Keith Zenith and the Imperial Egg: Part 1

The one-story cottage sat back from the shore of Lake Herald, planted at the end of a patch of untended lawn and huddled between stands of cottonwood and scrub pine, its green clapboard siding mossy from the spring damp and in need of repair. The layout was simple. One main room with a large window facing out to the lake, behind this a kitchenette, postage-stamp bathroom and a couple of one-window bedrooms—the larger of which had been converted into an office by the addition of a worn metal desk faced by two mismatched kitchen chairs.

Keith Zenith sat reclined behind the desk, cigarette tipping at an angle from his mouth, smoke drifting slowly past his unfocused eyes and out the open window. He heard a bird call far off, but couldn't identify it. A boombox with a bent antenna was set low to the classics station and the Impressions' "People get Ready" rolled out, backed by the static hum of poor reception.

Sitting on the desktop, surrounded by newspaper clippings from the French daily, Le Beau Monde, empty fish sandwich wrappers , and an overflowing astray shaped like a kidney bean, was a ornate golden egg perched upright on a simple three-legged stand. Circles of cut topaz were inlaid in a criss-cross pattern over the entire surface and gold filaments followed in diagonal lines between the gemstones. As the afternoon sun filtered through the cottonwood leaves, it caught the egg's surface and exploded a pattern of light that danced across the walls and dappled Keith's drawn face, which carried more worry than his twenty-eight years should have allowed.

"I can't hide here forever." Keith spoke out loud, addressing the egg. "I have to get back to Milwaukee, find Claire and return you to your rightful owner. If I don't, I have have the feeling both of us are going to end up in the hands of some awfully ill mannered men. Wouldn't you agree?" The egg refused to answer, but the unidentified bird began its call again, more plaintively this time, and was soon joined by the sound of tires on crushed limestone.

Keith pressed his cigarette into the ashtray and swung around in his chair to watch a dark blue 1964 Impala Super Sport roll to a stop next to the cottage's crooked mailbox. The driver was hidden behind the windshield's glare, but it didn't matter. He knew the car—had ridden in it when it left the showroom over twenty years ago. Then it had belonged to his father, but now, since pop's stroke, his brother Karl had snaked his way into ownership.

"Two-hundred dollars, a list of all men named 'Fournier' in the greater Milwaukee area, and pop's service revolver—that's all I asked for. Think Karl could handle it?" Keith said to the egg as he pulled open the bottom desk drawer, set it lightly inside, and closed and locked it with the smallest key on his ring. As had been its custom for the last three weeks, the egg remained silent...