost discretion.
But I knew how to finesse the problem. I phoned Binky Watrous.
“You’re home?” I greeted him. “I thought you might be with Bridget Houlihan.” I was referring to his light-o’-love.
“She’s gone,” he said gloomily.
“Gone? You mean she’s given you the old heave-ho?”
“No, no,” he protested. “She left yesterday for Ireland to spend some time with
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