Basil and Bootsy
March went out like a lamb and April came in like Atilla the Hun.
The one-year anniversary of Kyle’s death was in the vanguard, with a celebration of life memorial service and the unveiling of his gravestone.
Liko was consumed with logistics, planning and anxiety.
His parents flying in for a week meant airport runs and lodging.
Sticky phone calls with Janelle about the catering and music.
Making sure their mothers were kept at a distance.
Betty Greenman and Susan Dalusio had never liked each other in the best of circumstances and Kyle’s passing had not improved relations.
“What happened there?” Dane asked. He’d called when Liko was running a multitude of errands.
“I was scrutinized pretty bad when Kyle died,” Liko said.
“Until the autopsy results came back. He was at my place. I saw him last. And I was asleep when…” He let the sentence trail off as he loaded the last grocery bag and slammed the trunk.
“So for a few especially unpleasant days, I was a suspect.”
“Oh Jesus, I’m so sorry.”
“Even after they determined it was an aneurysm, Susan never let it go. Never stopped holding it over my head. It’s the reason she and Mum can’t be in the same room unsupervised.”
“Yikes,” Dane said. “I’m really sorry, man.”
“Thanks. This is just rough.”
“Hang in there. Reach out any time, all right?”
Between the stress of planning and the stress of psyching himself up to get through the day, Liko hadn’t the wherewithal to be present and mindful and take it all in.
Lying in bed that night, he found he could barely remember the ceremony.
All the beautiful tributes from friends and family had blended into one giant accolade.
All the hugs into one embrace. All the tears into an ocean.
Only a handful of crystallized memories had imprinted in Liko’s mind, among them a text Dane sent at 4:30 in the morning:
Today’s gonna be hard. You don’t have to do it perfectly. You just have to do it. And you can. You got this.
The text was followed by a picture of the Green Man on the stone pillar. Then one more message: This dude will be with you, too.
When the Greenmans flew back to the UK, Liko went with them, into the bosom of the motherland.
He did little but sleep and sit around the kitchen table with his parents, eating and talking, laughing and crying, consuming innumerable cups of tea until the sun went over the yardarm and then they poured a drink and talked some more.
Four days passed before Liko thought to ask, “Mum, you know what Tinner’s Hares are, yeah? ”
Betty Greenman, Exeter born and bred, looked over her shoulder from the stove. “Of course,” she said, as if he were witless. “Why do you ask?”
Liko got his laptop and started Three Hares.
“There’s a whole game about them?” Betty said.
“With quite a cult following. Kyle loved it.”
“My nan had a set of plates with these hares,” she said. “I saw it all the time on tea towels and things.”
“They’re in China, too?” Basil Greenman said, peering both through and over his glasses.
“The earliest depictions of the motif are in China,” Liko said. “It moved west along the Old Silk road.”
He fast-forwarded to where the player arrived in Devon, at that great cluster of churches in the southwest of England where the Tinner’s Hares were found.
“Broadclyst,” Betty said, pointing. “That’s my village. Look, St. John the Baptist. My primary school was across the street.”
She clicked to go into the church and was soon busy with the hidden objects puzzle.
Basil, ever ignorant that he had a world of information in his pocket, got a travel map and spread it on the kitchen table.
With a red pen, he circled other locations in the game.
Liko sat close by, chin on a fist, occasionally leaning an ear on his old man’s shoulder.
“Bootsy,” Basil said, “remember the Jack in the Green Inn, out the London Road toward Cobden?”
“Of course.”
“Jack in the Green,” Basil said. “It’s another name for the Green Man. The leafy face was on the sign out front. Anyway, why don’t we take a little trip this weekend?”
They found a bed and breakfast and made a day of driving around Devon’s country roads, stopping at four of the churches. St. Michael’s in Spreyton. St. Mary the Virgin in Cheriton Bishop. St. Cyriac and St. Julitta in Newton St. Cyres. Then back to St. John the Baptist in Broadclyst.
Playing a bit of the game in real life, Liko texted Dane, with pictures.
Dane replied: Activate face recognition, please.
Liko took a selfie and sent it, along with a shot of his parents he’d taken earlier. The trees under which my apple lies. AKA, the folks tucking into lunch.
What are their names? Dane asked.
Dad is Basil. Rhymes with razzle-dazzle. Mum is Elizabeth and most people call her Betty, but Dad calls her Bootsy.
Shut up. Your parents are Basil and Bootsy?
It’s what Brits call “twee.”
What do they call you?
Which seemed a strange question. He answered: Liko?
LOL. I mean like darling or love or shmoopykins.
Mum calls me “ducks” sometimes. Dad’s not an endearment kind of guy.
Gotcha.
You can call me shmoopykins.
Bet you say that to all the Great Danes.
