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 TEIWAZ PUBLISHING
a TDKM, LLC company
Carlisle, Pennsylvania, U.S.A.
Murder At The Mansion—Blackwell-McKay Mysteries, Book 1
by Kenrick D. Turlock
Published by: Teiwaz Publishing, Carlisle, Pennsylvania, USA
Teiwaz Publishing is an imprint of TDKM, LLC
Copyright © 2023 Kenrick D. Turlock
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form of by
any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any
information storage and retrieval system without written permission from the author, except
for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review. The trademarked products mentioned in
this book are the property of their respective owners and are recognized as such. Inclusion
in this book does not imply support of the book by the corporations’ standards, nor does it
imply support of the corporations by the publisher of this book. The cover uses licensed
images and are shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on
the cover are simply models.
WARNING: The contents may be offensive to some readers. It is about male/male romance
and contains sexually explicit content, which is suitable only for mature adults (ages 21+)
only who are consenting to, and accepting of, physical contact, romance, and explicitly hot
sex between two or more men. It contains graphic language and adult situations. It may
contain scenes of unprotected sex. Please do not read this book if you are offended by
content as mentioned above or if you are under the age of 21. Protected and unprotected
sex is a choice and, like with all choices, there are rewards and/or consequences. The
reference section of this book provides more information so the reader can make informed
and appropriate decisions about sexual intimacies in his/her/their own life.
Cover art by Morningstar Ashley/Designs by Morningstar
Editing by M.A. Hinkle
Printed in the United States of America
First Published October 2023
Turlock, Kenrick D. (http://kenrickdturlock.com)
Murder At The Mansion—A Blackwell-McKay Mystery, Book 1 / by Kenrick D. Turlock
Single Colton Blackwell is a successful male/male romance novelist living in Manhattan. His
seemingly perfect world is turned upside down by a family death. Rushing across country,
he’s faced with responsibilities he feels unable to deal with. He’s rescued by handsome
attorney, Rowan McKay. Their meeting is anything but planned, and the almost instant
attraction between the two men is undeniable. But how can they start a relationship when
they live on opposite coasts, in addition to the various ways Colton is being pulled in so
many directions by the circumstances he finds himself in?
* M/M Romance * Friends to Lovers * HFN *
ISBN: 978-1-893268-33-3 (Kindle version)
ISBN: 978-1-893268-34-0 (Paperback version)
Printed in the United States of America
Table of Contents
Chapter One (Five years in the past)
Chapter Two (Present-Day Manhattan)
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
CHANGE ALL LINKS TO NEW BOOK!
Thank You!
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Books by Kenrick D. Turlock
Chapter One (Five years in the past)

A lthea Carson tapped her long nails against the desk. She looked
at the clock. She hadn’t heard a word from her top client, Colton
Blackwell, all day long. She was antsy about him getting everything
together for the trip they’d planned out with military precision. It
was one of the advantages of having been in the Marines—the
experience of which continued to amaze her and her clients in
civilian life. She bit the bullet and dialed Colton’s number. The call
connected,
and she didn’t even let him say “Hello.”
“Are you packed for your trip, kiddo?” Althea inquired cautiously.
This would be Colton’s first book tour—or Jackson Gregory’s, the
pen name he chose to keep himself as far away from his well-known
father, Samuel Blackwell. He, or Jackson, would be promoting the
boxed set of male/male romance novels he’d just finished after the
fourth of the set was in print. The series was based on the lives of
four high school friends, two gay, one straight, and one…
undecided? The stories began after their ten-year high school
reunion. They were all successful in their own rights, but none of
them had much luck with love since high school. Of course, each
book gave the men “HEAs,” or “Happily Ever Afters.”
“Yes, I’m packed… I guess. Well… not quite. I can’t decide
whether…”
“Don’t make me come over there. I’ve worked my butt off for
this tour, and I’m not about to have you miss it because you can
figure out if you’re more adorable in that teal blue or charcoal gray
sweater. They both work—pack them both!”
“How did you know that I…”
“Bitch, I have eyes everywhere. Besides, I’ve missed too many
Happy Hours at our favorite bar because you couldn’t make a
goddamn wardrobe decision!”
 Althea had outdone herself in the planning of the tour. Colton
would hit all the LGBTQAI+ bookstores in seven different cities.
While he was in town, there would be a talk, some reading of the
material, a Q&A session, and a book signing. She’d even hinted that
she was working on a European tour, as he had numerous people
buying his books overseas. But his agent poopooed the idea that she
had anything finalized. Knowing Althea, he’d probably have little
time to pack before leaving on another tour.
“I’ll manage. Don’t worry. I already have my boarding pass on
my phone and…” Colton’s phone was getting another call… from
Samuel Blackman. “Hey, Althea. My dad’s calling on the other line.
Can I check in with you later?”
“Your dad? The one that never—okay, seldom—speaks to you
because you didn’t follow in his footsteps?”
“Yeah. That dad. My only dad. If he’s calling, there must be
something important. Later.”
Colton disconnected Althea and accepted his father’s call.
“Hey, Dad. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Colton… do not be curt with me. I’m not in the mood.”
“Fine. Fine. Whatever. So, who died?”
“Aunt Cheryl.”
Colton's face grew pale as he considered the situation. Ever
since Colton's mother passed away almost a decade ago, his father's
sister, Cheryl, had been an invaluable source of support. She not
only took charge of managing the estate they resided on, but also
played a crucial role in maintaining a harmonious relationship
between Colton and his father, Samuel. Colton had come out as gay
during his early years in high school, a fact that his Anglican father
did not fully embrace. Samuel made a clear distinction between
Anglicanism and Episcopalianism, a detail that his father would
swiftly correct, should anyone confuse the two. As such, being
devoted Anglicans and having a gay son was not in line with the
local Church's teachings at the time—his father held the esteemed
position of a lay deacon in the church and served on its board. The
news would not be well-received by many of the board members in
his father's corporation either.
“Dad… I’m…. forgive me. I’m so sorry. What…”
“She had what appeared to be a massive heart attack over two
days ago. Her cardiologist insisted she watch her salt intake and lose
at least thirty pounds, but… well, you know Cheryl… or did. She
loved her French fries and never met a rare steak she didn’t salt
abundantly.”
“Wow… but why did you wait so long to call? Are there
arrangements that have been made?”
“You’re the first person I called. Madisyn took the call from the
sheriff’s department less than a half an hour ago. The letter carrier
found her when he was delivering her mail this morning. He hadn’t
seen her in a couple of days. Her car was in the driveway, and when
she didn’t come to the door, he peeked through the windows and
saw Cheryl lying face down on the kitchen floor. He immediately
called 911.”
Madisyn Ford was Samuel’s personal assistant. While he still sat
on the board of the corporation Cheryl and he founded, Samuel had
turned the daily running of the corporation, Blackwell Enterprises,
over to a new CEO. His day-to-day interactions with the company
were minimal. Madisyn helped him oversee The Blackwell
Foundation, the family’s philanthropical arm. She also assisted with
his current financial ventures and whatever action the board of
Blackwell Enterprises needed him to take—as the major stockholder,
Samuel still had a position on the board of directors. Cheryl had long
since sold all of her shares in the corporation to her brother, but
lived an active life in charity work from her home in Montecito, not
far from where Samuel’s estate was located.
“Dad, what can I do?”
“Having you here would be a great help… son.” Their
relationship had been amazing before Colton came out. Afterwards?
Not so much. Strained at best, perhaps adversarial at worst.
 Colton sighed and shook his head. With the book tour beginning
in only two days, this couldn’t have come at a more inopportune
time. Althea was going to have his head after all the work she’d
done over the past month.
“Of course, Dad. I can take a flight out of LaGuardia later today.
Let me make some calls, check in with my agent, and I’ll text you
the arrival flight info.”
“Sounds like you’re busy.”
