Controu’s Release

I awoke the next morning in my own bed, with only my tired and bruised body assuring me that the episode on top of the Steinway hadn’t all been a dream.

Ham, the man for all services, delivered a breakfast tray to me and told me that I might as well go back into Baton Rouge early because Mr. Philippe was locked in his study and pounding away on his computer—and when he was in this sort of mood, he was milking a creative spurt on another novel and wouldn’t surface again for days, weeks, or months. I was a little disappointed, as I would have enjoyed another duet on the piano, but I didn’t mind an extra day off in Baton Rouge all that much either. I did make a note to pick up Philippe’s next novel, however, to see if I appeared in it.

When I was dressed and packed, I walked down the ornate staircase, wondering yet again if there was a story behind the bare walls and rooms and evident overall shabbiness of the once-elegant home, but knew that I’d probably have to read all of Philippe’s novels—and then probably between the lines—to solve that mystery. There had been several mysteries left unsolved that weekend, including, I thought, as I caught sight of the big and studly Ham waiting at the door for me, chauffeur’s cap in hand, the intriguing mystery of Philippe’s novel, the Black Behemoth. Maybe I would track that book down and read it after all.

As it turned out, I wouldn’t have to read the book, because it couldn’t have been nearly as explicit as what I experienced for the next two hours. Ham put me into the limousine and strode majestically around the miles of Cadillac, settled into the driver’s seat, squared off his chauffeur’s cap, and put the car into gear. Not more than fifty yards down the drive, though, in a shady spot under the Oak trees that couldn’t be seen from either the road or the house, he pulled the car over to the side, walked back around the car, opened the door beside me, and stuck his head inside the passenger compartment.