“And who are you flirting with,” Basil said, sliding into the pew next to Liko.
“No one,” Liko said, feeling instantly thirteen.
“A man only smiles like that when he’s snogging on his phone. Out with it, mate.”
“Just someone I met. They’re into the Three Hares game too.”
“Oh they are?” Basil said, leaning on the pronoun.
Liko smiled, shaking his head. “He is into the game, too.”
“And into you?”
“Possibly.”
Basil patted him. “Well, that’s something.”
“He’s cool,” Liko said, “but I don’t know if I’m great company right now.”
“Bollocks.”
Betty materialized out of nowhere and swatted the back of Basil’s head. “I’ll remind you we’re in church. Move over. Now what’s this boll— nonsense about not being good company?”
“Our Liko’s smoldering with some bloke.”
“And suddenly I’m regretting this little jaunt,” Liko mumbled.
Betty looped her arm through his and gave it a squeeze. “Who is he? Tell Mums.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Use short words,” Basil said.
When Liko considered telling his parents about Dane, the pew of a church in Devon had never been one of the settings. But here they were. And right over their heads was a boss—an ornamental cap locking the ribs of the vaulted ceiling—carved with the Three Hares, exactly as it was in the game.
So he told them about the mystery within Three Hares and Kyle’s fascination with it.
He told them how, by an extremely weird and random set of circumstances, he’d met the former partner of the game’s creator.
Dane knew the secrets of the Green Man’s chamber, but had proposed spoon-feeding rather than gorging.
Last, Liko told about the invitation to Schoenfeld’s farm for the summer.
“Why not?” Betty said. “You always say you can work from anywhere.”
“It’s not good for you to be alone in that little house,” Basil said. “Alone with all the memories behind that bloody bathroom door. Have a change of scene. A change of company. Do it.”
“It’s one of the perks of owning your own business,” Betty said. “Isn’t it, ducks?”
“Well, I own it with two other people.”
“Two good people who will tell you the same thing your Mum and I are. Take the summer. Go to this place, Schoenfeld’s.
“Have an adventure,” Betty said. “Then see what happens.”
“I think,” Liko said, “I will.”
Gavin Cantor and Cynthia Mesa were indeed good people.
They and Liko had met in college, lost touch, and reconnected in their thirties to discover they were all working in various fields of writing.
They started CGM Creative as a freelance editing business.
Over time it morphed into developmental editing and coaching, then into ghostwriting.
Liko wrote thrillers and Gavin did mostly historical fiction, but they were small fry compared to Cynthia’s cozy mysteries.
It was an excellent little gig which allowed Liko to work from home his entire married life and be Kyle’s primary caretaker, while Janelle was the primary breadwinner at AT&T.
Liko took a month’s bereavement leave after Kyle’s death, stopping work on the latest Madeleine Kent book.
She was his biggest client and the fees from ghostwriting her series would’ve easily put Kyle through state college.
Luckily she was a decent, compassionate woman with seventeen ideas in the hopper at all times.
She had plenty to keep her busy. She sent Liko flowers with a beautiful condolence card, and a separate email telling him not to give her a thought, just come back when he was ready.
He came back, not sure of himself. He was a changed man—would it show in his writing?
He’d done six Madeleine Kents and knew how to write her.
The bigger challenge was his first new client, William Shepherd.
They met, they chatted, they brainstormed, they storyboarded, they outlined.
Liko went into the cave, then emerged to send the first five chapters.
These were critical, for they introduced Detective Conrad O’Higgins, who would anchor the entire series.
Shepherd didn’t respond for three days and Liko wondered if he’d be looking for another career. Then Shepherd emailed:
Wow, I wasn’t expecting this much emotional depth in between the action. It moves, but it feels. A thriller with soul. It’s making me plan out the rest of the series in a whole new way. Great stuff. Can’t wait to read more. Really excited about this collaboration. More. Gimme.
Shepherd released the novel with the promotional tagline A thriller with soul and it hit USA Today as a best seller.
Liko’s fee and the advance for the next three novels would almost pay off the rest of his mortgage.
He and Janelle had taken the utterly craptastic step of withdrawing the funds in Kyle’s 529.
The bank decently waived the penalty fee given the beneficiary had died.
Half went to charity, the bereaved parents split the rest.
Liko hated that money. He knew it was there, knew he wouldn’t be a fool and not use it if he needed to, and he hated it.
Given the remote nature of the business, Liko knew he didn’t have to tell Gavin and Cynthia he’d be working from New York over the summer.
But he stood them lunch and let them know.
He told his grief therapist, Brenda, of the plan.
He would keep his standing monthly appointment with her—Norwalk was only a 90-minute drive from Schoenfeld’s.
The only thing left to do was to tell Dane.