“I’m always busy, Dad. Even I’m though I’m not running a
multimillion-dollar corporation, I do work for a living.” Colton thought
a moment, then decided telling his father what he was about to be
in the middle of was better than trying to ignore it. “I’ve just finished
packing. I’m scheduled to leave on a seven-city book tour with the
last series I finished. But…”
“Colton. You don’t have to come. I’m sorry to have imposed.”
“Dad. No. I’m coming. My agent will have to make some
adjustments, but I can do this. I owe it to Aunt Cheryl, after all she
did after mom passed. The fact that you and I are even having this
conversation is evidence of how much she helped our family.”
Samuel was silent. But Colton knew his father. One didn’t
interrupt the great Samuel Blackwell when he was obviously deep in
thought. Finally, Samuel spoke.
“I… I appreciate that, son.” Colton realized his father was
weeping. When he thought about it, the tears were probably as
much for Cheryl as they were for his late wife, a loss from which
he’d never completely recovered. “I’ll let you get on with your
arrangements. Text me the information and I’ll have Willard pick you
up at the airport.”
Samuel ended the call without a “Goodbye,” which didn’t
surprise Colton in the least. It was typical of his father. He’d make a
call, get what he wanted, then go on to the next event. It didn’t
bother him that his father wasn’t chummy with him, even under the
circumstances. Besides, he had an obligatory call to make of his
own.
 “Althea… I have some bad news.”
Colton had hired a town car to pick him up at his place in
Chelsea to get to the airport. He didn’t want to deal with finding an
Uber that could take all his luggage… and there was a lot of
luggage. He took pretty much everything with him that he’d already
packed, and then some. His outfits were business casual to
clubwear, considering the crowd he was meeting with in the various
cities. But there were a few different climates as well; a selection of
light-to-heavy clothes was necessary.
His agent couldn’t have been more accommodating if she had
tried to. Colton was confident a Long Island Iced Tea would be in
order the next time they met… perhaps a couple of them. But Althea
assured him that she’d work with the bookstores and felt he could
have plenty of time in California before picking up at what was to be
the third or fourth stop. As it turned out, those cities were out west
anyway—Los Angeles and San Francisco—so he could start there
and then pick up the first two on his way back to New York.
Colton used his miles to upgrade to business class on his flight.
He wasn’t charged additional fees for his two checked bags due to
his frequent flyer status with the airline, and there was plenty of
room on board for his smaller rollaboard and his backpack, which
included his laptop. The purser on the flight greeted him and
inquired if he’d want a beverage before takeoff.
“I’d love a lemon drop martini, but you don’t have martinis. A
vodka tonic will be fine.”
The purser smiled. He was cute, about Colton’s age, but his
smile didn’t indicate he was trying to flirt.
“I can make you a martini, Mr. Blackwell. If it doesn’t suit you,
I’ll bring you the vodka tonic.”
Before Colton could say anything, the purser was off to take the
drink orders for the next row. Less than three minutes later, the
purser set down a glass… what seemed to resemble a lemon drop
martini. Colton gazed at the glass, then back at the flight attendant.
“Taste it.”
 Colton regarded the drink suspiciously. He noticed there was
sugar around the rim, and one sip indicated the guy had made it a
double.
“That’s… okay… that’s probably one of the best lemon drop
martinis I’ve had. How did you make it? Do you keep your own stash
on board?”
“Nope. Just used what we have. We have vodka, of course, and
enough fresh lemon slices to add to the drink. I put two minis in a
cup full of ice to chill. While that’s happening, I take the glass you’re
drinking right now and rub sugar on the rim. Then I swirl a half
bottle of the small champagne bottles we carry, throw that out, add
just a touch of OJ. Finally, I strain the ice out by pouring the vodka
into the glass, add two squeezed lemon slices, and put a third one
on the rim. The champagne and OJ is a quick trick to take the place
of Cointreau or triple sec and the simple syrup.”
Colton took another sip. “Can I request you on my next flight?”
“I hardly think so. You appeared stressed, and I wanted to help.
Flag me down if you need me to keep those coming.”
The purser smiled again, delivered the rest of the cocktails, and
then returned to the galley to finish making his final announcements.
After takeoff, another double lemon drop martini and hot, mixed
nuts were set before him by another flight attendant assisting in the
cabin. Colton had the barbecued ribeye for dinner, which ranked
higher in quality than many restaurants he’d frequented in the past,
and switched to a glass—just one glass—of red wine. As the tray
was cleared away and his coffee brought to him, he got out his
laptop. He stared at the screen, hoping to get at least some
thoughts into a document to work out a few plotlines on the next
book he had in mind. The next thing he knew, the purser was
making the landing announcements.
So much for getting any work done. I guess I was more tired
than I thought.
As he deplaned, he held out his hand to the purser, thanked him
again for the martinis and service, and smiled as he let go of the
man’s hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the look on the
purser’s face when he realized Colton had put a tip in his hand for
him. The guy’s eyes widened—it was a $50 bill—and he started to
protest, but Colton just smiled, shook his head, said, “Thanks,
again,” and walked up the jet bridge to catch his connecting flight to
Santa Barbara.
Just before takeoff, Colton texted his father with his flight
number and arrival information. He didn’t expect a response from
him, so the lack of acknowledgment wasn’t a disappointment. True
to form, as soon as he deplaned in Santa Barbara and headed
toward baggage claim, he saw the family’s chauffeur, Willard,
walking toward him.
“Master Blackwell. I’m so sorry for your loss. Do you have any
other bags?”
“Thanks, Willard. And please, call me Colton? Even though
you’ve been our chauffeur since before I was born, Master Blackwell
is kinda dated and no longer fits me, doncha think? And yes, I have
two more bags. I see them on the carousal.”
“Colton would be out of character from my years in your family’s
service… but I’ll try. In the meantime, at least accept a few Mister
Blackwells? I’ll get your bag, sir.”
They walked to the limousine, with Willard taking both the bags.
He wanted to take the backpack as well, but Colton refused. He had
to fight Willard to let him take the rollaboard, but he finally relented.
Less than a half hour later, they were pulling up to the front of the
mansion on the estate. Uncharacteristically, his father opened the
door as they arrived. He also walked up to the car, stepping in front
of Willard, who was trying to do his job. But Samuel only shook his
head and opened the limousine door for Colton. Willard gave them
their privacy. He got the bags out of the trunk, took them inside, and
up to the room the staff had prepared for Colton’s stay.
Colton noted Samuel’s eyes were bloodshot. He’d been crying,
and his breath indicated a “few” drinks that afternoon. Before he
was completely out of the car, he found father’s arms around him.
Neither of the men spoke. Samuel’s arms tightened around Colton.
As he hugged his father, he felt him tremble.
“Thank you for coming, Colton. Thank you so much.”
Madisyn stopped by the next morning to check on Samuel and
joined the two men for breakfast. The personal assistant had come
into his father’s life a short time after he’d left home. With the still-
strained relationship between father and son, Colton hadn’t spent
much time with Madisyn.
Madisyn Ford appeared to be the picture-perfect assistant. After
checking in to see how Samuel was holding up, and how Colton’s
trip out was, she launched into a litany of questions about the
arrangements for the funeral.
“Are you having a minister, or anyone in particular, to conduct
the funeral?” she inquired.
“Cheryl wasn’t religious, so having one of the priests from the
parish preside seems inappropriate,” Samuel explained. “If it had
been up to her, there wouldn’t be any funeral, but she’d have had us
throw one helluva party.”
“That would be Aunt Cheryl, Dad. Maybe you could think of this
as more of a celebration of her life? The funeral director could say a
few words—I’ve attended services where they’ve done that—and
then he could ask people to share thoughts or an experience they
had of her.”
“We are her only family, son. She never married, so that might
be the best idea.”
“True, but I’m sure there are plenty of people who also
volunteered at the charities she served, not to speak of the tons of
people who were helped by her work. If we put out the word to the
organizations, I’m sure they would be willing to share the
information.” His father nodded.
