***
"Mia?"
"No, this is Mrs. Potsdam. Whom may I say is phoning?"
"Mrs. Potsdam!" I recoiled at my misidentification, but allowed a certain forgiveness for the lapse as I stood within feet of the crashing surf. "It's me! Baron."
"Sir," her response came rigidly across the airwave. "How might I help you, sir?"
"Yes, then, my dear woman. Is Mia available?"
"Not as such, sir. She's away for the moment."
"Ah," I replied, feeling nothing but comfort speaking with a familiar voice belonging to a kindred soul whose feet were firmly planted upon the safe flooring of Tumultuous Manor. "Smudgely then, if you please."
"I'm afraid, sir," she stammered, as though watching a pot of boiling tea water accidentally spill into a pan of hot olive oil over a live flame, "he's unavailable at this time, too."
"Smudgely? Unavailable? The two words do not coexist with one another."
"They've taken ... Together, they're gone. O my sake's alive, I prepped them a picnic basket and they're off together in the Whippet, sir!"
"They're on a picnic? With one another?" I scrunched a wad of wet sand in the crevice of my bare toes and deposited it into the receding wave. "This is our man Smudgely, is it?"
And what of my possibilities with Miss Mia?
"The devil's gotten into him, sir, surely it has!"
"Mephisto is everywhere, Mrs. Potsdam." I searched the horizon for sign of the Gangrene, wondering if it discovered the abandoned lifeboat, gone to port in Acapulco or pushed on to its planned mooring in Long Beach. "Did they take the large wicker basket from atop the larder in the pantry?"
"That they did, sir, along with one of your best bottles of wine I must add."
"Merlot?"
"Shiraz cabernet, sir."
"That would be our Smudgely, yes, indeed."
"I didn't approve of this. Not one bit."
"Ours is not to judge, Mrs. Potsdam." I took a deep breath and watched as a starfish rode in and out with a wave. "Smudgely is a man of honor. I have great faith in his reasoning and logic. He need not explain himself to us."
"Yes, sir."
"That said, the gravity of my situation is such Smudgely will feel a pang of guilt for not being present to accept my instructions. Mrs. Potsdam, you are now receiving direct orders from me."
"Sir, I never --"
"Circumstance warrants this change in protocol. I can't be on this call forever. There is much to do." The intense distress I felt over the picnic lunch being shared by Smudgely and Miss Kolpaux was troublesome. A sense of betrayal crept into my mind, precisely where such animus was not welcomed. "Besides, it's not as if we're family," I blurted out.
"Sir, I always believed you felt otherwise." The disappointment in Mrs. Potdam's voice was unmistakable. "Let me get a scrap of paper now."
"There will be a package, an ordinary Federal Express envelope, arriving tomorrow at the Manor." I spoke in a clinical tone. "Upon its reception, instruct Smudgely to place it immediately in the Cromwell."
"The Cromwell!" Mrs. Potsdam gasped at the mention of the nineteenth century safe located in the wall of my upstairs study. Smudgely and I were the sole possessors of its archaic and byzantine combination. "Yes, sir."
"That is all for now. I hope to be home within the week and look forward to one of your delicious homemade meals."
"Yes, sir. Package to be delivered tomorrow. Stored in the Cromwell. I'd best be preparing a batch of blueberry scones, then, hadn't I?"
"Blueberry scones?" The pastry had never scored high on my list of caloric intake. "Whatever for?"
"For Dawn the Fed Ex girl, sir. You must know she likes to stop by the kitchen on her visits here and sample my cooking. Blueberry scones are her favorite."