The Further Adventures of Alex and Nan: Adventure Three: Perilous Pursuits, Adventure Four: Golden Retrievals

By Horton-De Wolfe

Nan Hollaway, a 70-something TV talk show host in Upstate New York, was foisted on debonair, silver-haired detective Alex Rayburn as an unwelcome partner in solving a crime of international proportions. Following the successful conclusion of their first case, the problematic pair found themselves involved in more unlikely adventures - as well as an unlikely affair of the heart. What now?
A quiet walk in the cemetery leads to an encounter with a frantic escaped prisoner who begs Alex to prove his innocence. Nan and Alex’s nubile grandniece Dani join in the Perilous Pursuits of the bad guys, but it’s Alex who must ultimately brave a watery grave.
In Golden Retrievals, a historic buried treasure becomes an intriguing case for Alex and Nan. All is happily resolved until one dark and stormy night when an unlikely miscreant makes his move at the Rayburn mansion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781664131484

Horton-De Wolfe

Writing as Horton-DeWolf, Martha Horton and Alan De Wolfe have combined their varied experiences and talents to contrive "Unlikely Adventures." Horton wrote for McGraw-Hill World News and was public relations director for an international hotel company. She is also a poet, and edited a weekly newspaper in Upstate New York. De Wolfe, a native of Corning, NY, traveled the world as a contract technical Illustrator. He has published several adventure novels and is a playwright and lyricist.

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Copyright © 2020 by Horton - De Wolfe.

ISBN:      Softcover        978-1-6641-3147-7

                eBook              978-1-6641-3148-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Rev. date: 10/12/2020

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Contents

The Further Adventures

of Alex and Nan

Adventure Three: Perilous Pursuits

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

The Further Adventures

of Alex and Nan

Adventure Four: Golden Retrievals

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

Epilogue

THE FURTHER ADVENTURES

OF ALEX AND NAN

Adventure Three: Perilous Pursuits

1

W OULD YOU LIKE some more ice cream, my pet?

Oh, heavens, no! Nan stated firmly. I’m stuffed! And don’t call me your pet.

Just having fun with you, Nancy Lou, Alex jousted.

Alex, you really must stop calling me Nancy Lou. Don’t ruin this perfect autumn day. I left that silly nickname behind years ago.

Okay, you win...for now.

Nan glared in mock anger, though she really liked it when Alex needled her. Theirs was a comfortable tolerance of each other brought on by a friendship sweetened by the rigors of the first case they’d worked on together; he the handsome detective, she the former foreign correspondent and present local television host. They were standing on the downtown bridge that had seen the end of a giant plot to destabilize the free world a few months before. They liked to visit the area on any warm night made for walking about. Alex would usually relate a little known fact or two.

The small island in the river below them had become internationally famous with the crash of a getaway helicopter and subsequent capture of some escaping bad guys. Amazing that it had all ended for the thugs on that little patch of rocky land in the middle of the rather sedate Chemung River. When the getaway helicopter was brought down unexpectedly, the world heaved a sigh of relief and made Nan and Alex unexpectedly famous. Those were the days they remembered, as the two of them strolled along slurping their drippy ice cream cones. The span where they stood overlooked a perfectly placed flood wall, designed to protect the city from a hundred year flood.

Alex enraptured Nan with his recollection of the 1972 flood, pointing out the necessity of the flood wall still and forever sprawled along the downtown side of the river. The wall proved insufficient for the water that roared down the river that day. The city was thoroughly inundated with uncountable gallons of muddy water. The flood wall was still there, hoping again to protect the city from future disasters, but as locals always lament, it just should have been about two feet higher.

There’s a hole in the wall with water spilling out. What’s it for? Nan said, pointing to a five-foot square opening in the concrete about two-thirds down the wall from the top edge.

Monkey Run.

Nan glared at him for the unenlightening brevity.

Well, tell me about it. Don’t leave me hanging!

Okay. Many years ago, Monkey Run Creek ambled down through the city wherever it wanted to go. The city fathers knew that something had to be done, so they had an engineer design a way to channel the water safely through town. The creek can get quite rambunctious. So beginning at the top of the hill, a collection pond was dug and a spillway installed to gather the runoff water into a tunnel, which begins behind a construction company at the city’s upper edge. A series of U-shaped concrete tunnel segments were assembled all the way down the hill to the river, which is the opening you see in the wall. That’s the creek water, now cascading off the edge a few feet, then into the river.

