He then proceeded to start his customary three laps around the yard, circling the koi pond and cutting a wide berth around the flowerbed. Jeffrey, Hercule’s human, seldom raised his voice to the little corgi, but Hercule had learned early on not to do his business on the Knock Out roses. At end of Hercules’ first circuit he skidded to a halt, almost colliding with an obstruction in his path. When he saw what it was, he cocked his head, and gave a low growl to see if the thing responded. It didn’t.
If animals could think (and who’s to say they can’t), Hercule would have been thinking that Jeffrey would not be happy about this…this thing. It was unexpected. Jeffrey did not appreciate the unexpected and he certainly would not appreciate it at seven o’clock a.m. Hercule circled the object, scurried backward a few feet, then turned and retreated through the dog door.
Jeffrey, a tall man in his mid-fifties, clad in flannel pajama bottoms and a blue University of Kentucky T-shirt, was pouring his first cup of coffee when Hercule ran up to him and barked twice.
“What is it, Lassie? Is Timmy in the well?” Jeffrey asked. The old joke always made him smile, even if he was only sharing it with his dog. Not for the first time Jeffrey hoped no one ever overheard his conversations with Hercule. It was undignified and he was a man who carefully guarded his dignity.
When his daughter, Charlotte, gave him the puppy all those years ago, he welcomed the company. Karen, his wife, had been gone for three years, buried in the family plot at the church cemetary. He visited her twice each year, once on her birthday and again on their wedding anniversary. The little dog’s sturdy body and inquisitive face had earned him the name of Hercule Poirot after the detective in the Agatha Christie mysteries Karen had loved.
Hercule whined and took a couple of steps toward the back door. Jeffrey tried to ignore him, and turned to the kitchen table where his cereal bowl and juice glass were already on the table, placed there the night before. The paper rested next to them and a freshly sharpened pencil waited for Jeffery to tackle the crossword puzzle with his second cup of coffee.
Hercule planted himself in Jeffrey’s path to the table and sat down with another bark. Jeffrey relented. He would take a quick look and then get back to his breakfast. His daily ritual was eating raisin bran and reading the morning paper followed by four hours working at his desk. Jeffrey was big on ritual.
Carrying his mug, he pushed open the kitchen door, shivering as his bare feet touched the cobblestone path. He had only taken three or four steps before he drew up short, nearly spilling his coffee in his astonishment. No wonder Hercule had been upset.
Jeffrey walked around the object and studied it from all sides. His mind struggled to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. Hercule, beside him, gave a short, “I told you so!” bark.
There, caught forever in mid-gallop, back legs on the ground and forelegs extended forward, was a large statue of Pegasus; a frosty white horse with a nine-foot wingspan of brilliant gold. The wings sparkled in the early sun.
Jeffrey recognized the statue. It had been commissioned for last spring's Horse Mania, a fund raiser for the local arts. He had often driven past the small park where it sat among fountains and evergreens. The local paper had run a feature article on the statue only a week or so ago complete with photos of the horse and artist, a woman of around sixty with a halo of silvery hair.
It was Jeffrey's opinion that the statue lacked forethought. Really, what were the chances of those wings surviving the outdoor elements and careless human contact? Could the gold paint last in the daily sun and rain? Wouldn’t frost hurt it? Or, heaven forbid, hail? The statue was impractical, and Jeffery had little patience for impracticality.
But that was irrelevant. Why was the thing in his garden, rising out of the dew like some kind of mythological mirage? How in the world did it get there?
Jeffrey took a sip of coffee. It warmed him and brought him back to reality. He studied the horse for a few minutes, then giving his head a small shake, he went inside to put on pants and call the police.
Twenty minutes later he was back in the garden, this time with police officers, Palmer and Yang. Officer Palmer snapped pictures while Officer Yang circled the horse, studying it from all angles.
“And you have no idea how it got here?” She sounded a little disbelieving.
“None at all,” he said.
“Have you gotten on the wrong side of someone recently? Maybe through your job? Where are you employed?” She continued to study him.
