Dr. Eunholder's Device: Book Two of the Sapphire Staff Series

By Cynthia Sens

Mel Taylor has to deal with some strange challengeslike the inconvenience of setting off sparks when he comes within five feet of modern electronics, the result of being a time-traveling veteran of World War II. Hes doing his best to settle into a new life in a new time, but he cant escape his complicated past, no matter how much he wants to, especially after surviving an explosive confrontation among the Iowa cornfields the previous summer.
Hes got home construction problems, missing cemeteries, angry neighbors, evangelical preachers, malfunctioning locks, an attacking young woman, car crashes and new acquaintances to deal with. He also has to find the strength to say his final farewells to lost friends.
For too long Mels life has been complicated by secrets. And like all secrets, his have a way of bubbling to the surfaceespecially when he has the sapphire staff, an instrument of Gods will, hidden in his basement. Hes been asked to uncover the location of a weeping angel statue, and what he discovers will yield an unexpected connection to his pastand the woman he once loved. He might even reveal how he ended up in the future and what role Dr. Eunholders device played in his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491713211

Cynthia Sens

Cynthia Sens is a historian and artist with varied interests and talents. A native of the Midwest, she has worked as a coppersmith, librarian, and medical researcher. She currently lives in Illinois. This is the second book in a planned series.

Book preview

DR. EUNHOLDER’S

DEVICE

BOOK TWO OF THE SAPPHIRE STAFF SERIES

CYNTHIA SENS

iUniverse LLC

Bloomington

DR. EUNHOLDER’S DEVICE

Copyright © 2013 Cynthia Sens.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1319-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1320-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-1321-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919769

iUniverse rev. date: 11/07/2013

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

They say remodeling and construction are two of the most difficult things to live through, speaking as someone whose lived through a world war, been stabbed, shot and blown up… not to mention time traveled into the future, fought Nazis and been hurtled over a burning farmhouse… several of which happened just within the last five months. I can honestly say… they may be right.

I had for numerous reasons, some of those I just mentioned, decided it was time to update my home security. Partly due to the fact that my office door; a cheaply reinforced glass paneled frame facing the busy street entrance on the front of my two story old brick home and office, had become a revolving door for just about anyone. Anyone who found an unlocked door inviting, anyone who felt an open sign meant welcome come in and let your dog drip on my wood flooring, even if you aren’t interested in my business, or just anyone seeking refuge from the bitter Midwest winter.

Not that I was completely opposed to sheltering the stray stranded or downtrodden lost individual… but not the entire sea of humanity that loitered out front while they waited for the city bus, whose stop was unfortunately at my street corner. Certainly not the people last fall who’d stolen my new answering machine right off my desk in an attempt to lure me into the open and also to steal a rather important item I have in my possession called the sapphire staff… oh and also they probably wanted to kill me.

Now don’t get me wrong… I wasn’t that sad about the answering machine. Ok maybe a little since it had worked. I had been waiting for it to break down or die anytime like all the others. But it was more just the principle of the thing. I mean it said genealogist and historian on my front door not public rest stop… ok maybe it was really the fact that the people who’d taken my answering machine had probably been Nazis or working for a Nazi… and also the fact that they wanted to kill me and nearly had… that was really the clincher… so new locks might actually be the least of my worries.

I was born in 1916, so the idea of locked doors and rude anonymous people, not counting Nazis, who viewed any unbolted door as an invitation, seemed a little startling and foreign, especially when I’d gotten dropped from 1948 into 1998, fifty years in the future. Respect and privacy weren’t exactly the same things anymore and courtesy well that had gone out the window long ago. It used to be you didn’t even have to worry about locking your doors. Now it seemed one of the main things I thought about when I was or wasn’t at home. I’d wandered around from place to place for about thirteen years, after arriving in the future, and finally settled down in the same general area where I’d grown up. Home for me was now my two story brick dinosaur on the Illinois side of the Mississippi river divide, opposite Iowa.

In the last few years, I’d gained a few friends, garnered a few new enemies and made contact with some of the same evil bastards I’d thought were dead, hence the locks. I was hoping after our encounter last August that maybe the second time would be the charm, but I wasn’t taking chances.

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Mr. Taylor? my contractor questioned, pulling me from my grumbling thoughts. The guy was named Fred who worked for a guy named Ed you can’t make this stuff up. He assured me all the reinforcing of frames, rewiring of electricity and enhanced security locks were just what was needed for my old reprobate of a building… especially in my neighborhood. I wasn’t exactly sure what he’d meant by that. I knew keeping those aggressive Girl Scouts and Jehovah’s Witnesses as well as Howard Earwood, from the Wings of Spirit church, a neighbor who had made it his personal mission to convert my heathen self to his religious team, was well… hard… they would all down right kick the door off its hinges if they could, especially those Girl Scouts. One more hard sale for their thin mint cookies and I was getting a guard dog.

What is it now Fred… I started to whine. I told you . . .