I see, Nan interjected, somewhat impatiently. She was getting a more exhaustive explanation than she had anticipated.

Alex continued the story, unabated. If you were to follow the course of the water down the hill from the very top, you would see the channel go under a city street and continue for a short time, then under another street, and so on. About halfway down the hill at the corner of Chestnut and Second, the concrete abutment suddenly disappears underground and never again surfaces until the channel has delivered the water about a mile further, ending here, he pointed at the opening. Pedestrians are oblivious to the channel, which runs under the Denison Parkway four-lane, under Market Street, alongside the clock tower, through Centennial Park, and ends here at the river. It was quite an amazing project. Attacking the remainder of his ice cream cone, he added, Cost a lot of money, too.

"Oh, that’s quite interesting. Thanks for bothering to tell me the story," she chided.

Anytime, Alex grinned.

He had asked Nan to go for a walk in the business district of this city – his hometown and a favorite of Nan’s. He had wanted to recapture the moments of their previous encounter with the river, which had ended the getaway of a helicopter full of rascals who were hoping to evade the law. It was now Nan’s turn to come up with some intriguing entertainment that she and Alex could experience. She didn’t disappoint.

On this evening in late October, even if one didn’t believe in ghosts, one could envision ancient ectoplasm taking shape in the patchy mist that swirled amid the cemetery tombstones standing like soldiers. An owl hooted from a black, ragged branch silhouetted against the deep purple sky. The full moon was partially obscured by random clouds – a vampire moon, Nan told her friend.

Spooky, isn’t it? she shivered.

Alex squeezed her hand. I’ll protect you, Nancy Lou, he teased.

Despite his initial reluctance, Alex Rayburn, the sophisticated semi-retired aristocrat, was having a good time tramping through Elmira’s vintage Victorian-style Woodlawn Cemetery with a woman he particularly liked. Nan Holloway had requested, rather bribed him, to join her for this annual Ghost Walk, a popular event sponsored by the local historical society and the Friends of Woodlawn.

Nan had interviewed the organizer, Ruth Bruning, on her weekly TV talk show, Nan About Town. Ruth had explained how members of the Elmira Little Theater research some of the cemetery’s underground inhabitants, write scripts about their lives, and impersonate them for this event. The actors are staged at various locations to tell the story of the cemetery and its sometimes-famous people. On the night of the Ghost Walk, the costumed thespians take their places beside their graves to await the trembling visitors. Equipped with flickering lanterns, members of the organization guide the visitors through portions of the quiet landscape, stopping near appropriate graves and listening to the ghosts tell their stories one by one.

Alex and Nan listened to the stirring life stories of the ghosts of Simeon Benjamin, founder of Elmira College, the groundbreaking Dr. Mabel Flood, who operated a hospital in Serbia during World War I, and the inventive Professor Henry Chum, builder of various types of barometers. To be sure, there are even more exalted folks buried in Woodlawn Cemetery. Most notable is Samuel Clemens, known far and wide as Mark Twain, who married an Elmira girl. The visitors this night remained enthralled by the seldom spoken stories of their local forebears.

The next ghost on the tour was Harriet Maxwell Converse, a poet, writer and Indian rights advocate, who was the first white woman to be honored as a chief of the Seneca nation. After Harriet’s fascinating story, Nan told Alex, Her impersonator is Angela Hoffman, a local art teacher. I interviewed her once about art therapy in hospitals and prisons.

She really played her part well, Alex observed.

Off to the side, the ghost of Ernie Davis, the great football player from one of the Elmira schools, told the story of his early death after winning football’s prestigious Heisman Trophy. Hal Roach was on hand, telling of his rise to prominence in the nation’s early film industry, and a few other luminaries related their stories from the hoary past. The evening was touched with the palpable sadness of knowing that each person on the tour would one day find his/her own mortality in much the same way.

After getting acquainted with a few more official ghosts in this sprawling real estate, Alex and Nan drifted off on their own, Alex’s flashlight in hand. He had his arm around her and aimed the torch at the ground to avoid the tree roots proliferating everywhere. The twisting root structures seemed to guard the graves.

I never thought I would enjoy a stroll through a cemetery at night, Alex remarked. Thanks for inviting me, Nan.