“I agreed,” Madisyn added. “I become acquainted with Cheryl
over the years. I think she’d approve.”
“Let’s settle on that then. Madisyn, would you call the funeral
home and arrange that for us? I already set the time for Thursday at
2:00 p.m.”
“Of course,” she agreed. Madisyn reached for another bagel and
turned to Colton. “So how is your writing career coming, or should I
say Jackson Gregory’s career? I was anxious to see that you’d
finished this last series.”
Colton stopped eating and stared at her. “You read my book?
Why?”
“No, I didn’t read a book. I’ve read all four of them. I’m sure
you’re aware that most of your readers are women over forty, right?
I’ve never figured that out, frankly, but then that’s also the
demographic of most of the male/male romance authors as well.”
“I did know that—both facts, by the way—but I’m surprised you
do. My agent, Althea, is convinced that women are far more
interested in romance than men are, at least straight guys. Not only
do the stories have a romantic theme, but the additional attraction
for women—and for my gay or bi male readers—is that the male
characters are, or become, vulnerable. Most women crave to have
an inside view of what goes on inside their boyfriend’s or husband’s
head.”
“That was the appeal to me, even though caring about what a
man thinks about me is of no importance. Do I care about what my
girlfriend thinks? Oh, hell yeah.”
Colton raised his eyebrows at Madisyn’s last comment. She
missed the question on Colton’s face, as she was spreading some of
the blueberry jam on her bagel. His face inquired slyly of his father.
“Yes, Colton. I knew Madisyn was—is—a lesbian.”
“That came out in my interview years ago,” continued Madisyn.
“I think the board and Cheryl felt that I was less likely to try to worm
my way into your father’s fortune after your mother passed. But
getting back to your books, Colton, they are exactly what I love to
read as far as romance is concerned. It’s funny. I suppose years ago,
gay or bi men probably read those Harlequin novels, dreaming about
the man they wanted to sweep them away.”
 “Gay guys—me included—vacillate between wanting to be both
the damsel in distress and the knight in shining armor.”
Samuel choked on his juice at his son’s comment.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but I suppose you’re right. You
don’t have to choose a particular role, though, frankly, neither does
anyone else either these days. What I very much appreciate about
your novels is that you don’t dive right into the sex or lovemaking
scene on page two. I was appalled by the first novel I read—not
yours, of course, and I won’t say whose it was—but it was more of a
series of sex scenes tied together with a loose—and lame—story.”
“Thank you for that. But I’ve written my fair share of erotic
scenes…”
“Oh, I’m well aware.”
“Okay… but what I was going to say—it’s my intention to focus
on the romance. The sex can’t usually happen right away.”
“You’ve done an excellent job of that, Colton,” Samuel
remarked, much to Colton’s surprise.
“Wait… you’ve read one my books?”
What’s up with my dad? First, he’s had a lesbian as his personal
assistant for years, which was news to me; and second, he’s been
reading my work?
“To quote Madisyn, ‘No, I didn’t read a book. I’ve read all four of
them.’” Samuel reached casually for the carafe of orange juice and
poured himself some, then raised his eyebrows in the direction of
Colton and Madisyn, as if to ask if they wanted some, too.
“I’m fine. Thank you, Samuel.”
“I’m not fine,” Colton announced. “I’m… I’m blown away! I
thought you still didn’t approve of me—my career or my gender as a
gay man.”
Samuel shrugged. “Love is love. We haven’t talked in long while
—too long, I’m sorry to say—and I hate the reason that you’re out
here, I mean, for Cheryl’s funeral. But I’m glad this conversation
came up. I’m proud of you, son. You’ve chosen a path that I
wouldn’t have thought was your best course of action. Yet you’ve
proven repeatedly how excellent you are at what you do. And,
thanks to my daily interactions with Madisyn, I’m no longer going to
let the church try to dictate who you can love. I don’t understand
how you could feel about another man the way I felt for your
mother. But that doesn’t mean you can’t, and I hope you’ll someday
find that with your equal… someone to help you create a life the way
your mother and I did. Our relationship stood the test of time
because of how we consistently interacted with one another.”
“How’s that?” Colton questioned.
“We upheld each other’s strengths and lovingly compensated for
the other person’s deficiencies. Wait… that’s not the correct word.
Your mother was never deficient in anything, but she did have her
weaknesses. She tended to believe people’s words and not see that
their actions didn’t correspond. We disagreed on that issue many
times. On the other hand, she’d call me to task when I was too
pragmatic about buying or selling one of our companies… or what
flowers to plant around the house.”
Samuel stopped, seeming to go into a memory he held dear.
Colton gave him a moment, then continued with the conversation
when he seemed complete.
“Thanks, Dad. I’ve never sought your approval, but having it—
especially for this—means a great deal to me.”
Samuel smiled and patted his son’s hand. “Now. Tell us
everything about this book tour you’re about to begin.”
Colton reviewed the various cities, the amount of work Althea
had put into the trip, and how expertly she’d handled the last-minute
changes without flinching. Madisyn asked what the closest local stop
would be and promised she’d attend. His dad also beamed in
agreement.
Cheryl funeral was the celebration of life that Colton had
suggested for her. Not only was the funeral director amicable to
taking the lead, but those in attendance practically lined up to speak
on Cheryl’s behalf. Those who could make it were invited back to the
estate for a light supper, where more stories about Cheryl were
shared with one another.
When Colton left the Santa Barbara airport, his father came
along. They chatted amicably for the entire trip. Samuel repeatedly
reminded Colton how much it meant to him that they were on better
terms. When he got out of the car, his dad not only hugged him
warmly—he planted a kiss on his son’s cheek.
“I love you, Colton. Never forget that.”
Chapter Two (Present-Day Manhattan)

C olton sat his cup of hot tea on a coaster at his desk. With a sigh,
he opened his laptop. His cat, Hadassah, took that opportunity to
jump up on the desk. She faced him, licking her right paw, then
settled down into a crouch, glaring at him.
“What? Are you going to follow suit with Althea and bitch at me,
too?”
Colton shook his head, remembering the disappointing luncheon
he’d had earlier in the day with his literary agent, Althea. He’d hoped
she’d have news about his last book being picked up by one of the
studios. She’d been trying for months to have an R-rated version of
one of his successful male/male romance novels made into a feature
movie. He was in for disappointment.
“So… what have you heard from the studios?” he asked over
cocktails.
“Yeah… about that. I’ve heard from more than one of the execs
that your books are too similar to so many others.”
“Huh?”
“Colton… you were wildly successful and beyond prolific with
your new take on two men falling in lust and then love—though,
frankly, I’d just assume you get to the sexy stuff sooner.”
“My characters are not going to have crazy sex only a page or
two after they meet. It doesn’t happen that way… at least not in my
experience.”
“I thought you were dating?”
“No. Didn’t work out.”
“How are you able to write all these romantic situations and not
allow some of it to rub off in your bedroom?”
“Maybe I need someone to write my story.”
Althea took a long sip from her Long Island Iced Tea—okay, so
she gulped down half the glass, but damn if she didn’t appear
spectacular doing it. “The truth is… you got in at the end of the
beginning of this genre. You can only change so many occupations,
use cross-generationally diverse men, and combine every race on
the planet until people feel like they’ve paid for yet another title on
the same old story.”
“You’re saying I’m washed up?”
“I’m saying you need to move into a different angle, a less
common point of view. That might perk up the studios’ interest.”
“I already have other ideas in the genre I’m used to writing
about. You want me to stop writing until I figure out what next
year’s hot topic will be?”
Althea tapped her long nails on the table while she screwed her
face up. She had the habit of doing that whenever she was deep in
thought.
“Didn’t you study ancient cultures or something?”
“Really? You rewrote my bio! You’re aware I have a master’s
degree in biblical history, which includes most of the civilizations
mentioned throughout the Bible. My thesis was on ancient Babylon,
Sumer, and Akkad.”
