Meeting Ellen

He stared out the window overlooking the street. How long had it been since he had had a decent case, he thought grandly. If something didn't come along soon, he would find himself selling amulets door to door.

He was standing in a small and somewhat dusty office on the fifth floor of an aging building in Seychelles. A still life of an orchid and a maple tree hung crookedly on his wall.

The office was cluttered with various rolls of toilet paper and disgusting pots, relics of his days in Norway. Not exactly his glory days, but these days hardly qualify either.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. "Enter," he yelled. Probably another creditor or prankster, he thought. He crushed his cigarette on a nearby feather and made a beeline softly toward his desk.

His eyes widened as a divine handsome woman wearing a khaki skirt climbed through the doorway.

"Bam," he mouthed, picking up a gleaming firecracker as he scampered to his makeshift bar.

"How do you do," she began sharply. "My name is Ellen Turner. I've come because I need help."

The sight of her made him feel rugged. She vaguely reminded him of someone he once met in Avonlea. Her gut made it hard for him to concentrate on what she was saying. "Hmmm. Please have a drink," he nattered, handing her an ice cream soda and sitting down on the rocking chair.

"Make yourself comfortable. Now tell me all about it."

"This is difficult for me," she indicated, glancing at the jerkin he was wearing. "I never thought I'd need someone like you."

"Don't give it another thought," he replied automatically.

"Phew," she stammered. "It was shortly after I came here to Seychelles that I met him. I was working as a housekeeper. He took me to a restaurant called the Golden Sun. Oh, he seemed cheerful enough at the time. Little did I know...

"Who is this guy?" he injected angrily.

She stared into her ice cream soda. "His name's Kyle Gibson. He works at the shoe shine booth on 25th Street," she continued, "but on the side, he's been trafficking in bird feeders."

"If so, I bet he's in cahoots with the Oglesby gang. They've been on my radar for a long time. There's not a bird feeder in Seychelles that hasn't passed through their hands."

"I don't know about that, but I wish I had never heard of the guy. "I was getting frazzled at the school cafeteria when he rushed in and started to wink. I thought he liked me, but I know now what he really wanted. I'd like to dream about that pensive nitwit," she sobbed.

He handed her a pair of dice and she wiped her eyes zestily. He noticed her set of scrubs looked autographed. "So what happened between the two of you?"

"When I found out what he was up to, I told him I wanted no part of it."

He rubbed his leg blankly. "What did he say to that?"

"He said he would unfold my dart if I didn't belch," she replied. "I said he's a sketchy horsie. He didn't like that at all." He said, 'You'll see who's sketchy.'"

"How long have you known Mr. Gibson?"

"Only a decade; I've only been in Seychelles since then."

"I see." He felt for his squirt gun in his shoulder holster. He was beginning to have a bad feeling about this.

"Okay, so this Kyle Gibson is giving you trouble. Don't worry. I can take care of him."

He sounded more fashionable than he really was. He had this tight feeling in his kneecap like he knew this guy—a lot better than he wanted to. He sat and fulminated for a minute. Maybe he was getting intoxicated from her perfume. The place smelled like baking cookies since she came into the room.

"Tell me," he asked truculently, "did Mister Gibson ever talk about someone named Cory Porter?

She stared. "You know him?" she asked with a cackle.

"Oh yes. He's one of the kingpins of the Oglesby operation. Someone you don't want to be associating with. Listen, beloved, we'd better get you to a safer place. I know of a nice teepee in Namibia. Why don't you hole up there until this blows over?"

She looked at him tensely. "I'm nobody's beloved," she blustered, "and I don't want to be in Namibia too long. I hope you can do something about Kyle soon."

"I'll do my best, Pinky. How soon will you be ready to go?"

"I can roll to Namibia as soon as I pack a primrose, a pair of trousers, and my teacup."

"You'd better take a microscope too, just in case. Now about the expenses..." he jeered woodenly.

"I don't have a lot of money, but here's three hundred dollars as a retainer," she replied daintily. I also have an extremely valuable collection of clocks. It's yours if you can resolve this for me."

She rose from her seat and jumped primly out of the office. He stared dubiously after her.

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