I haven’t forgotten my promise to treat you to drinks at the Finger Lakes House after. Nan referred to her favorite watering hole, a low-key, laid-back craft beer and wine bar beside the Chemung River. But first let’s check out the Free Ground area. It’s the part of the cemetery where the poor and forgotten folks were buried. I’ll bet we’ll meet some wandering ghosts there.

In addition to portraying the personages on the guided tour, Elmira Little Theater members enjoyed popping out unexpectedly from behind monuments to startle and gently admonish the visitors not to disturb their headstone or step too firmly on their graves. Indeed, as Nan and Alex approached the Free Ground, a furtive figure emerged unsteadily from the blackness – a man wrapped in a voluminous cloak, with only the pale oval of his face visible.

Don’t come any closer, he warned them in a low, ragged voice.

We’ll be careful, Nan assured him, playing the game.

Stay away! the ghost growled, gesturing wildly as he merged again with the darkness.

Some ghosts, even as actors, seemed sad to be in the shadow of the great Gothic prison just a few hundred feet across Bancroft Road. The vast, imposing walls of the edifice were a fortification between things considered good and things considered evil. Alex paused to consider the unfortunate population of the max-security prison. Speaking of stories ... he said, vacantly.

Nan, who had stopped to look at the structure added, Just imagine the stories in there!

Alex added, I can’t think of anything more tragic – so many lives upended by circumstance, those bound to live with their misdeeds for years and years to come.

He sighed and wrapped an arm around her. And we’re in the business of putting the bad guys in there, he quickly added, remembering their recent crime-fighting success.

Yes … lives cut short, Nan lamented.

The pair had completed their trek to the Free Ground burial area, noticing in particular the few, modest handmade markers, a somber contrast to the handsomely carved monuments they had viewed earlier.

Some of the people buried here died in prison, Nan commented. One of the characters on a previous Ghost Walk was Zebulon Brockway, the first warden.

Again, the couple gazed across Bancroft Road at the prison wall. Alex said, Did you know that my family is very much involved with the prison? Brockway found work for the prisoners in the community, and our Rayburn School finds work inside the prison for challenged youngsters in the community who need to experience employment.

Really! Nan was surprised.

Yes. For instance, the school has the kids in there for all kinds of tasks. They microfilm old records, do some janitorial duties and help in the CO’s cafeteria. It has worked out well over the years. I can’t claim any credit because it was all set up before I was an adult. Still, it’s nice to enjoy its existence.

Even more in the Rayburn storehouse of success, Nan thought, returning her eyes briefly to the prison edifice.

Maybe you should interview Walt Brand on your show, Alex said. He’s been the director up on ‘The Hill’ for a dozen years. There’s nothing about the operation he doesn’t know.

Was he here during the famous prison break a few years ago? Nan inquired.

He was, Alex said. But not on site that night.

They both stared at the building, remembering how two inmates clawed their way into a ventilator shaft, and then climbed down knotted bedsheets in front of the building, to the ground.

I was doing news back then for WLED. I talked to most of the officials, Nan remembered. It was quite a manhunt, but the escapees were caught soon and without incident.

A short episode, as I recall, Alex added.

Nan said, People were really frightened.

Well, the prison is a lot more secure now. It’s unlikely there’ll ever be another break-out, Alex declared.

Ha! You’re tempting fate by saying that, Nan laughed.

We’ve encountered a bunch of ghosts tonight – let’s not conjure up any desperados, as well!

Agreed, said Nan. We might as well head back now. The ghost walk is over at 9:30.

And I’m ready for a drink and some cozy camaraderie at this little spot you’ve been touting, Alex proffered, as they headed back to the cemetery’s stately wrought iron gates. He had parked the Lamborghini on the street. There’s that fabulous car, Nan thought, waiting to experience yet again such utter luxury.

She was happy to feign interest as Alex went on about his car. She remembered it from a time before, when she thought she’d taken her last breath with him driving far too fast. That was another time, another adventure recalled in fond memory. She and Alex had become close, working together to solve a murder, thwart a dangerous plot, and bring several malefactors to justice. Then, without a current case to solve, he had flown to southern France to oversee some business dealings and family investments. When she learned he had returned, Nan, who is 74 and not inclined to wait for a man to call her, called him. He seemed quite happy to hear from her.