“You don’t say? Okay, I knew that, but since you brought it up,”
she added sweetly, “why don’t you write a male/male romance novel
set in one of those civilizations? Oh! And make it a mystery novel!”
“Are you out of your fucking head? How the heck am I
supposed to do that? I grew up on Agatha Christie. I honestly
believe my ability to figure out the plot before the end of most
mystery movies is due to her. Even now I marvel at how K.C. Wells
or Josh Lanyon creates their male/male romance mysteries, but I
couldn’t do that. I’ve gone back and read more than one of their
books twice just to make sure I could find all the clues.”
“Is that my favorite affirmation-reciting, positive-thinker client
speaking?”
“You’re not going to guilt me to get me to do this.” Althea
looked down at her drink, then up at Colton. The pouty face was
over the top, even for her. “Oh, for Chrissake, Althea.” Colton
downed the rest of his lemon drop martini. “You’re serious about
this, aren’t you?”
She dropped the mopey face immediately, replacing it with a
glamour-shot smile. “Just give it a shot, honey. That’s all I’m asking.
Take a month or two… or three… to ferret out an idea or two. Then
let’s meet again and see what you’ve come up with.”
Colton shook his head. They finished lunch, then went their
separate ways. The problem was not coming up with an idea for a
story. The fact was he’d been trying for quite a while to use at least
some of his graduate studies in his current career. The issue was
where would it be set? What culture made the most sense to include
a male/male romance? And how could he come up with a mystery to
solve at the same time?
Colton picked up his teacup, discovering it had gone cold while
he was grousing about the whole process. He took the teacup into
the kitchen and sat there watching the microwave’s timer work from
a minute back to zero. His mind was comparing cultures, thinking
about mysterious rituals, religious sects, and… then it hit him. Colton
opened the microwave, grabbed the teacup, and ran back to his
desk.
He woke Hadassah, who was unamused. She hissed at him as
she jumped off the desk in search of a comfier chair.
I always tell new writers they’ll never have a book if they don’t
start writing. Guess this is as good a time as any. Okay… Babylonian
Empire? Sumerian Empire? Akkadian Empire? While all different
cultures, they were basically all Chaldean and shared numerous
deities.
Using his vast expertise in the subjects, Colton put several
seemingly unassociated terms into his search engine. He found a
few interesting entries, then paused as he saw the one at the
bottom of the screen.
Of course… Babylon. Hmmm… maybe a modern-day West Side
Story with two guys from different magickal orders? Maybe I can
come through for Althea after all.
 A smile grew across his face. He opened a new file and began
writing.

Dagan had his hands full. The basket he was carrying back to his mother with all she’d
asked him to buy was nearly overflowing. He had planned on spending the morning in the
Hanging Gardens—he had special permission from the King to enjoy the garden if the royals
were not enjoying themselves there—but his mother’s shopping list took precedence.
King Nabû-kudurri-uṣur’s[1] head gardener, Enmeduranki, had taken a liking to Dagan’s
father, Tammuz. His father had been complimented on many occasions by Enmeduranki
regarding his care for one of the jewels of the city.
Tammuz often told the story of how he nearly ran right into the King one summer,
stopping just short of a mistake that could have normally meant his life. His Majesty had
remarked the day before how one section of the gardens was particularly abundant, which
was saying a lot considering the entire area was pristine. What Dagan’s father didn’t realize
was Enmeduranki had informed the King that it was Tammuz who was primarily
responsible. The King was so impressed that he wanted to meet the servant personally.
Instead of scolding Tammuz about the near collision—or calling upon the guards
accompanying him—the King only smiled. He complimented Tammuz abundantly and
inquired more about his training and techniques.
When the King found out he had a family, Nabû-kudurri-uṣur invited anyone from
Tammuz’s family to visit the Hanging Gardens as his guests. Thus, Dagan enjoyed a part of
the city usually occupied by the royals or their esteemed guests, as kings and queens from
all over Chaldea and beyond wanted to see the legendary Hanging Gardens for themselves.
With his full basket, Dagan’s mind was not on navigating his way through the crowded
marketplace. The fact his attention was on where he wanted to be, not where he was,
didn’t help his situation. In his haste, he ran into another man, causing the man to drop the
ceramic dish he was carrying. The dish was in more pieces than anyone could count.
“Idiot!” The man was livid and reached out to strangle Dagan. “That was a present for
my wife, and now it is ruined, thanks to you!
Just before Dagan could grab the basket and run, a young man in scarlet robes stood
between Dagan and the angry man.
“Out of my way, Anu! This does not concern you, witch.”
“Oh, I believe it does, Kingu,” replied the man who’d just been called Anu… and a witch.
“Even you,” he emphasized, with disgust, “are aware the Scarlet Order—my Order—is under
the protection of the King, and we have been charged with keeping the peace among the
marketplaces.”
“Bah… But what of my present? What shall I…”
The bully stopped short. Anu had placed his left hand on the man’s chest, preventing
him from moving toward Dagan. He removed some sort of powder from his pocket with his
free hand and threw it toward the broken dish. When the cloud of purple dust cleared, the
dish appeared undamaged.
“Might you be referring to this dish, Kingu?” While still holding the man from attacking
Dagan, he held out his hand as the dish glided toward him. Anu handed it to the man,
smiled, but didn’t release his grip.
“I…” instead of Kingu being grateful to Anu, he grabbed it from him and scolded Dagan.
“You have not heard the last of this, boy!” When Anu released him, he turned and huffed
away.
Anu smiled down at Dagan. “Would a hand up be helpful?” He offered Dagan his hand.
Dagan gladly accepted it. Anu was one of the most beautiful men he’d ever seen. He
was cleanshaven, as all the mages of the Scarlet Order were required to be. His blood-red
robes were without one speck of dirt, a sharp contrast to Dagan’s old sackcloth tunic.
He probably uses magick to keep himself looking magnificent all the time. I’ll bet he
even uses his magick to get rid of his beard.
“Thank you, sir. But your intervention was unnecessary.”
“I believe it was … uh… Dagan, it is not? He was quite a large man, which sounds a bit
better than describing him as what he is: a smelly, slightly drunk ruffian.”
“Well, perhaps, sir. Anyway, I must see what I can salvage of all these purchases before
I can return home to my…”
Dagan turned with the intention to begin picking up what he could find of the items.
Instead of the chaotic condition he’d expected, he found all he’d purchased already neatly
lined up in the basket.
“How did that happen? And… wait… how do you know my name?”
“Honestly, Dagan. Who and what I am come as no surprise to you, of all people. That
should suffice to answer both your questions. And please, refrain from addressing me as
‘sir.’ It makes me feel like someone is speaking to my father.”
Dagan smiled tentatively. “As you wish… Anu, which is what that man, Kingu, called you.
While it was unnecessary for you to assist me, I do appreciate your efforts. I must now be
on my way…” Dagan stopped, returning his attention to the basket. It was then that he
noticed a few items his mother hadn’t asked him to buy. “Wait… the garlic, leeks, and
peas… those are not something my...”
“Your mother thought about dinner after you left. Damkina will appreciate it. Goodbye,
Dagan. We shall meet again… soon.”
Anu turned to walk back the way Dagan had just come from.
“Wait!” Dagan called out, ignoring that not only did Anu know his name, but his mother’s
as well. “How can you be so sure of that?”
Anu stopped momentarily and turned his head back toward Dagan, though he did not
make eye contact. “Because it is what I desire… as you will, too, if you have not already
come to that conclusion.”
Dagan shook his head, glancing at the basket again. “I sincerely doubt…” He stopped
mid-sentence as he raised his head. Anu was nowhere to be seen. He shook his head, then
headed home.
I may recognize who you are, Anu. But you have no idea how unlikely or ill-advised that
meeting would be, considering who and what my family and I are.
