The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles Read online

  The Curious Case of the Cursed Spectacles

  by

  Constance Barker

  Copyright 2017 Constance Barker

  All rights reserved.

  Similarities to real people, places or events are purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty Two

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Chapter Twenty Four

  Chapter Twenty Five

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Chapter Twenty Eight

  Chapter Twenty Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty One

  Chapter Thirty Two

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  "Anyone whose goal is 'something higher' must expect someday to suffer vertigo."

  Milan Kundera, THE UNBEARABLE LIGHTNESS OF BEING

  THERE AREN'T MANY KINDS of work that I can think of that would have been more dull, less interesting than what I was doing at that moment. I sat at a desk doing simple sorting— taking things from one big pile and separating them, assigning to other locations based on rather simple criteria. When you do it for any length of time it quickly becomes tedious, frustrating, menial and generally unpleasant.

  I was bored and disillusioned. Being stuck in a basement, working in the mail room wasn't what I'd had in mind when I took this job. As I had to do several times a day, I reminded myself of the upside, that I worked for a magazine. I had a job with a prestigious company whose publications made a difference and that was a lot more than I could say about the other jobs I'd had since leaving school.

  Once out of school it didn't take me long to discover that getting a BA in History had been a bad idea. There wasn't a big market for historians. Some companies didn't even think it was a real degree, so I was lucky to have this. And if the job had paid well... but it didn't. So much for that thought.

  I found it both surprising and mildly offensive, okay very offensive, that since I'd been hired I'd been largely ignored. They'd stuck me here in this dungeon and forgotten me and I thought that unfair. I had useful skills, a facility with words that a magazine should be able to let me develop in the pursuit of a career in journalism. By all rights, I should be upstairs in one of the cubicles where the creative work was done, the work that made the magazine happen.

  Taking this lowly job was supposed to be entry level — a stepping stone to fame and fortune. With that in mind, I'd started it with enthusiasm. Naturally, with my charming, outgoing personality and obvious intelligence, there would be no reason that wouldn't be quickly noticed and promoted. Now I doubted anyone knew who I was or that I was here at all.

  Of course, the geeks in accounting knew. After all, I did get my paycheck every month, such as it was. My tiny wage minus the large, mandatory, charitable contributions that I made to the State, City, and Federal governments. Otherwise....

  Every aspect of my world had been floating in some strange pond of limbo juice for far too long. If my job was going nowhere and the work was unsatisfying, well I could say exactly the same for my love life. It had been five years a man had shown an interest in me, and so that you know how great a catch I thought he was, I left him standing at the altar. It wasn't a nice thing to do, but it was cathartic. I'd realized I didn't love him and was using him to escape something or other. I caught myself in time.

  Unfortunately, the rationale of leaving him was that it made room for someone else, someone better. But there hadn't been anyone else.

  I loaded the mail that I was supposed to deliver to the denizens of the tenth floor into a large cart with canvas sides. Once the mail was sorted and put in large plastic envelopes marked with the floor and department they were destined for, I assumed my role as an apparently invisible minion making her rounds. I was early though, and a newspaper headline caught my eyes. Reading other people's newspapers and magazines was the only, rather dubious, perk of my job.

  "Antique Dealer Missing," it said. I grabbed the paper and skimmed the article looking to see who it was, hoping it wasn't my Uncle Mason. He was an antique dealer in Destiny's Point. I hadn't talked to him in some time and the headline jumping out like that made my heart pump. If something had happened to him... but then I saw the name—Carl Richards. I let out a slow breath, relieved that it wasn't Uncle Mason. I wondered if I knew this man. I didn't know the name, but when I lived for a time in Destiny's Point I met all manner of strange people. They traipsed through his shop looking for all types of things. Some were regulars and other dealers. "We each tend to specialize," he explained. "I go to their shops to see if they've come across anything of interest to me and they come here for the same reason."

  So Carl Richards could easily be one of them.

  Satisfied that my uncle hadn't disappeared into the ether, I started to return the paper to the cart when another headline caught my eye: "Antikythera Mechanism Stolen from the National Archaeological Museum in Athens."

  The disappearance of an antique dealer and an artifact on the same day, even in different parts of the world, seemed an odd coincidence. I'd heard of the Antikythera Mechanism. It was an ancient astronomical clock, dated to 87 BC and discovered in 1901. Of course, it would be a valuable artifact, but who would you sell it to?

  I supposed that anyone who would steal it would be the kind of person to know where to sell it, and that was the extent of my interest. I put the newspaper back in its envelope in the cart feeling uneasy. Now that I'd been momentarily transported back to Destiny's Point and Uncle Mason's antique shop I couldn't shake an unsettling feeling. It was probably guilt. I'm an easy mark for guilt and it had been a long time since I'd seen or even talked to Uncle Mason. Now that I'd stalled so long a phone call wouldn't do. I made up my mind to arrange a visit to see him soon. If I didn't I'd get all angsty.

