Though retired, Stan Rutmeyer still worked hard. He\u2019d had three jobs before getting the gold watch, the longest and most enjoyable being his last, working as a handwriting analyst for the Secret Service, a position he took in the early seventies. It was a desk job reviewing whatever was brought to him, but there had been travel\u2014a fair amount of it outside the country. It wasn\u2019t glamorous; he didn\u2019t profile ransom-note writers or murderers\u2019 confessions. Instead, he spent his time reviewing the day-to-day correspondence of those best positioned to threaten the US dollar\u2014counterfeiters. He\u2019d been excellent at thwarting forgers, but at the height of his skills, wonky 90s \u201cgovernmental re-visioning\u201d promoted him beyond his skill set where he languished in middle management until his retirement as a G15 in 2011.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
However droll his later career might have been, the straight-eight government hours allowed him time to pursue his passions, which ranged from the ordinary (golf: 16 handicap) to the eclectic (collecting handmade bobbers), but the love of his life, besides his wife, was US history. Chiefly a Civil War buff, he\u2019d turned his passion for nineteenth-century ink and paper into an encore career as a boutique graphologist. He was very good, winning beer bets by determining the authorship\u2014Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, Teddy Roosevelt, for instance\u2014of any ten-word writing sample composed before the advent of the ball point pen.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
Stan was currently authenticating a five-volume set of horse-trading ledgers he\u2019d received from a woman in Kentucky. He\u2019d been engrossed in it since reading the first ledger entry dated September 30, 1835: \u201cPalomino 2-year mare, 13 hands, good teeth.\u201d He was halfway through the second ledger, comparing entries to handwriting samples provided by his client. She wanted to know if a branch of her family tree had at one time owned a stallion named King David, a horse purported to have sired a generation of exceptional racehorses, including the 1903 Kentucky Derby winner, Judge Himes.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n
Stan had just sat down in front of the second ledger when his phone buzzed. It was a text from his wife. Engrossed as he was, Stan dutifully returned her texts, but as the day wore on, an I<\/em> love you but I\u2019m busy<\/em> tone crept into his responses:<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n How\u2019s Peebles?_<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Good._<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n What came in today\u2019s mail?_<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Just bills.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Remember to pick me up from the from the airport this time._<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Yes dear_<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Meanwhile, Mr. Peebles entered the den, depositing himself underneath Stan\u2019s large mahogany desk. Stan unconsciously rubbed the dog\u2019s belly with his loafer, causing one of Peebles\u2019s rear legs gyrated slowly.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n The work was intriguing, but the big stone Kahuna competed for his attention. Twenty minutes in, while examining ledger entries underneath the title \u201cDraft Horses Purchased for the City of New York Department of Sanitation,\u201d he remembered something suddenly which ended Peebles\u2019s rubdown.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n \u201cNo, it can\u2019t be,\u201d he said aloud.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Peebles yawned, waiting for the foot-rubbing to recommence, but it didn\u2019t. Stan stood up, returning to the kitchen. The dog reluctantly followed, watching his master, the Man, stare through the window over the neighbor\u2019s wall before the Man said, \u201cI guess it is, Peebles, would you believe it?\u201d Instead of looking toward Buchanan\u2019s vanity arch as it usually did, the Big Kahuna now faced Buchanan\u2019s house\u2014at least it looked that way form here.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n He turned to his dog, looking thoughtful. \u201cWell, Peebles, we\u2019ve got a mystery to solve on our evening walk. Are you up for it?\u201d Peebles wagged his tail at the word walk<\/em>, hoping for the even better word, treat<\/em>. \u201cWe\u2019ll go when it cools off. Say, how about a treat, Peebles?\u201d Stan reached into the cupboard, retrieving a Milk Bone, tossing it to the dog without looking, assured by experience the canine would catch it in mid-air. Peebles did not disappoint. Stan heard the snap of small but powerful jaws behind him as he returned to the den.<\/p>\r\n\r\n\r\n\r\n Across the way, cold eyes looked over Dick Buchanan\u2019s wall, straight into Stan\u2019s kitchen. Like Billy earlier, Stan had no idea that the statue, too far away to be seen clearly, had been pivoting, bit by bit.<\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\n <\/p>\r\nDownload a PDF of Chapter One<\/a> Buy this book from Amazon<\/a>\r\n
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