I’m glad to have you in the passenger seat again, Alex told her. It’s been too long.

So it has, Nan agreed. And this time it didn’t take the threat of high crime to get us together.

You know, Nan, I’ve been thinking of retiring the detective side of my life, Alex said, not for the first time.

I’ll believe that when the earth goes flat, she scoffed.

Seriously, with the family business concerns, and the charities I’m involved in, I am as busy as I want to be.

Nan gave him a skeptical side glance. You can’t help yourself.

Alex grinned. But we do have great times together, don’t we?

We do! she agreed.

He pulled away from the parking lot, dazzling yet another group of onlookers with the Lamborghini. A few blocks later, people on the back deck at the Finger Lakes House craned their necks to see the celebrated couple arrive.

We’ll just have to see what happens next, Nancy Lou.

I wouldn’t miss it, she purred.

2

C HILDREN WHO ARE a little slow to catch fire and flourish in their lives are sometimes relegated to an education provided by government or private schools that specialize in giving them the jump start they need in their young adult years. Their ages are usually between sixteen and twenty, and those who instruct them at any number of employment locations are called job coaches.

A few of these schools are known throughout the Elmira, New York community. The youngsters are well-liked and somewhat in demand for any discipline they can perform. One might be an office helper, another might be employed on a custodial staff and others may help out in a kitchen. Sometimes they are paid, sometimes not.

After they are delivered to their daily work site, and regardless of where they are assigned, the job coaches are sent to advise and monitor them. The whole concept works well for the children, and for the parents who pay good money for the completion of their child.

Elmira’s Rayburn School is considered one of the best in the area. The institution, begun years ago by Alex’s family, had contracts all over the area, from Van Etten, east of the city, to Big Flats on the west. When it came to on-the-job training, the school seldom turned down a promising venture with an employer, even if one particular job site is less glamorous than some – one being the correction officers’ cafeteria at the prison. The kids are cheap help for the prison, and every precaution is taken to keep them safe in their surroundings. According to their schedules, corrections officers come and go all day for meals, and consider their cafeteria a good place for a little relaxation. They discuss things, gossip and chat with the kids as a parent might do, and sometimes allow a model prisoner to have lunch with them. The kids handle every duty with a cheerful attitude, even cleanup, before they go home for the day.

In this upstate New York town, the month of October was concluding with a bit of rain. Rob Ingalls, a Rayburn coach, had just finished sitting with one of the corrections officers, Leon Johnson. Leon had been with the prison system exactly five days and had been assigned to escort the youngsters through the back gate after their work hours. He would walk them out through the south gate under the watchful eye of guards high in the observation tower, who would click the gates open at the appropriate moment. The kids would then proceed through the gate to a bus waiting to take them back to their base of operations on the city’s east side. Evenings when his shift was over, Leon would usually walk off toward his car for his trip home. It was a great first job for a new CO and Leon was happy to interact with the young workers. After he left the kids outside the gate, the guards in the tower would then re-activate the gate apparatus, and it would close, again sealing the prison securely. Rob continued his discussion with Leon.

Working is good for these kids. he said.

Leon agreed. Some of them really prefer food service, and they always have a smile for us guards.

Yeah, Rob replied. It’s good to see a smile in this dreary place. I’ve been job coach out here for several months now. I really like the job. It beats being in the office and dodging more politics than any and all concerned parties can dish out! The paperwork drives me crazy.

I can imagine, Johnson said, continuing to chomp his lunch.

But this afternoon would have an unexpected twist. As the kids were leaving later with their job coach and their assigned escort, Rob noticed the fact that their escort wasn’t Leon. He gave it little attention during the trek through the gate, and piled into the bus with the exhausted kids. Something nagged at him, but he figured the prison officials usually know what they are doing. They carefully dispatch the proper personnel into the various assigned tasks.

Today, after clearing the gate, the escort waved goodbye to the kids and headed for the parking area near the lot’s periphery. But instead of going to one of the cars, he walked down the hill through the grass. Rob watched and thought; maybe Leon’s replacement lives in the immediate area and was just walking home. He didn’t notice this CO’s name tag.

The bus turned around in the lot and proceeded out the short driveway to Bancroft Road below. As the bus turned for its journey into the city, Rob noticed the replacement guard cross the road into a grassy area near the cemetery fencing and increase the speed of his gait. All seemed well, except for that little devil in the