The Scarlet Order was infamous and, as Anu had accurately stated, existed at the
pleasure of the king. They were not, however, the only magickal group in the realm, just
the only one recognized and sanctioned by the King. It wasn’t common information that
Dagan referred to. No. He had firsthand intelligence on many of the groups and particularly
the Order of Tiamat.
His father, Tammuz, wasn’t a mere experienced gardener with a green thumb. He was a
mage in the Order of Tiamat, named after the primordial creator Goddess. The sect focused
on plant life and worshiped Tiamat. Damkina, Dagan’s mother, was the priestess of the
Order. Her lineage in their sect could be followed back to one of the ummânū[2], Esagil-kin-
apli of Borsippa[3]. It was Esagil-kin-apli who wrote the sacred Diagnostic Handbook used
by the Order. In it were found the texts containing a list of medical symptoms and detailed
empirical observations. It spelled out the logical rules used in combining observed
symptoms on the body of a patient, along with its diagnoses and prognoses.
Additionally, their magick was why Tammuz’s area of the Hanging Gardens was
dramatically more beautiful than any other. It wasn’t just the magick he used to make the
plants grow, or the perfect balance of bees and other insects that pollinated the abundant
flowers. He also used his magick to shield that area from any harm to the king and his
family. But he was extremely careful never to divulge that information to anyone,
particularly the king.
The Order of Tiamat was an unauthorized group of mages, operating outside the bounds
of official recognition. Tammuz fully understood that if their existence became widely
known, it would bring about numerous troubles for both his family and the Order. Such
revelations would undoubtedly pose significant challenges for Dagan as well. Like Tammuz,
Dagan possessed magical abilities, which were also shared by his mother, Damkina, and his
siblings. It was a common misconception among the unenlightened, such as the intoxicated
individual in the marketplace, to associate mages solely with men. By referring to Anu as a
witch, the drunkard attempted to undermine Anu's masculinity. This was an ill-advised
action, considering the immense power and unchallenged diplomatic immunity enjoyed by
the mages of the esteemed Scarlet Order.
Considering the animosity between the Scarlet Order and the Order of Tiamat, Anu’s
actions toward Dagan were far from the norm. The two Orders despised one another. Just
the opposite of Dagan’s Order, Anu’s group worship Marduk[4]. Besides the magick Anu
used, his Order applied astronomy and astrology to assist the King in making decisions. The
Scarlet Order was jealous of the knowledge and magick of the Order of Tiamat. Mages of
the Scarlet Order could accurately predict the future for the king, but were helpless in
matters of physical ailments or disease. When they needed help in those areas, it was
Dagan’s Order whose counsel they sought—though their conversations were more of a
demanding nature—and then they took the credit for the healing.
There was something else about Anu that did make sense to Dagan. Instead of putting
the drunk in his place or dispatching him, he calmed the situation. He mended the dish for
Kingu and made Dagan better off than he found him. Then there was the personal
attention Anu showed Dagan. If he didn’t know better, he’d have thought the handsome
man—no, he wasn’t just handsome; he was beautiful—was interested in him. Most
interested. That appeal, if one could call it that, was reciprocal. If Anu wasn’t who and what
he was, becoming friends—or more preferably—would have suited Dagan just fine.

Colton Blackwell stared at his laptop for at least a few minutes

before his cat jumped up on him. It took his mind off the problem
that he had too many thoughts about the novel he was writing and
couldn’t figure out where to go next with the story.
 “Hadassah!” he screamed at her as he picked her up by the
scruff of her neck and tossed her back onto the couch. “That was
my cock you were trying to make bread with, dude!”
The cat hissed at him, turned her back to him, and curled up
under the pillows. Colton was lucky he was wearing a pair of sweats.
He’d just stopped at the gym on his way home, then opened his
laptop without taking a shower. He’d already kicked off his shoes,
socks, and t-shirt, but had stopped there. He didn’t have a towel
nearby—something every diehard nudist should never be without—
so he kept his bottoms on. He’d find one later, which turned out to
be right about then, since he needed a shower.
As Colton got up, he pulled his sweats down to examine his
cock. “Hmmm… no marks. That’s a damn good thing, Missy, or you’d
be finding a new home.” Hadassah stretched, yawned, and turned
away, totally disinterested in anything Colton had to express.
Chapter Three

C olton threw together a halfway decent dinner for himself. He

paired it with a nice shiraz, then downed nearly the entire bottle. He
was pleased with the way the new novel was going, or Babylonia:
The Two Orders Romance, as he’d begun referring to it in his own
mind. He was excited to see what Dagan and Anu would decide
about what would happen next. Colton didn’t have that in mind at
the moment. At times he was crystal clear about what a character
would do next, how they would speak to others, and where they
would go. Not this time. This genre was so far out there he had no
clue what his characters would get into. When this happened, he
often found a story unfolding he’d never considered.
As he fell asleep, he entered dreams that centered around
ancient Babylon, the mystery schools, and orders that existed. He
even dreamed about Dagan and Anu making love, somewhere that
the characters were nowhere near ready to go… yet.
The next morning Colton was woken up by Hadassah jumping
up on his chest, who then purred loudly, leaving no doubt in
anyone’s mind that it was time for breakfast. As he opened his eyes,
she cocked her head to one side, as if to say, “Uh… excuse me?
Breakfast is not going to happen on its own!”
As Colton started to get out of bed his phone rang. Althea. He
paused a moment, thinking that coffee before Althea was always a
clever move. But, against his better judgment, he took the call.
“Woman… this better be important.”
“Is that any way to answer your phone? I could’ve been a
reporter or a magazine!”
“Everyone has caller ID. I have caller ID. But I also have a cat
to feed, and I need coffee. Now… why are you calling at… Jesus-tits-
Christ, Althea! It’s only 7:30!”
“Is it? Really… hmmm. I’ve been up for hours. So… how’s the
story coming?”
 “I’m going to feed the cat and have coffee, though not
necessarily in that order.” Colton disconnected the call, but not
without hearing Althea’s verbal outrage before he cut off the call.
With an obstinate cat fed and piping-hot coffee in hand, Colton
called Althea back.
“Okay. Talk to me.”
“What have you got so far?”
“Not a lot, but the ideas are percolating. Your idea is challenging
me. I’m not sure on where this will go… or if it will go anywhere…
but I’m having fun with it. Now as I recall, you told me, and I quote,
‘Take a month or two… or three… to ferret out an idea or two. Then
let’s meet again and see what you’ve come up with.’”
“Hmmm… It bugs the shit out of me that you can recall things
that accurately, just so you know… but I’m excited.”
“It pleases me to no end that my photographic memory annoys
you, so thank you for that. Now… if you want me to do this—and I’m
getting close to warming up to, and possibly enjoying, the idea—
then give me some space. I don’t work well when you’re breathing
down my neck. I mean, geez, Althea. I’m less than twenty-four
hours away from when we had lunch, and you gave me up to three
months!”
“Understood. You’re right. I’m sorry. Colton, I’m as frustrated
with this situation with the film execs in LA as you are. I believe in
you, babe. You can do this! Get back to work and let’s wow the crap
out of them, okay?”
“You got it. Chat you soon.”
Colton disconnected the call and immediately began to think
about Dagan and Anu. With half a cup of coffee in hand, he opened
his laptop and reviewed what he’d written up until then.
This isn’t half bad now that I reread it. But it needs some
direction. Okay boys, where do you want to go with this story?

Dagan entered his parent’s home and went directly into the kitchen. His mother threw
her hands up in the air.
 “You were not gone even a minute and I thought of more things that I needed!”
“Well, you are in luck, Mother. A beautiful man from the Scarlet Order must have heard
you. I have the garlic, leeks, and peas, which is what he said you were wishing you would
have thought of before I left for the marketplace.”
“You, and he, are correct. But that is inconsequential when you are talking about
someone from the Scarlet Order. What happened? And why were you even talking to him in
the first place?”