  In the meantime I had my work to do, drudgery though it might be. I dumped the last of the plastic envelopes into the mail cart and pushed in the direction of the elevator. When it arrived I pressed the button for the tenth floor. Naturally, it stopped at ground level and some people squeezed in. Then it stopped at every other floor to exchange passengers, with newcomers glaring at me. The suits made it clear that they didn't appreciate sharing their elevator with me and my cart, even if it was their mail. I wanted to tell them they could get me a private elevator if that bothered them, but I didn't think they'd understand biting sarcasm. After all, people who would let someone of my talent languish in the mail room...

  When we stopped at the ninth floor a tall, thin man with a puckered expression and thick glasses was waiting. he held the door open and looked at us. "Everyone is to go to the
eighth floor immediately," he said. "We are having a mandatory company meeting in ten minutes."

  "The mail..." I said.

  "Leave that cart on the appropriate floor then return to the eighth floor for the meeting," he said brusquely. Other people voiced their objections and complaints but he brushed them off just as dismissively before letting the elevator proceed. "Do not tarry. You have ten minutes. Eighth floor. Mandatory." It was like a mantra. Maybe it was one.

  I got off on the tenth, parked my cart in the empty reception area and took the stairs to go down two floors. If there was a company-wide, mandatory meeting, the elevator would be packed. When I saw the stairwell filling with people, including department heads, I knew I'd guessed right. Not bad for a nonentity from the dungeon.

  The eighth floor had a large open area, which was clearly why they'd picked it for the meeting. It was crammed with people wondering what was going on. The thin man stood on a desk and looked over the group, his face even more puckered. He held a wireless microphone. "I'll be brief," he said, eliciting a collective sigh of relief. "I'm Elmore James, VP of Human Resources. I've been tasked with announcing the decision of the Board of Directors to downsize this unprofitable operation."

  The group gasped in unison. "Most of the print division will be eliminated completely," he said. People started shouting out questions, but he waved his hand. "Each of you will be meeting with HR staff today to discuss your future or severance package. The schedule is posted on the bulletin boards on every floor. While some of you will be transferred to the web group, many of you will, unfortunately, be terminated. Because each individual has unique circumstances, if you have questions, please save them for your interview."

  As the group scattered to check when they would be given the word, I stood there, watching Elmore James awkwardly climb down from the desk. He saw me and gave me a wink. An odd wink, I thought, but winks are personal, so I was happy. It was a good sign. Just because my job sucked didn't mean I wanted to lose it.

  I walked up the stairs and checked the list on the tenth floor. My meeting was scheduled an hour away. At least I think it was my appointment. My name is Cecilia Parish. The closest name on the list was 'Celia Paris'. I figured I'd show up and see if they meant me. I spent the hour delivering the mail. The job took thirty minutes, but I found an excuse to get close to the donuts and coffee in the break room for the other half. The one advantage of being an invisible minion is that no one knows when you are somewhere you shouldn't be. I found advantages to my invisible cloak even if I wished I could cast it off.

  I ate a chocolate covered donut and considered the irony that if I'd gotten the promotion I wanted I would be definitely going out the door. Junior journalists are a penny a pound.

  I stuck my head into HR precisely on time and asked the flustered receptionist if the Celia Paris they were expecting was really Cecilia Parish. The woman wasn't sure. "Well, if no Celia Paris shows up, can I have her appointment? I don't have one of my own."

  She decided that was a reasonable way to solve the problem without redoing the schedule. A few minutes later a large man came out of the inner office wiping his eyes. He'd been crying. That was sad, I thought. The receptionist told me to go in.

  Elmore James sat stiffly behind his desk with his suit coat on and his hands folded on the desk. "Well then, Miss Paris..."

  "Parrish," I said.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You have my name wrong. I only know it's me because there isn't any appointment for me."

  "I see." He didn't see at all. "Are you certain?"

  "Of my name? It's the one on my paycheck. Do you ever talk to the guys in accounting?"

  "There's no point. They've all been laid off."

  "Sacked?"

  "Right."

  He pushed an envelope across the desk. "I'm afraid, Miss Paris, that the entire cleaning staff will be let go."

  I smiled. "I don't care."

  "You don't?"

  "I work in the mail room."

  "No, you don't."

  "Ah, but I do. In fact, I just finished delivering the mail."

  He looked puzzled. "Are you sure?"

  "It's my domain. I'm sure."

  "I thought that function had been automated."

  "It should be."

  Then he smiled. "Then perhaps that's what happened."

  "What?"

  "Perhaps we automated the mail room and you were transferred to the cleaning staff, but never informed."

  "That makes no sense. And the mail room is not at all automated."