Jeffrey explained that he was an accountant and worked from home. No enemies. Sorry. His was a predictable; some might even say boring, life. That was the way he preferred it.
“Well,” Officer Yang said, removing a small notebook from her shirt pocket, “Is there someone you have played a joke on? Someone who might be looking to one-up you?”
“I’m not in the habit of playing pranks on people, Officer Yang,” said Jeffrey, rather offended.
Officer Palmer had stopped taking pictures and was kneeling in the tall grass a few feet from the horse. He stood up holding a sodden, red cloth.
“Is this your bandanna?” he asked Jeffrey.
“No.” Jeffrey didn’t have to take a close look. He was hardly the bandanna-wearing type. One Christmas Charlotte had given him a packet of them in three colors for Hercule to wear on his walks. They were still in the package at the bottom of his sock drawer, where she would undoubtedly find them after he died. The policeman put the bandanna in a plastic bag.
The doorbell rang and Jeffrey walked through the house to answer it. A woman stood on his front porch. He recognized her immediately from the newspaper article.
“I’m Chelsea Metcalf,” she said, extending her hand. “I was called from the police station. Is…is the statue damaged?” Chelsea was wearing a flowing orange tunic with jeans and carrying a large purse. Beneath her mass of hair the largest, bluest eyes he had ever seen focused on him. A white Scion adorned with swirls of turquoise and lavender squatted in the driveway.
“Jeffrey Sloan,” said Jeffrey, taking her hand. “The horse is fine, though how it got here, I have no idea.” Hercule began emitting low growls in the direction of her purse. What did she have in there? Another horse statue?
As he led Chelsea through the house to the garden, Jeffrey noticed the scent of cinnamon that wafted from her. The two of them stepped into the backyard with Hercule on their heels.
Jeffrey’s ring tone (that of an old fashioned rotary model) pealed and he glanced at the caller ID. It was his mother, Sadie, who lived in an assisted living home in south Lexington where she was the belle of the ball. Everyone adored her and with good reason. She was delightful, generous to a fault, and no one was beneath her radar.
Last summer, for instance, she hosted an elegant tea party for the female housekeeping staff. The male members she sent to a sports bar for the afternoon with free rein to her tab. She gave lavish Christmas gifts. Just last week she took the grounds-keeping crew to Keeneland for an afternoon in her private box.
Sadie also had a wicked sense of humor and loved a juicy bit of gossip. “News, Jeffrey,” she would say. “Not gossip. News!” Well, she would have a field day with this bit of news. He pictured her right now sitting in the dining hall with her usual cohorts enjoying breakfast, banter, and endless cups of coffee.
“Hello, Mother,” Jeffrey said
“Good morning, Jeffrey!” she said. Jeffrey heard a muffled “Say hello to Jeffrey!” as she held the phone up to her friends, soliciting a distant but enthusiastic “Good morning, Jeffrey!” from them.
“Mother, I’ll have to call you back. Things are rather hectic here.”
“Hectic? How? What’s happening?”
He recounted the morning’s events beginning with finding the horse in the garden. It was slow going because she repeated every sentence to her audience.
“The horse in the paper!” His mom said. Jeffrey could hear murmurs in the background. Also hammering. He remembered a wing was being added to the facility.
“The artist is Kelsey Somebody.” His mother said.
“Chelsea,” Jeffrey corrected.
“Pretty woman,” a gravelly voice traveled through the phone. That would be Earl, Jeffrey knew. The lone man in his mom’s little circle.
“Yes, well, the horse is called Pegasus Pearl,” Jeffrey said. He could hear the occasional clink of china float through the airwaves.
“Like Minnie Pearl!” A shaky female voice drifted through the phone. This evoked a lively conversation of which he could hear bits and pieces.
“A horse dressed like Minnie Pearl. Someone should do that.”
“Yes, with a straw hat. Its ears could stick out.”
“Mom,” Jeffrey tried to interrupt.
“And flowers on the hat.”
“And a teabag.”
“Mom!” he tried again, louder this time.
“It wasn’t a teabag, it was a price tag.”
“No, I’m pretty sure it was a teabag.”