Dagan filled his mother in on why their chance encounter occurred—which he was
beginning to think wasn’t coincidental at all. He told her how Anu protected him from harm,
even though the situation was entirely Dagan’s fault. His mother narrowed her eyes at him
as he began to blush when he started into nauseating details about Anu’s actions and how
gorgeous he was.
“I can see what you are considering. Let me be perfectly clear, Dagan. You cannot see
him again. The danger is unspeakable. If he knew who you were—if he knew what we were
—it could go terribly wrong for you, Dagan, and for our family, and the Order.”
“It is not because he is a man, is it? I mean, you and Father think I will marry a woman
as my brothers are planning, right?”
“Of course not, Dagan. Gods know that your father has seen male temple prostitutes
when working on his masculine energy. I have seen the women there… oh, do not act so
surprised. I am aware you prefer male partners, but to raise your eyebrows at me when I
admit having been with women before is simply rude and quite appalling.”
“You are right, and I apologize. It is just… Mother, children have other issues with
discussing the fact their parents have sex, let alone bringing the men and women of the
temples into it. But getting back to Anu. You are mistaken about him.”
“Dagan. He is of the Scarlet Order. That says it all, Son.”
“But that is what I am attempting to explain to you, Mother. I am quite sure he is fully
aware that I am a mage, and that we are part of an unauthorized order. He knew what you
had forgotten and…” Dagan paused and lowered his voice, “… he used your name when he
spoke of you.”
“My name?”
“He called you by your name… Damkina.”
His mother sat down at the table and stared off into the distance. When she spoke,
Dagan could see how frightened she was.
 “This is not good, Dagan. Not at all. When your father comes home, I want you to
repeat all of this encounter with him, but not with your brothers and sisters nearby. I can
see the excitement in your eyes when you speak of this, Anu. For him to have these facts
and details about us, and to see how you might want to become—let us just say, better
acquainted?—it worries me. It worries me a great deal. Speak of this no more. Go up to the
Hanging Gardens as you wanted to earlier this morning. If you happen to come upon your
father, do not speak of this! Wait till he gets home and the three of us can be together. Now
go!”
Dagan didn’t have to be told twice. He ran out of the house and straight to the Hanging
Gardens. It only took about ten minutes for him to reach his destination, and he knew
exactly where he needed to go that day. Dagan was headed to his favorite tree, a large
kulbir sidhu tree called the “Alone Tree.” It sat at the far edge of the gardens around a
grove of cypresses brought in from the mountains of Phoenicia. Few people ventured that
far back in the Hanging Gardens. The Alone Tree wasn’t a highlight of the gardens, but the
monarch had a subtle reason for including it. The king wanted to impress royals and
dignitaries from that part of the world. Having a tree never seen before in Babylonia would
have been striking.
The reason Dagan gravitated toward that tree was that besides being secluded, it was
also one of the quietest areas of the Hanging Gardens. He’d spent hours there, praying to
Tiamat with minimal chance of interruption. With all that had gone on today so far, he had
plenty to turn over in his mind. He turned the last corner and stopped in his tracks. Under
the tree, sitting with his back against the trunk, sat Anu. Dagan immediately turned quietly,
with the intention of leaving without so much as a word.
“Dagan… do not run away from me. Hear me out… please?”
Dagan stopped, then realized he was resisting leaving on his own accord, and not
because of Anu’s powers. He’d seen how, without any effort, Anu had held back Kingu
earlier in the day, a man much larger than Anu. This was not what was happening. He
turned to leave because that’s what he knew his parents would have wanted. But running
away from Anu was the last thing on his mind. He desired much the opposite. Anu hadn’t
demanded he stay. His words were a question, a request. Dagan was being given a choice.
He slowly turned, noticing Anu’s back was still turned. Silently, he gradually walked toward
the other man.
“This is a horrible idea, Anu. You know fully well who and what I am. We should not be
seen together. My mother has already forbidden it.”
 “We will not be disturbed, Dagan. I have seen to that issue. No one, including Tammaz
or anyone from either of our Orders, will be coming.”
Anu still hadn’t turned. He was waiting for Dagan to make the next move, whatever that
would be. “You did not stop me from leaving. I felt the energy you used to hold Kingu
earlier. No one else but another mage could feel the immense force you employed. Yet you
did so effortlessly… and now? You made no attempt to force me to stay.”
The seated man turned toward him, with a slight smile on his face. “The reason I did not
stop you is that I have no desire to coerce you into staying. Mind you, I wish you to sit and
spend time with me. But you must make that decision, should you choose to do so. It is
your choice. I hold no power on you or magick, or what your mother sees as a perceived
threat. As to Kingu? I am sure you appreciate how effortless it is to convince the stupid. I
must admit,” Anu acknowledged sheepishly, “I did want you to see exactly how much power
I could exert, even if it was not necessary.”
That caused Dagan to grin. He found himself totally at ease and, if Anu’s assertion that
he wasn’t manipulating Dagan was true—which he could see was the truth—he was most
pleased to take a seat alongside him.
“You may not have used magick on me…”
“I have not,” Anu interrupted.
“Agreed. I believe you, but if you have put a spell around the gardens—and are so
convinced no one, including my father or the king will disturb us—you obviously used
magick on them.”
“About the only spell I could use would be to cause it to start pouring rain, making them
all scatter. Unlike you and your Order, I am powerless to affect the plants, trees, and
wildlife, only the weather, the heavens, and the stars. As for the others, I may have
suggested they were needed elsewhere.”
“’May have?’”
Anu smiled. “I told you we would meet again.”
Dagan ignored the fact Anu had completely ignored his question by changing the
conversation. “I wanted to. I mean…” he sighed. “Anu, if you were anyone else, I might be
using some of my own magick to connect with you. I can tell you are interested in me, and
I would be lying—badly, I might add—to say you don’t intrigue me.” Anu placed his hand on
the grass, near to Dagan, but allowed Dagan to decide whether to connect with him. He
didn’t. “I have spoken about you to my mother. She is deeply worried about what any
contact between us might mean to our respective Orders, let alone cultivating a friendship.”
 “It is my desire to have more than a mere friendship with you.”
Dagan positioned his hand on the grass near Anu’s, but still not touching. “That is not
only impossible, but ill-advised to say the least.” Anu turned toward him, both latching on to
the other man’s eyes for the first time that afternoon.
“It is not impossible, Dagan. You cannot be absolute about this… and neither can your
parents or the rest of your Order… or mine, for that matter. No one suspects we are
together right now, especially my own parents. Dagan… I…”
Anu moved his hand further toward Dagan, so it was only slightly away from his. There
was a longing in Anu’s eyes. Yes, there was lust, but there was an element of need, as if
there was more of a reason that Dagan had felt, at least up until that point. He moved his
hand over the top of Anu’s and gently held it. The two men began eye gazing with one
another. It wasn’t as if either of them was trying to read the other’s mind. Even taking their
individual powers into consideration, that would have been unlikely … unless one or both
chose to allow it.
What Dagan saw was a yearning that had nothing to do with romance or sex coming at
him from Anu. This was an unusual feeling for Dagan, yet one that he felt compelled to
explore. He cocked his head to one side.
“Anu… what are you not telling me?”
The eyes of the strong, beautiful man whose hand he held grew wide. “I feel…” Anu
stopped. It wasn’t that he wanted to hide this from Dagan. He was afraid.
What are you afraid to disclose to me, my brother? Dagan thought silently.
Anu’s face changed instantly. “Your brother?”
“You heard that? I’m sorry…”
“Do not be…”
“…but it just came out that way. I was not sure if we had that kind of a connection. This
is something people in my Order can do, but I have not had the proper training.”
“I am delighted you tried, Dagan. I am equally excited that it is something unknown
until now that is within my own powers. But to answer your query, what I want to say may
seem unbelievable. I am terrified you will laugh at me, even though a part of me thinks you
may understand.”
“Try me. It has already been quite a day, Anu.”