  "Well, it's all irrelevant now," he said. "That's your severance pay. Six weeks pay."

  I peeked in the envelope. It was a fair amount more than what I made in six weeks, but the check had my real name on it. I wondered if the people in payroll talked to anyone in the other departments. Apparently, along with the nonexistent job change, I'd gotten a real pay increase they hadn't mentioned. That would go with the new name. "I can give you a good reference."

  "As a cleaning person?"

  "Of course."

  "Me or Ms. Paris?"

  "I beg your pardon."

  "I've worked here for a year and you don't even have my name right."

  "I'll put any name you like, or the receptionist will."

  “That's great, Elmore. Maybe you can give it to me now, before they get rid of you too."

  He fidgeted. "The receptionist will take care of it for you. Tell her to sign my name to form 2632A."

  "I assume that is the 'she was a good and responsible cleaning lady' form?"

  He smiled. "Of course."

  I left with mixed emotions. For once I was being treated like everyone else. Well, Celia Paris was. And even if HR had a certain identity problem with me, accounting got it right, so the check should clear and I could pay my rent while I found another job. The receptionist was even kind enough to put my real name on the reference form.

  Maybe the universe was telling me something. Maybe I could look forward to an exciting career in building maintenance or general housekeeping. That was a rather dismal outlook.

  When I dropped my badge off with the security guard in the lobby for the last time and went outside it was overcast along with my mood. It wasn't just getting fired, but also learning that the company that ran that prestigious magazine was such a madhouse. Anyone who succeeded in that place had to be lucky and clever, not necessarily good at what they did and that was disillusioning. Not only was I out of work, but my dream had suffered serious reality shock.

  One part of my job situation had always been good—I had managed to find an apartment that I could afford (barely) that was close to the office. The apartment wasn't much, but it served me all right. It was in a district that offered neighborhood stores of various types. I liked that because the mom and pop places were more interesting than the antiseptic aisles of supermarkets. I paid a little more for everything, I suppose, but I always felt that I got something back. For instance, the Korean lady who ran the grocery store knew me and my love of her kimchee and always let me know when she'd made a new batch.

  And I could shop right nearby. To me, driving in the city or taking mass transit were both forms of insanity for anyone who could avoid them. I preferred the smog and pollution that I inhaled as I made my rounds. Besides, when I was feeling down, like you get when your job suddenly disappears (never mind that no one knew it still existed), walking helped. And you can pay less attention to where you are going.

  I knew that the only reason I was depressed after losing a mail room job was that I'd expected too much. I'd let myself believe I'd be discovered and I'd rise at the magazine. Now that fantasy couldn't come true. I was out on my ear.

  As I stopped at a light I saw an ad on passing a bus. "Your future is in your hands," it said.

  The slogan hit me in the gut. "Right." I'd worked to make my mark on the world and that sure wasn't how my life had turned out. I had spent a year trying to play by the rules and where had it g
otten me? I'd spent a year treading water.

  Sulking isn't healthy or productive and by the time I got home I was in a really bad mood. The practical consequences of losing my job were sinking in; I started taking a hard look around me. My funky little apartment suddenly seemed more like a dump than an art project that reflected my inner nature. In fact, some of it didn't reflect any part of me. I stared at a poster from a concert I'd attended but hadn't particularly enjoyed. My friends loved the band and raved about the concert, so I'd framed the poster and hung it on the wall to impress them. Not that my friends ever visited my apartment.

  To be fair, I had some nice things, things I liked. One favorite was an original, first edition printing of THE LION, THE WITCH, AND THE WARDROBE that my uncle Mason had sent me for my birthday. It was in good condition, just slightly worn around the edges. I'd loved all seven of the Narnia books... I liked a lot of C.S. Lewis, but those were special. I wanted a wardrobe I could step into and be transported into another, more fantastic land, even if it was to fulfill some prophecy. I read them several times. Thinking about them now, I realized it had been a long time since I'd opened that volume. When I became interested in journalism, once I got the idea that I could be a writer who would pass along insights on the real world, I lost my interest in fantasy.

  Another thing I liked was a plaque that held an old, very neat looking key on it. It was heavy and made of iron. I'd aways imagined that it came from a shipwreck somewhere. Certainly it didn't unlock anything I owned. And I had an antique pen in a hand-carved wooden case that I'd never tried to write with. These were gifts from Uncle Mason too, now that I thought of it.

  I'd never paid much attention to the key or pen. To me, they were just knickknacks that gave the place a nice feel.

  Now that bothered me. Your room should represent you, and your interests. Mine represented my Uncle Mason's and, to a lesser extent, that of my friends. If someone examined my room, if they wanted to learn about me, this room wouldn't tell them anything useful or meaningful at all.

  Who was Cecilia Parish anyway? What did she want?