Its state of the art, Fred informed me again. He wore thick dark rimmed glasses and had a bald head that was continuously only half covered by a faded baseball cap that appeared too small for him. His shirt appeared the same. It was having a hell of a time covering his large round gut as well as his non-existent rear upon which his pants were decidedly once again descending as he hiked up his trousers. It seemed his suspenders weren’t working. They were merely decorative. You should really have this one Mr. Taylor… its state of the art… he directed my attention to the lock he’d been insisting I purchase.

State of the art, I’d learned was contractor code for it’s going to run you more than I originally stated.

I told you… no electronic locks… they won’t work. I want a non-electrical state of the art… you understand… I returned, as the phone on my desk started to ring.

If you want top notch security Mr. Taylor this is it and it’s fault proof, Fred added still trying to convince me as I went for the phone on my desk.

Nothing’s fault proof… I grunted picking up the phone, especially if it was electronic and anywhere near me. Hello, I was still forcefully pointing at the other lock, the one I wanted, trying to get Fred’s attention. He was doing his best to ignore me.

Melburn… a voice began from the telephone.

There was a squeaking wrench of something metal followed by a great deal of yelling. God this little home improvement was never going to be completed.

What… ? I half bellowed into the phone plugging my ear to try and hear who was on the line.

Mel… I have your files done. Do you want me to bring them over?

What? I bellowed again. Emily, is that you? I said wincing as another sound of metal grating pierced the air and something fell to the floor with a crash.

I said I have your files done… half way through her raised voiced response the cacophony of yelling and metal stopped. Do you want me to bring them over?

You don’t have to yell Emily, I said holding out the phone. Do you have the files done?

Yes, Emily returned annoyance in her exasperated voice.

Can you bring them over? I added.

Yes, she replied, a slight chuckle now in her voice.

Good I’ll… No Fred not… I’ll see you then… I dropped the phone.

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Emily was still holding the telephone receiver after Mel had hung up. She smiled and shook her head. Her boss was slightly insane but he was growing on her. She was however so glad she worked from home sometimes. The past two months had been complete chaos at Melburn’s office and home. One evening Fred the contractor had managed, somehow, to not properly secure the plywood boards that covered Mel’s front door… or rather hole where his front door should have been. When she arrived the next morning to deliver her finished research to Mel, she’d found him shoveling snow out of his front office. His efforts were due to the sudden freak December storm, that had dropped a foot of snow… . from the sound of it, things weren’t improving for her boss.

There was a knock at Emily’s front door. She hung up the phone and opened the glossy painted white colonial door, with its light blue trim to find Mrs. Rayburn, her neighbor, wrapped in a warm winter coat and scarf.

The wind is really picking up out there, Mrs. Rayburn said shuffling inside, removing her scarf and unbuttoning her coat. I hope you will be careful out there dear, she smiled.

Of course… Emily replied. And thank you again Mrs. Rayburn, Emily added brushing her fingers through her dark auburn hair and taking Mrs. Rayburn’s coat.

You know it’s never a problem… besides it gets me away from my Justin for a few hours. Justin Rayburn, Mrs. Rayburn’s husband, had been retired for many years and according to Mrs. Rayburn had suddenly developed the most peculiar passion for model trains. He had even taken to wearing an engineer’s hat most of the time, along with turning a large part of their basement into a functioning miniature city with continuous running model trains.

I just have to take these papers to Mr. Taylor, Emily indicated the stack of folders setting next to her coat in the chair.

How is his construction going dear? Mrs. Rayburn questioned unbuttoning the first few shell buttons of her aqua cardigan. The house was quite warm.

By the sound of it not too well, Emily replied, pushing the folders into her bag.

Oh and in winter too, Justin and I had some done a few years back, you remember, dreadful thing, Mrs. Rayburn shook her head; hanging her scarf on the single porcelain knob by the front door over her coat. How is she today? she questioned turning to Emily.

Elizabeth likes the snow… she always has, Emily replied. Her sister, Elizabeth, had been surprisingly well the past few months and Emily hoped it was a sign of more to come. Yet something in the back of her mind warned her not to get too comfortable or optimistic. She’s in her room… has been all morning. I just checked on her a few minutes ago and told her I was going. It shouldn’t take me very long. Even though Mrs. Rayburn said it was never a problem to babysit Elizabeth. Emily still felt slightly uncomfortable asking. She also knew her reliance on Mrs. Rayburn’s generosity could not exist forever. Not that Mrs. Rayburn would say no, but she was getting older and if Elizabeth had one of her more violet attacks; Emily worried what could happen. In the past Elizabeth, who was ten years her junior and smaller, frailer looking than Emily by far, had thrown her own sister up against the wall with such force the bruises had remained for months. Looking at Mrs. Rayburn who was very fit and spry for an eighty-four year old woman still left Emily with a sense of dread; as if there was a ticking bomb somewhere in the house, but with no indication of how much time was left.

I won’t be long, Emily repeated putting on her coat and wrapping the scarf around her neck.

Of course dear, Mrs. Rayburn smiled opening the front door for her. She waited by the front windows a few minutes watching Emily clean the thin dusting of snow from her car before turning to find Elizabeth.