“All right. Fine.” He paused a moment. “In my meditations not long ago, less than a
month, I had an overwhelming idea that I was being used by Marduk, not as a member of
the Scarlet Order, but… but as someone more personal to him. I am aware it sounds
extraordinary, and perhaps ostentatious of me, but I felt he was asking me to take control
of a situation.”
“What sort of situation? I do not understand.”
Anu sighed. “Dagan, will you meditate with me?” The other man nodded without a
thought. “Keep holding my hand.”
Both men closed their eyes. Dagan relaxed into the oneness of spirit that he immediately
felt whenever he stepped into meditation to Tiamat. It took only a few minutes, and She
welcomed him into Her energy and presence. He felt Her hand gently caress his cheek. She
smiled sweetly, but remained silent. She turned, taking her eyes off Dagan, and he followed
her glance. There, in the middle of his meditation, stood Marduk and Anu. As they came
closer, Marduk pressed Anu closer to Dagan. Then, gently but firmly, Tiamat took his hand,
joining him with Dagan. The meditation suddenly ended, and the men found they’d
snuggled closer together. They sat there looking at one another. Finally, Dagan spoke.
“I have felt over the past few weeks that Tiamat was holding back, as if She wanted to
tell me something. I never asked, but perhaps this is what She wanted to tell me. Had
Marduk told you anything else?”
“He showed me you in my meditations, then suggested—it was hardly a mere
suggestion—but He encouraged me to seek you out. Even encouraged is not the right
word. Is there a word somewhere between a subtle hint and a divine command? Anyway,
when I found out who—and what—you were, it was as unexpected for me as was for you
at our first meeting this morning. When I asked Him to explain more about you after I
knew of your background and magick, He would only smile. Assuming you just had your
own version of the meditation I just had—or if we shared a day vision together—I am
absolutely certain there is something important for us to do together.”
“I feel the same way.” Dagan smiled at Anu, then leaned forward, giving him a chaste
kiss. “I am not afraid of you anymore…” he admitted, gently stroking Anu’s cheeks, “…or of
what our Gods wish of us together. There is one problem, though.”
“And what that might be?”
“We must tell your parents or mine… but which?”
“Your mother and your father. My parents are out of the question. It is only at the very
last resort that my Order comes to yours for assistance. This… this is something I doubt
they would assist us with for to add to our understanding. In fact, I believe they would do
anything necessary to keep us separate from one another… including killing one, or both, of
us.”
Chapter Four

T he story was coming along far better than Colton could’ve hoped
for. He found himself thinking about Dagan and Anu much the way
he thought about any modern protagonists he had been writing
about in the past. He had to hand it to Althea; as usual, she was
right. The long-term relationship had been beneficial for them both.
Her commissions were proof of the financial incentive she had to
keep him authoring stories that would sell, but it was her friendship
above all that he valued. Of course, the residual checks didn’t hurt
either.
Colton knew he needed a break from the story. There was more
he thought about the tale, but the ideas were fragmented. From
years of experience, he knew continuing would only make more
work later. There were plenty of writers that would have trudged
through, and he supposed that worked for them. With the way his
mind worked, it would only mean more editing, rewrites, and loose
ends he’d prefer not to deal with down the road.
He decided a trip to the gym was in the cards. He put on
something more than he had, which was nothing, and petted
Hadassah before he left. He was sure it was a sneer she gave him
for waking her up.
Just as he entered the gym, the first person he saw was his
most recent ex, Dan. He caught Colton’s eyes, too, and returned the
glance with a grimace before walking over to the ellipticals. At least
that meant that he was near the end of his workout, meaning
Colton’s routine for that day would keep him there long after the guy
was gone. He headed into the locker room to take off his outer
clothes and headed back onto the gym floor. As he headed toward
the weight room, he noticed his ex across the room, chatting up
people on both sides of him, arms flailing in the air, as he danced
back and forth on the machine he was on.
What a fucking ass.
 “How’s my favorite romance writer?” a familiar voice asked, just
as he was about to take over a bench at a Smith machine.
“Hey, Carlos! Doing better than I deserve. How about you?”
“Just waiting for you to give me something to do with my
evenings. I’ve read all your books twice to date. There’s nothing on
TV I want to see—despite the hundreds of channels—so you can
figure out where that leaves me.”
“One of the many Gotham gay bars?”
“Hardly. Who wants to go out when I’ve got Chaturbate?”
“I hear that.”
Carlos was a great guy, but one drink out together was proof
enough that a relationship, other than friends, was not for them.
That didn’t seem to bother either of them. Their friendship was
usually at the gym, with a couple of lunches over the past two years.
Never more than that, but it was helpful to have a friend who wasn’t
a writer. He’d also been there for Colton pre-, during, and post-Dan.
Carlos had been a successful Broadway actor and dancer for longer
than they’d known one another, successful meaning that he always
seemed to have another gig to go to after one show closed. Never a
lead, but he got some terrific supporting roles, providing more than
a decent living for him.
“I take it you saw He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as you walked
in.”
“I did and thank you for referring to him that way. I don’t think
I’ve uttered his name aloud since…”
“Don’t need to finish that sentence. You face shows you’re still
not over it.”
“Let’s not go there, shall we? Better get to work here. I need to
warm up with a couple of lighter sets, then can you spot me?”
Carlos was pleased to help Colton out. They unloaded the bench
after Colton was done: then they resumed their separate workouts.
He wanted to continue doing some chest exercises and Carlos was
onto his triceps routine. Colton was about to sit down on the
dumbbell bench to do some fly work when his phone rang.
 What’s Dad calling for? I don’t want to chat right now. I’ll call
him back.
He was just finishing up the first set of his fly exercises when
the phone rang again.
GEEZ, Dad. What could be… Wait… this is from Madisyn’s cell
phone, not the office line.
“Hey, Madisyn. Did Dad have you call, too? What’s so damn
important that he can’t wait…”
“Oh, Colton!” Madisyn was sobbing, barely able to talk. Colton
stood up.
“Madisyn, what’s going on? Are you okay? Is Dad…”
“He gone, Colton. He’s gone!”
“Gone where? Is he just not…”
“No, no… He’s dead. He was murdered!”
Time stood still for a few seconds for Colton. The dance music
playing throughout the gym, the sounds of the weights hitting the
floor or the racks. He felt that ringing in his ears that could happen
prior to one passing out. He sat back down and took a swig of his
water.
“Madisyn… I can hear frantic you are. Are you alone?” She
made a sound that sounded as if she had someone with her or
nearby, but he couldn’t be sure. “Okay, stay where you are and let
me get home. I’m at the gym, and this isn’t a conversation we can
have at the moment. I’m not taking this lightly, and I have all the
questions we can’t discuss right now. Will you be okay for a half an
hour for me to get home?”
He could hear more sobbing. “I think so,” she finally got out.
“It’s so horrible. I found… You’re right. Get home and call me.
Colton, I’m so sorry.”
The call disconnected. Colton cleaned out his locker and rushed
home. Before he called Madisyn back, he poured himself a generous
vodka tonic. Madisyn answered on the first ring.
“Colton?”
 “Yeah, Madisyn. Are you okay?”
“As much as I can be, considering the circumstances. I’m sure
I’m still in shock.”
“You sound better now than when you called earlier. What
happened?”
Madisyn started at the beginning of the day. She texted Samuel
before she headed over to the estate. That was standard procedure
to see if he wanted her to pick up anything on the way in for the
day. He didn’t respond that morning, but that wasn’t unusual. There
were a few things that were static with Samuel. First, her boss never
answered a text if a response wasn’t required, and second, he
seldom said “Goodbye” when he ended a call. It was typical for him
to remove anything from his work life—and personal life—that
categorically didn’t have to be done at that moment.
She parked her car and entered through the main door with her
key. She noticed she didn’t need to turn the key, meaning the door
was closed, but not locked. That was unusual, but it didn’t sound an
alarm. She called out to Patricia, the housekeeper, but no one
answered her. Again, not uncommon considering Patricia could have
been anywhere in the house or the property. She hung up her coat
in the hallway, then headed down to Samuel’s office.