“Think about it. Why would anyone have a teabag hanging from their hat?”
Jeffery watched Chelsea extract a tissue from her jean’s pocket and rub at a bird dropping on the statue’s left flank.
“Mother. Mom. Mom!” Jeffrey shouted into the phone. “I need to go. I’ll call later.” He closed his phone, his attention focused on Hercule, whose attention was focused on Chelsea’s large handbag. The little corgi, head lowered, sniffed the bag and whined. Jeffrey tried to remember if drug-sniffing dogs were trained or if it was a natural canine ability. He forced his attention away from the dog and back to the trio of people surrounding the statue.
“We’ll step up our patrols around the statues. With nothing to go on, and no real damage, there isn’t anything else we can do,” Officer Yang said, as she put the small notebook back into her shirt pocket. Chelsea continued to dab at the statue here and there with her tissue.
“Wait,” Jeffrey had a thought. “What about DNA testing? Maybe from the bandanna.”
“Unless there turns out to be a body under this horse I wouldn’t count on it,” said Officer Palmer.
“But, how do I…move it back?” Jeffrey had been about to say ‘get rid of it’ but the open, gentle expression on Chelsea’s face as she cleaned the statue stopped him.
“Let’s check with the city,” Officer Palmer suggested to Officer Yang. “Maybe the same crew that placed it in the park last spring will put it back.
Hercule started to quiver as Chelsea’s purse began to move back and forth on the ground. It turned on to its side and tiny white Pomeranian with an orange ribbon around its neck bounded out and pounced on the corgi. Hercule sniffed the little stranger and then began to lick it, tail wagging.
“That’s Tuffy,” said Chelsea as the two dogs chased each other through the yard. She tucked the soiled tissue away in her purse as Officer Yang closed her phone.
“Someone will be coming with a truck to collect the statue in a few days,” said Officer Yang. The two officers left through the garden gate.
“This garden is lovely,” Chelsea said as she gathered Tuffy in her arms. “May I look around?”
“By all means,” said Jeffrey, glad to show his yard off.
They walked to the flower bed. Chelsea exclaimed over the roses and praised the koi pond which made Jeffrey happy. He had designed it himself and it was a source of pride.
After the brief tour, Chelsea gave the horse one last pat and followed Jeffrey through the house and onto his small front porch. She turned to him before leaving.
“It was nice to meet you, Jeffrey.” She held out her hand and he took it. It was soft and warm. They looked at each other a minute, then she reached into her purse and handed him an orange business card.
“Call me if you like. That is, if you should think of anything else,” she said. Was she blushing?
Then she turned and walked down the stairs toward the Scion. Jeffrey watched her settle the dog and herself into the car. He stood on the porch until she drove away, then walked back into the house and closed the door.
Jeffrey poured more coffee, took it to his home office and turned on the computer. He tried to work but kept seeing the snow-white horse, glowing in the morning light, its wings shimmering gold. At noon he shut down the computer. Jeffrey always ate lunch at noon; always ham and Swiss cheese on wheat bread with a glass of skim milk.
He opened the refrigerator and stared at the sandwich meat and lettuce. He realized he didn’t want ham and Swiss. He wanted something else. As he slowly closed the refrigerator, he realized what it was.
He grabbed his car keys and nosed the Volvo toward Sweet Shop Bakery. Once inside, he walked to the display case and scanned the offerings. On the second shelf, third from the left he saw what he wanted.
“I’ll have two of those,” he said, pointing to the pastries. “Warm, please.” He added. “And a café latte. With whole milk.”
He paid for his food and carried it to a small round table by a window. He cut a huge bite from the first cinnamon roll with a fork and let the flavors melt on his tongue. The coffee was strong, dark and laced with creamy milk. As he ate, Jeffrey imagined the rich food nourishing his body with sweetness and comfort.
He drove home, in a state of mild bliss, noticing the leaves that drifted from the trees and danced across the road. When had they turned to red and gold? And the sky. Was it that blue yesterday? He hadn’t noticed.