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An hour of arguing had passed and finally I had come to a beleaguered compromise with Fred. I told him I didn’t want sensors or lights or flashing beeping alarms that notified the police of a break in. I just wanted a lock and a stronger door. He’d said it wasn’t enough, by which I took it to mean the price tag on simple locks and new doors wasn’t going to fill his rather rotund belly protruding between his suspenders and over his belt. He assured me once again that the electronic lock was state of the art. Cash register bell sounds and he guaranteed it would work. With the guarantee in writing I reluctantly agreed, partly just to have the damn thing finished.

Fred’s two sons Frank and Hank, again I’m not kidding, stood up with notice as Emily walked in through the, thank God, almost installed new front door. The two men, who looked like slightly younger fitter and slightly hairier versions of their father Fred, stood at attention. They paused a minute longer, both of them running their eyes up and down her, waiting to see if what was under the bulky winter coat matched her pretty features.

Emily, I said ushering her quickly into the room and shunning her through my bulky curtains to the home part of my building. I preferred my workers to work and not ogle.

I thought you were only having a new door put in? she questioned almost skidding to a stop in the living room.

So did I, I replied closing the curtains tight behind us, causing Frank and Hank to reluctantly get some work done.

You look… frazzled, she said and I noticed the tiniest smile cross her lips.

"Do I," my tone was high and sarcastic. But I supposed I did, I hadn’t shaved and if pulling hair out to the sound of over torquing electric drills and screwdrivers was a form of torture then it was working.

She raised her eyebrows.

Sorry, I said. I just wanted a door; all I wanted was a door, I returned with an exasperated tone. "I said I could do it myself but no . . . Joseph tells me he’s got this great security guy who did his offices at the Rose Tree."

Where is Joseph? Emily glanced around half expecting to see him.

Hiding, I replied.

She questioned my answer with a smirk.

Hiding from me at the Rose Tree… he knows better than to come over here until they’re gone… and done, I grunted, running my fingers through my dark hair and scratching at the growing stubble that was about three days old.

Emily laughed, hiding her smile under her raised mitten wearing hand.

This is funny? I saw her shoulders jostle with a suppressed chuckle. Ok, I admitted. It’s kind of funny.

Oh it’s awful, she said still smiling as she dropped her coat, scarf, mittens and bag in the leather chair. Her hair was loose and seemed curlier in the winter weather. The warm blue v-neck sweater accentuated her normal steely blue eyes making them seem softer.

I couldn’t help taking a second look. The cheeks of her heart shaped face still held a soft rosy hue from the cold outside… I wasn’t ogling… but what had been hidden beneath the bulky coat did match her pleasing features. You want some hot chocolate? I questioned, diverting my mingled muddy blue eyes from her.

Hot chocolate… what are you twelve? she smiled again turning to me.

No but my office is twelve degrees. We turned toward the curtains as a tremendous crash sounded. I’m not looking, I said shaking my head. I refuse . . .

It’s ok… everything’s is fine Mr. Taylor, Fred’s reassuring voice called out from the office, followed by a cursing exchange between himself and his sons.

It’ll never be finished, I sighed, my shoulders shagging, dropping my height from the normal 5'11" I stood.

Oh it’s not that bad… Emily patted me on the back. Just think two or three more months and it will be spring, she replied not able to suppress a laughing chuckle and a pronounced smile at my suffering. Holes in the wall won’t matter then . . .

I sighed and dragged my slumped shoulders into the kitchen.

Emily followed, after retrieving some files from her bag first. She sat down at my old thick surfaced wooden table, the stack of files resting in front of her.

I poured us two cups from the still steaming pan, where I had only recently made hot chocolate and carried them to the table.

I’m surprised you drink this, she said eyeing the brown seductive liquid with a note of suspicion as a curl of warmth rose from its surface.

I looked surprised by her question as I sat down across from her.

"Well you are kind of a health nut about what you eat," she said sniffing the steaming aroma and wrapping her hands eagerly around the cup for warmth. The draft from the office was beginning to reach her and my dark stone kitchen floor wasn’t helping.

Why would you say that? I raised an eyebrow as if I had no clue to what she was referring. If by ‘health nut’ she meant someone who expected their food to be edible and not laced with the latest artificial chemicals, pesticides, herbicides and numerous other words that ended in the suffix cide, which just meant killing or death, then ok maybe I was a ‘health nut.’ But in my day… God I promised myself I wouldn’t say that… ok… but it’s true… before the war food was mostly food, identifiable substances that didn’t take a chemistry degree to read or understand. Now if it came in a box or can it practically came with an owner’s manual of ingredients that nature even in her wildest drunken fantasies would never have combined or manufactured.

You know how you are… her steely blue eyes glanced at me.

I shrugged innocently.

Joseph brought in that pop can and you went off on him for an hour.

"I did not go off on him, I replied noticing a sparkle in her eyes. She was baiting me. I simply informed him of what kind of poisonous brain rotting swill he was pouring into his body." Was it