Because Wallace Beebs broke into a broad, sunny smile at the conclusion of that speech, Bridget and I smiled and nodded as if what he’d said was no different from the lessons in good citizenship that, while growing up, we had learned from the Muppets of Sesame Street and Mister Rogers of Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood.
Sometimes it is difficult to identify the border between mere eccentricity and craziness. As I tried to determine on which side of the line this man lived, I surveyed the impressive library. “You’re quite a philosopher. I guess that comes from being so well read.”
“Half of these volumes,” he said, “are in German, as I was on the ambassador’s staff at the American embassy in Berlin for nine years, and the other half are in íslenska, the language of Iceland, where I served three other ambassadors over eleven years.”
Bridget said, “You must be the only person in Arizona who can read íslenska.”
Collapsing back into his chair with a hearty laugh, Beebs said, “Oh, no, no, dear lady. I can’t read a word of either íslenska or German. I don’t buy books to read them. I’m too busy for that.”
I was about to ask why anyone would purchase books if not to read them, when another man entered the library. He appeared to be in his sixties, as handsome as a movie star from the days when icons of the silver screen were often supernaturally good-looking. He had a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and blue eyes as clear as those of a newborn. With a face of symmetrical perfection and nobility, with the posture and grace of a trained dancer, he stepped into the room as though arriving onstage to perform in one of Shakespeare’s histories. His smile was less extravagant but warmer than that of Mr. Beebs, and in fact he had considerable charisma.
Wallace Beebs said, “Uncle Erskine, these young people are Bill and Mary Turgenwald.”
The uncle was such a presence that I found myself starting to get out of my chair to show due respect, but he said, “No, please, don’t get up,” and quickly settled into the remaining chair, under the carved heads of Irish wolfhounds.
He did not share his nephew’s tendency toward costume, but instead was dressed in black snakeskin loafers, soft gray slacks, and a black silk shirt.
Wallace Beebs slid forward in his armchair, so that his bare knees dimpled as though they were smiling at us. He regarded his uncle as a puppy might regard its beloved master. “Mary and Bill have come in response to our sign declaring our autonomy. I don’t know what they’re seeking. So far, we’ve just been having a nice little chat.”
“Although I didn’t hear a car,” said the uncle, “you aren’t soaked from the recent storm. So if you walked out of that dismal wasteland and through a storm without getting wet, I hope perhaps you’re mystical beings on a mission of great mystery. Things have been a bit dull here lately. We need some mystery.”
Bridget said, “I’m sorry to disappoint, sir, but—”
“If I may call you Mary, please call me Erskine.”
“Of course, Erskine.”
Wallace Beebs said, “You can call me Wally.”
“Erskine, Wally,” said Bridget, “I’m sorry to tell you, we’re no more mystical than two potatoes. We parked out on the road and walked in after the rain stopped.” She hesitated. “We’re taking a chance, risking a lot, by assuming that your autonomous-zone sign means what it says.”
“It means all that and very much more,” Erskine said. “Both as a reassurance and a warning, I must tell you that we are—shall I say—‘sanctioned’ by certain county authorities who understand the symbolic nature of our protest and the necessity of our mission.”
I took that to be a fancy way of saying that they had paid off the right officials.
“You appear to be sincere young people,” Erskine continued, “too young to be federal agents of any kind. I also do not believe you would want to cheat us in any transaction. I beg your pardon for suggesting even the possibility of such a motive.” He smiled more warmly than ever. “However, if for a moment you think you’re dealing with two vulnerable old men, you’re woefully mistaken. Should you attempt to harm us in any way, you will die either where you sit or before you can leave our happy home. Sadly, others have met that very fate. Do we understand one another?”
“Perfectly,” Bridget said.
The golden-retriever armchair had been wonderfully comfortable until I realized now that Beebs had specifically directed me to it. I wondered how it had been rigged to kill me.