At home he decided to take the rest of the day off. He fed Hercule a couple of Milkbones and stretched out on the couch. The dog jumped up and nestled next to him sniffing the sugar on his breath. In minutes they were both snoring lightly.
Jeffrey woke up three hours later totally refreshed. He felt like he had been swimming in sleep, washed inside and out by sleep. He lay on the couch and looked around the living room, which suddenly seemed bland and plain. Didn’t there used to be color? He thought of the blue curtains Karen had on the windows so long ago. What happened to those, anyway? He had a vague memory of taking them to the cleaners but no memory of ever picking them up. It was time to get new ones.
Karen’s brightly colored hand-knitted afghans had also brought sparkle into the house, he recalled. Every night for a year after her death he took one to bed with him. Then he decided it was time to move on and gave them all to Charlotte. Yes, he thought as he looked around, this room needed some life. And color. He decided orange would be nice. He reached for the phone.
She answered on the third ring and agreed immediately when Jeffrey invited her to come for a picnic in the garden with the statue. She offered to bring dessert.
He made a run to town to buy cheese, bread, fruit, a bottle of chardonnay and a bag of decaf espresso beans. He unearthed a yellow table cloth from the linen closet and put it on the wrought iron table, topping it with a glass vase of pink mums from his garden. Then he washed two crystal wine glasses that hadn’t seen the light of day in over a decade.
Hercule followed Jeffrey into the bedroom and watched as he dressed in jeans and black long-sleeved T-shirt. Then, Jeffrey reached into his sock drawer and retrieved a plastic bag from which he removed a bright green bandana. He folded it and tied it around the corgi’s neck.
It was a perfect evening. Jeffrey and Chelsea enjoyed it for hours watching the dogs play, and noticing how Pegasus Pearl changed colors as the sky moved through a kaleidoscope of blues, violets, pinks and golds. They finished the wine and each had two cups of espresso with Chelsea’s lemon tart.
“I love autumn,” Chelsea said as she pulled Tuffy onto her lap to pick a dried leaf from his fur. The little dog squirmed, anxious to get back on the ground with Hercule. “The colors of the trees, the crispness of the air, the fragrance of the woodstoves.”
“Yes, Jeffrey agreed. “We should take a drive in the country tomorrow and see it properly. Would you like that?”
“That would be lovely,” she said.
“It’s settled then,” Jeffrey said with a smile, tossing a crumb of lemon cake to the dogs.
Later, Jeffrey made his nightly call to his mother.
“I had a guest for dinner tonight, Mother,” he said, and grinned at the anticipated gasp on the other end of the line. Sadie peppered him with questions until he promised to bring Chelsea by to meet her.
The next day, on their way out of the city, Jeffrey and Chelsea took the left over lemon tart and stopped by to see Sadie. They stepped around a pile of rubble from the construction area, entered the home and found Sadie with her friends in the dining hall. A large pitcher of orange juice sat on the table. As the couple approached, everyone gave very exuberant greetings with waves and handshakes. Jeffrey eyed the pitcher.
“Mom,” he said. “Is that alcohol? It’s not even ten in the morning.”
“Loosen up, Dear,” she said, raising her glass. “Have a mimosa with us. We’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
The friends looked at each other, and then burst into laughter.
Chelsea looked at Jeffrey questioningly, but he just shrugged. He was used to Sadie and her eccentric friends. Something was in the air, though. He could sense it. The little alcohol-infused group looked too smug for comfort.
Jeffrey and Chelsea didn’t stay for coffee or mimosas. They wanted to see as much of the fall day as they could. As they walked to their car, they saw workmen raking leaves in the distance. The men spotted them and waved heartily.
“People here are certainly friendly,” Chelsea remarked.
“Yes, they certainly are,” Jeffrey agreed, wondering if his mother was up to one of her crazy schemes. Then he put his mother out of his mind and helped Chelsea into the car where the two dogs waited eagerly in the backseat.
They were miles away before the men finished raking, retrieved their truck and forklift and began clearing the construction debris. And it was hours after that before the sun was high and the foreman paused in the heat to wipe his brow with a new red bandanna.
