Schifflebein's Folly

CHAPTER 12: THE LAWSUITS

Dr. Arthur Frankel scanned the empty park to assure himself it was not occupied by any prickly giants with numerous allegedly vulnerable progeny. Satisfied that he was alone, he happily teed up his first ball and began a happy hour of swatting the heck out of innocent small white orbs.

The investigator parked his nondescript sedan near Frankel's flashy man-toy and emerged from the sedan with a manila folder. He trudged across the grass until he reached Frankel, though he hung back some distance while Frankel completed an enthusiastic, if not particularly skillful, swing.

Frankel turned away from the tee, corralled his golf club under one arm, and stretched out a hand to receive the manila folder. He opened the folder and read the top page inside the file.

"This is great," said Frankel. "Where'd you get this?"

"Most recent report of the social worker, Stoner," the investigator reported with pride. "It was stored in her computer. A friend printed it out for me. Cost me lunch at a fancy restaurant."

"Put it on the bill," Frankel said. Then he read aloud from the paper before him. "Mr. Schifflebein has never married and is not known to socialize with women. However, a frequent dinner guest in his home and, indeed, a nearly-constant companion of late, is one Charley Bates."

Thinking out loud, Frankel mused, "Sounds like he's got a boyfriend. Hmm. What's the official position on homosexuals adopting children in this state?"

"Actually, Charley Bates is a woman," the investigator pointed out.

"Good. Then Schifflebein will have to take time out from building his prototype playground in order to prove Bates is female. Together with everything else we've got going, I think our boy will be just too, too busy for a while. Sadly, I don't think he'll make his August 15 deadline for completion and installation."

Frankel handed the folder back to the investigator and smiled. "Good job. Email your invoice to the usual address. Destroy all your paper files as always."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," said the investigator, accepting the manila folder. He was only halfway to his sedan when he heard the swish and whack of Frankel hitting another golf ball.

It was late afternoon when Remmy Jackson knocked on Lloyd's front door only to have it glide open before her. She stepped into the silent house.

"Lloyd?" she called out. "Anybody?"

Receiving no answer, she shut the front door and moved toward the kitchen. The missing residents were not in the kitchen, nor were there any obvious clues as to their whereabouts. Remmy moved on toward the workshop.

She entered the cavernous workshop to find Lloyd draped across a cluttered workbench, fast asleep. Against the wall she saw completed playground modules: a pirate ship, a Sopwith Camel, four carousel horses, a spiral slide, a castle tower. Lloyd appeared to have fallen asleep atop the pieces of an unfinished pumpkin carriage module.

Remmy surveyed the finished and unfinished work then moved to gently rouse Lloyd. She tapped his shoulder and whispered, "Lloyd." She tapped again. "Lloyd, it's Remmy."

"Mrmmy," said Lloyd, without moving.

"That's right, it's Remmy. Get up from there, sugar. Let Aunt Remmy put you to bed."

Lloyd jolted awake and blinked at her. "Remmy!"

"We covered that," she said.

He sat up slowly. "I fell asleep."

"Bet you can't remember the last time you did, either."

Lloyd straightened himself and began arranging the pieces on the workbench, preparing to get back on task. "I got a deadline to meet."