The Lover's Children

Chapter 12 - Winter Wedding #11

KLEMPNER

We return to the house to find James waiting for us. “I’ve had an interesting morning. Kirstie…” he

begins.

Michael interrupts him. “… has been burgled and everything at the mill is a mess. Ryan’s at his wit’s

end…”

“… and Kirstie was in tears at work. I’ve invited her and Ryan to stay here for a few days. To give them

a break from living in that caravan. Hope that’s okay with you?”

“Better than okay. You beat me to it. And Larry here has a few ideas about these stolen goods.” He

plucks at a lip. “I’ll go make up a room for them. Catch you later.” He strides away, humming.

“He’s walking with a spring in his step,” I comment.

“It is a wedding,” says James. “It’s supposed to be a happy occasion.”

“Looks like more than that to me.”

James leans in, speaking quietly. “In fact, you’re quite right. He and Charlotte are working on your next

grandchild.”

“Ah... And that’s something he wants? The house isn’t exactly short of babies now.”

“Yes, well, Michael always said he wanted to fill this house with children.”

“He’s off to a good start: Cara, Adam, Vicky...”

James raises brows. “I think it was implicit he'd like some of the children to be his. Out of all of us here, Original content from NôvelDrama.Org.

Michael’s the only one here who’s not a parent. That was the deal we made, he and I, when we first set

up our Triad. And that, for the sake of the children, he would be the legal father…”

“Including Cara?”

“Including Cara, yes. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, she is Cara Summerford. At least

while she’s still small.”

“And when she's older?”

“When she's old enough to understand…” He rocks his hand… “… we'll see. The important thing right

now is that she's raised, protected and loved.”

“And you? How do you feel about that?”

“I shall be Uncle James, to Cara and to any other child Charlotte produces.”

I ponder. “So what does that make me?”

He laughs. “We’ve established that, haven’t we. You’re Grandad K.”

*****

JAMES

In the kitchen, I find Klempner. The table cleared of pots and cutlery, he’s laid it out with newspaper, set

with a variety of brushes, bottles of cleaning fluid and lubricant, old rags and a roll of kitchen paper. A

desk lamp casts a bright white beam over his work area.

The man himself is wearing spectacles frames fitted with what look like jewellers loupes. Peering

through, he scrubs at some widget with a toothpick-sized wire brush. He pauses, sprays a little fluid

from a bottle onto the brush then, holding brush and widget under the light, continues his work.

I know what this means.

A rifle leans against the table, three handguns of varying types lie in a neat row on the newspaper. A

fourth is in pieces: the barrel, grip, springs, feeds and God-knows-what also laid in tidy ranks on the

paper.

On the end of the table lie…

… one… two… six… seven…

… eight knives. The smallest barely qualifies as a penknife. The largest looks designed for gutting

rhinos, and the saw-edged blade has the teeth to make short work of the job. They look to have already

received their owner's attention, every blade polished, gleaming with a wipe-over of oil.

I pull up a chair opposite him. “Larry, why do you need so many knives?

“Hello, James.” He removes the eyepiece, setting it carefully down on a clean part of the newspaper.

“My knives? It depends what I want to do at the time.”

He picks one up, seemingly at random, examining it as though he’s never seen it before. The surface

of the blade gleams with oil. The edge glints. “How many knives do you own, James? In your kitchen

for example?”

“Well, um… boning knife, several for paring… a bread knife… There’s nine in the sushi set…”

“Nine?” He raises brows. “And all you’re doing is cutting up fish.”

“No, not really. You choose the knife for the task in hand. A Deba blade for example is used for filleting

fish. A Fugubiki is a very fine blade, for cutting paper-thin slices. A Takobiki is generally used to slice

octopus or straight-cut sashimi. But it has a blunt tip for cutting harder food items and obtaining thin

slices…” Klempner’s eyes widen and, elbow on the table, he props his cheek against his fist.

It dawns on me that I’m babbling.

“Fascinating,” he says. “I’d no idea. But you made the point very well. You choose the correct tool for

the task.”

“So what’s the correct task for that one… “I rest my forefinger on the waxed-leather hilt of one, perhaps

the length of my hand... “… for example?”

Klempner picks it up, holds it as though testing the weight. “This is a throwing knife. You notice how

blade and handle both taper?” He follows the line of each with a finger-tip, illustrating… “That helps it to

spin. You might also notice that there’s not much edge to the blade. The tip is the part that needs to be

sharp.” He sniffs. “Nothing says stealth attack better than a knife spinning silently out of the dark.”

Hmmm…

I tap another one, much larger, more robust. “How about that one?”

“Survival knife. Multi-purpose. You can use it for anything from dressing game to digging a hole to

eating a meal.”

“And that?” I aim a finger at the saw-tooth monster at the end of the row.

His lips quirk. “That one isn’t for using. It’s purely for effect. I’ve never done anything more with it than

wave it in the air.”

I ponder for a moment. “You mean, it’s for scaring the bejeezus out of your target?”

“You’ve got it.” He grins. If sharks could flash their brows, it would have the same effect. “James, are

you here so we can swap professional tips?”

“No, I’m not. What’s on your mind?”

Brow furrowed, “Sorry, James?”

“Gun maintenance is your aide memoir when you have something to think about. What are you thinking

about?”

He smiles slightly. “Quite right. I was considering Kirstie and Ryan’s little conundrum.”

“Their stolen equipment?”

“Just so.”

He takes the widget he was working on as I arrived, setting it at the end of a neat row of other gizmos,

doodads and other death-dealing doohickeys. Picking out another, he holds it up against the lamplight,

examining it closely, first from one side, then the other. “I can’t help with dress-making and catering.

And I’m sure that Michael will see that their guests are comfortable. But I see no reason not to make

my own contribution to seeing that the wedding of the year goes off smoothly.”

“That’s good of you, considering you barely know them. What have you come up with?”

“Not much, so far. Except that I need more information.”

“If I can help, let me know.”

“I’ll do that.” He replaces the spectacle-loupes. “Is that everything?”

“Is that my desk lamp?”

“I’ll replace it when I’m done. Anything else?”

“Ah… I was looking for Charlotte?”

“With her mother and Beth, I believe, hatching wedding plans with Kirstie. I think you’ll find them in the

dining room.”