Heart vs. Humbug
M.J. Rodgers
Special Acknowledgment
My thanks to a very special friend, T. Lorraine Vassalo, of Ottawa, Ontario, for her wonderful recipes for Loin of Veal and Grand Marnier French Toast, both of which appear briefly in this story and everlastingly on my hips.
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Octavia Osborne—A top-notch lawyer who is not afraid to let her heart lead the way to justice.
Brett Merlin—An infamous lawyer known as “the Magician,” a man who believes the law cannot afford to have a heart.
Mab Osborne—Octavia’s grandmother; a lady who breaks all the stereotypes.
Dole Scroogen—His nickname is “the Scrooge.” He lives up to it—and then some.
Nancy Scroogen—Scroogen’s wife; a lady who suffers in silence.
John Winslow—He has a key to the crucial locked door and maybe a key to grandmother’s heart.
Douglas Twitch—He is a genius at engineering, and maybe at murder, too.
Constance Kope—She has a knack for design and maybe a need for revenge.
Ronald Scroogen—His relationship with his father is full of conflict and confusion.
Contents
Prologue
The intruder crept silently beneath the shadowy wings of the December overcast that blacked out the moon like a swooping bird of prey.
Not much farther now. Just a few more steps.
A few more careful steps.
Perceptions in daylight took so many subtle visual cues for granted. Beneath the absolute black of this inky night, without even a horizontal reference, a sense of balance could falter and a sense of direction could quickly become disoriented.
Still, the intruder welcomed the absence of the light. The weak might gather around their paltry incandescents and fluorescents trying to push the darkness aside, but the strong sought the night’s cloak to open new doors to opportunity.
One such door lay just ahead. The intruder grasped its knob and slipped quietly inside the greenhouse.
The relative spacing of the rows of plants to either side of the center path had been memorized, even the exact number of steps to the storeroom at its back paced out. Nothing had been left to chance. Nothing.
The intruder started boldly forward...only to instantly trip and fall heavily to the ground, letting out a startled oath.
Luckily, the earthen path was cushioned with moss, and the intruder’s thick clothing and gloves prevented abraded skin.
But the intruder didn’t feel lucky. The intruder felt angry. How could this happen after all this planning!
Muffled curses spat through the intruder’s teeth, all the more angry because they had to be muffled. Nothing was worse than having to keep silent while the rage seethed inside.
The intruder sat back on the heels of black running shoes and dug into the deep pockets of black sweatpants to draw out a small penlight. The flashlight beam bobbed along the mossy path as the intruder searched for the obstruction.
There it was. An electric cord strung loosely across the path, connecting a string of Christmas tree lights draped over the miniature fir trees on either side. Some fool had stopped in the middle of decorating the trees, leaving the cord swinging ankle-high over the path, marked with strings of gold tinsel and a large orange plastic caution cone.
Lot of help those markers were in the dark. Better make sure there weren’t any more such surprises.
The intruder pointed the thin stream of the flashlight ahead. No more gold tinsel and orange caution cones stood in the way.
The intruder rose and began to resume the interrupted journey forward when suddenly the sounds of heavy boots crunched on the frozen gravel outside of the greenhouse.
The watchman!
The intruder quickly switched off the penlight, pulled up the hood of the black sweatshirt, dropped to the rich earth beside the path, jackknifed between the trunks of miniature fir trees, and lay concealed beneath the cover of their thick green branches.
The pungent odor of the dark, rich compost burned the intruder’s nose. But that discomfort was of far less concern than the question now burning in the intruder’s mind. Would the carefully selected dark clothing blend into the black earth?
The telltale sounds of the watchman’s boots stopped at the edge of the window-lined structure. The intruder remained stock-still as a strong beam of light flashed into the greenhouse.
“Somebody in there?” the watchman called, his voice thick and raspy with age.
The intruder knew about this watchman. His name was Hank. Hank had been given this job to keep him going after his wife died. Both Hank’s eyesight and hearing had seen better days. These were all things the intruder had considered before selecting this night to enter the greenhouse.
The intruder lay facedown, absolutely still, as Hank’s flashlight swept over the plants and then the path. Once. Twice. A third time. The intruder’s hands began to sweat within the heavy gloves.
Hank switched off his flashlight. He muttered beneath his breath as he shuffled back to the warm shed at the rear of the community center.