The Finnish Fiasco, Chapter One
Prologue
Later, no one except the waiter would remember seeing the woman. She wasn’t someone you would remember. She was of average height and average build. Her clothes were average clothes. She walked at average speed. In fact, the only thing that was at all unusual about her was the fact that she wore an extremely large hat with a floppy brim that obscured her entire face. But it was a hot, sunny day and lots of people were wearing hats, so even though the woman’s hat was larger than most, it wasn’t really anything out of the ordinary. She walked into a restaurant called Something’s Fishy! on the corner of Shell and Fin Street. She sat at a window table and ordered the seafood special and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
When the international police finally arrived to interrogate the waiter, he couldn’t give them any information aside from the fact that she ate the entire platter, including the shrimp tails (which hardly anyone ever eats), and left a lousy tip. “It was a busy day, I didn’t have time to inspect every customer.” The waiter admitted that it did seem a bit odd that she hadn’t removed her hat while she ate her seafood platter, but there was no law against that, was there?
Chapter One
It is an unfortunate fact of life that sooner or later all of us will have a tragedy strike. Some of these tragedies will be large and some will be small. Some you will see coming and others will zoom in out of nowhere, completely unexpected. The tragedy that arrived to strike nine-year-old Celia Piper was one that she had not seen coming and one that was extraordinarily large, the worst possible combination.
Celia’s tragedy struck on a Saturday morning that began like any other Saturday morning. She was rummaging through her closet, hoping to find her green cardigan. She and Mrs. Thompson were about to leave for the library, which was what they always did on Saturday mornings. The sweater was nowhere to be found, but Celia did find her cat, Jumpy, who was napping in the laundry basket. Celia paused her search for a moment and gave Jumpy a belly rub.
Downstairs, the doorbell chimed. Jumpy tipped an ear toward the sound. Mrs. Thompson’s sensible oxfords click-clacked across the hardwood floor as she went to see who was there. Mr. and Mrs. Piper, Celia’s parents, were government scientists whose jobs required frequent travel. During their travels, Mrs. Thompson stayed with Celia and Jumpy. She was a gray haired, kindly widow who lived across the street in a small white house with green shutters and two maple trees on the front lawn. Celia and Jumpy were very fond of her.
“Oh!” Mrs. Thompson gasped so loudly that Celia heard it all the way up on the second floor. She had a sudden inkling that something Not Good was about to happen. It was the same way she felt when she had to get a shot at the doctor’s office. She knew the needle was coming and she knew it was going to hurt, but there was nothing to do except shut her eyes and squeeze her mother’s hand. Since her mother was not available, Celia picked up Jumpy and squeezed her. She tiptoed to the top of the steps and peeked over the banister. Down below, just inside the front door, a man stood. He wore a tan trench coat and shiny black shoes, and in one hand he held a briefcase with brass latches. He looked like an Important Person.
“This is quite a shock,” Mrs. Thompson said. “I need to sit down.”
Celia went down the stairs slowly, right foot, left foot. Words floated up the staircase and into her ears– “plane…Africa…no survivors…” She forced her feet to go to the bottom of the stairs and into the parlor. The trench coat man sat in her father’s leather chair, the briefcase open on his knees. Mrs. Thompson sat in the flowered chair facing him. Celia’s mother often sat in this chair to read in the evenings. From his briefcase, the man pulled out some papers and handed them to Mrs. Thompson. Her face was very white, and her hand shook as she held the papers.
“This is a report of the incident.” The man noticed Celia standing in the doorway. “Would you like me to explain to the child?”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,” Mrs. Thompson said.
“Again, my condolences.” He closed the briefcase. “If the department can be of assistance, please contact us. I’ll let myself out.” The front door snicked shut behind him and there was silence. Celia imagined the man turning into a black vulture and flapping away, the briefcase clutched in his scaly yellow claws.
“Celia, darling,” Mrs. Thompson said, “I’m afraid something terrible has happened.”
But Celia already knew. Tragedy had struck, and she was now an orphan.
(to be continued….)
