The Seal of Solomon

“How ya doin’, Al?” he said into my chest. “Good Lord of mercy, you’re getting bigger and stronger every day!”

He pulled back, grinning. The smile on his face would give new meaning to the word “creepy.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Oh, Alfred, the most extraordinary thing—” Betty began, but Horace cut her off.

“Nothing!” he shouted. He gave an embarrassed little laugh and clapped my shoulder hard. He lowered his voice.

“Just a little spring-cleaning, Ally my boy. Is it all right if I call you ‘Ally’?”

“No,” I said. “And this is October.”

“No time like the present!” Horace bellowed.

Just then Kenny walked into the room, muttering, “Oh, Al. Al Kropp. Alfred Kropp.”

Horace whirled on him and shouted, “Zip your pie-hole, you pea-brained little halfwit!” and Betty murmured, “Horace, you’ll give him a complex.” Horace yelled back, “Little late for that!”

“Lay off Kenny,” I said, and that shut Horace up.

“Dear,” Betty said to Horace. “Maybe we should tell Alfred.” She turned to me. “We’re having a visitor today.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“No one you know,” Horace said. “Here, Al, let me take that backpack for you . . . Dear God, it’s heavy—you’re as strong as Paul Bunyan’s ox! How about that? You learn about Paul Bunyan in school? Kenny, put this away for Al.”

Horace slung the backpack in Kenny’s direction. It slammed into his stomach, and Kenny went down on his butt.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

I grabbed the backpack with one hand, Kenny’s arm with the other, and pulled him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

The doorbell rang. All the color drained from Horace’s face and he whirled on Betty, one of his stubby fingers jabbing at her nose.

“Great, he’s here and I haven’t dusted the mantel yet!”

“Who’s here?” I asked.

“The visitor,” Horace said. He was struggling with the knot in the apron strings.

“What visitor?”

“Didn’t we cover this? Betty, go get me a pair of scissors so I can cut off this damn apron . . .”

“I told you to tie it in a bow.” She bit her lip and worked at the knot behind Horace’s back. The doorbell rang again. Nobody moved. Horace waved the feather duster around in a figure eight. He reminded me of a fat, round majorette, though you don’t see many majorettes with his body type. Little dust motes danced and darted in the air. Horace snapped at Betty to never mind and put the broom away. The doorbell rang a third time.

“You want me to get that?” I asked.

“No!” said Horace and Betty at the same time.

Then Horace said, “Al, you take the sofa, but don’t sit in the middle. Betty, put the coffee on and do something with your hair. You look like Ozzy Osbourne. Far end of the sofa, Al, you smell sweaty. Kenny, why are you standing there gasping like a guppy? Get outta here.”

Horace pulled the backpack from my hand and shoved it back into Kenny’s arms. Kenny looked at me and I nodded to him that it was all right, though I really wasn’t sure that it was. Kenny left, staggering under the weight. Betty disappeared into the kitchen while Horace tore the apron off.

“Sit, Al,” Horace hissed. “Act natural! Stick this under the sofa.” He handed me the wadded-up apron and I shoved it under the sofa before I sat down.

Horace flung open the door to reveal Mr. Baby-Face, a thin black briefcase in his hand and a puzzled expression on his chubby face.

“Is this the Tuttle residence?” he asked.

“You bet your sweet aunt Matilda it is!” Horace said. “Come on in. Take a load off.”

He had remembered the feather duster at the last second, hiding it behind his back as he waved the guy toward the family room.

“I’m Horace,” he said. “My wife, Betty, is in the kitchen, brewing.”

“Brewing?”

“Coffee. Decaf. Want some?”

“No, thank you, but perhaps a glass of water. It’s very warm for October, don’t you think?”

“Hot as Africa,” Horace said.

The bald guy had come into the family room. Horace trotted after him.

“And here he is,” Horace said. “Here is Alfred Kropp.”

“I know who Alfred Kropp is,” the bald guy said, smiling at me. He had very small teeth with sharp incisors, like a ferret, though I’ve never really studied a ferret’s mouth. He offered his hand and I took it without getting up. His hand was moist and soft.

“My name is Alphonso Needlemier, Alfred,” he said.

“What a pleasure it is to finally meet you.”

Behind him, Horace turned and shouted toward the kitchen, “Betty! Nix the coffee and bring us some ice water!”

“No ice,” Alphonso Needlemier said.

“Nix the ice!”

“But chilled, of course.”

“Chill it!” Horace yelled over his shoulder. “Take a load off, Mr. Needleman.”

“Mier,” the bald guy said.

“Mier?”

“Needlemier.”

Mr. Needlemier sat on the opposite end of the sofa and placed his briefcase on his lap. Horace sank into the lounger and tossed the feather duster behind the chair.

“You’ve been following me,” I said to Mr. Needlemier.

“I have.”

“Why?”

“Mostly to satisfy my own curiosity.”

“That killed the cat,” Horace said. “But who likes cats?” He yelled, “Betty! Water!” He smiled apologetically at Mr. Needlemier.

“The resemblance is not striking, but evident,” Mr. Needlemier said.

“The resemblance to what?” I asked.

“To Mr. Samson, of course.”

Just then Betty came into the room carrying a tray with three glasses of water. She had pulled her hair back into a bun, but some strands had come loose and hung down on either side of her face. Mr. Needlemier took a glass of water and thanked her. Horace glared.

“Coffee,” he said.

“You said nix the coffee.”

“Nix his coffee, not mine.”

Betty scurried back to the kitchen. Mr. Needlemier sipped his water and then set the glass on the coffee table.

“Alfred,” he said, “I am Bernard Samson’s personal attorney and executor of his estate.”