“I entered the office, Colton, and didn’t even get his name out
of my mouth before I saw him slumped over his desk. There was…
there was blood everywhere. I froze, not knowing what to do. My
mind was running rampant with all kinds of scenarios, but I couldn’t
move. My brain finally kicked in, and I threw my briefcase and
paperwork on the couch as I ran across the room to your father. At
least I had enough sense not to touch anything, except to see if he
had a pulse. He didn’t, and I immediately called 911. I got him to
the floor and started chest compressions… you know… just in case
there was... Anyway, the sheriff and an ambulance came less than
five minutes later. The EMTs confirmed that they couldn’t do
anything, and the coroner was called to the estate.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that, Madisyn. Did Dad
have any enemies, anyone that had it out for him? Was there any
sign of a break-in, or was anything you could tell was missing?”
“Not all your father’s business dealings were all smooth sailing…
and occasionally on the questionable side of legal. He never broke
the law, but I saw him bend it once or twice. But no. No broken
glass, but the front door was unlocked. If he was alone in the house,
he would have answered the door himself, meaning that whoever
killed your father left it open. I’m still at the estate and have been
taking a visual inventory of his office. But until the sheriff releases
the room from crime scene status, there’s not going to be a
comprehensive list.”
“Of course not. I’ll get a flight out there as soon as I can. When
I have the travel information, I’ll text you.”
“I’ll pick you up from the airport myself. Willard is beside
himself. He came running into the house as soon as the sheriff and
the ambulance arrived. Colton, he’s worse off than I am.”
“He’s been our chauffer since… well, long before I was born, so
that’s well over thirty years. Listen, the Montecito sheriff’s office is
calling. I’ll call you when I have more info.”
A quick “goodbye” and Colton took the next call. Madisyn had
given the deputy his information as the next of kin. After verifying
his identity and offering their condolences, the deputy—who
identified herself as Chief Deputy Sheriff Audrey Hanson—gave him
an up-to-date account of where they were in the investigation,
though it wasn’t any more thorough than what Madisyn had shared
with him moments before. Just before the call ended, Hanson asked
him about Madisyn.
“How well are you acquainted with Ms. Ford, your late father’s
personal assistant?”
“Madisyn? I’ve spent time with her over the years, and we’re
friendly. Dad treated her as part of the family. It was she who
arranged my aunt’s funeral after she died. My father loved her the
way he would a daughter; I don’t think he thought of her as his
employee. Most of what I could tell you is from what my father
reported to me, but I’ve never thought she had any malevolent
feelings toward my father. Why do you ask?”
“Is she right-handed or left-handed?” The officer had ignored
the question.
“What? Uh… she’s… let me think. Well, we’ve had meals
together over the years, and now that I think about it, she’s right-
handed. Again, why do you ask?”
“Just part of our investigation into your father’s murder, Mr.
Blackwell. Didn’t Ms. Ford tell you he was stabbed… repeatedly?”
“No… we… we talked about other factors.”
“The coroner hasn’t finished the autopsy yet, but I believe the
wounds were throughout his back, besides the one in his neck.
Please contact us when you arrive in town. We’ll need you to come
into make a positive identification as the next of kin.”
Hansen wasn’t giving out much more information, but it was
clear they might have suspicions she wasn’t willing to discuss over
the phone. Colton got the next flight from New York’s John F.
Kennedy Airport out to Phoenix, where he would connect with a
regional carrier to Santa Barbara. He threw a variety of clothes in
two large suitcases… hangers and all. His toiletries were normally
placed neatly in his bathroom. Colton used one arm to shove
everything into a bag, then sorted them into the larger bags he
would check so that he wouldn’t have trouble getting through TSA.
On the way to the airport, he texted Madisyn his arrival info,
then contacted Althea. She was devastated for Colton, but assured
him she was available for anything he might need. The flight wasn’t
out to Arizona wasn’t smooth, but he’d been through worse
turbulence in the past. His connection was a half-hour late, but he
arrived at the new time he’d texted Madisyn. She waved him down
as he was headed toward baggage claim, true to her word that she’d
be there to pick him up. They hugged, then put the bags in the
trunk, and headed up to the estate.
“How are you holding up?” Madisyn inquired with concern.
 “I can’t believe he’s gone; it’s surreal. The fact that he’s dead is
enough to deal with on its own, but then… murdered? By whom,
and for what reason? I understand what you mentioned about some
of Dad’s deals, which doesn’t surprise me about anyone who’s been
in business for so many decades, but he wasn’t involved in the mafia
or anything dangerous or immoral.”
“No. Most of what I meant was that he usually knew when a
piece of property or a business was more valuable than the seller
realized. He felt no compassion for the seller who made that
mistake. Patricia opened your room for you. Knowing her, it means
you’ll have fresh flowers, in addition to the bedroom being freshly
cleaned. She told me she’d have Cook prepare something for us
when we got back.”
Colton nodded as Madisyn turned into the driveway and drove
up toward the mansion. There were two sheriff cars in the driveway.
“Did you tell them when I would be here?”
“No. I can’t figure out what they’re doing back here.”
Madisyn parked the car and got out, but before they could get
the bags out, one of the uniformed sheriffs came to the car.
“Are you Madisyn Ford?”
“Yes, and this is…”
“Ms. Ford,” the deputy informed her as she came toward
Madisyn with handcuffs, “you’re under arrest for the murder of
Samuel Blackwell.” She then proceeded to give her the Miranda
rights while she turned her around and cuffed her.
“Wait a minute,” Colton started, “why would you think
Madisyn…”
“Please stand back, sir. Who are you?”
“I’m her friend, and Samuel Blackwell was my father. I’m his
son, Colton Blackwell.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, sir. We spoke on the phone; I’m Chief
Deputy Sheriff Audrey Hanson. I’m taking Ms. Ford in for
processing.”
 Madisyn couldn’t speak, but her face was pleading with Colton
to do something. She shook her head, unable to add this an already
unbelievably incredible day.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get to the bottom of this, Madisyn. I’ll call
Dad’s attorney.”
As they took her away in their vehicle, Patricia came out the
front door.
“What the hell just happened, Colton?”
He took the woman in his arms. “They just arrested Madisyn for
Dad’s murder. Can you help me find the number for Dad’s attorney?”
Chapter Five

P atricia searched through her phone contacts while Colton brought

the luggage in from the car, with Willard’s assistance. The poor man
was so flustered he forgot his cardinal rule and called Colton by his
first name. By the time they got inside, Patricia found the number
and showed it to Colton on Samuel’s phone. There were two
numbers, one marked “Personal,” and he dialed that one
immediately.
“Samuel!” a cheerful voice answered. “To what do I owe…”
“This isn’t Samuel.”
There was no pause. The formerly cheerful voice took on an air
of professionalism. It was also deeper. A lot deeper.
“This is Rowan McKay. May I ask how you got this number?”
“I’m sorry, you don’t… Mr. McKay, we’ve not met, but I’m
Samuel Blackwell’s son, Colton. Are you his attorney?”
The voice on the other end of the line sounded far too young to
be the old attorney his father often spoke of. But it wasn’t that of a
kid, either. It was a deep, rich baritone voice, one that immediately
got Colton’s attention.
“I’m not, but I’m taking his calls while my father, Keefe McKay,
is out of town. I work with my father in his law firm, and I’m the
attorney in charge. What’s this about?”
“When will your father will return?”
“Mr. Blackwell, but if you’re calling this number, then there’s
probably a reason we should discuss this now and not later. Am I
correct?”
Colton hesitated. The guy didn’t sound much older than he was,
but Rowan had a point. “I’m sorry, Counselor. I’m more than
flustered right now. You’re probably not aware my father was found
murdered in his home this morning. I live in New York and just
arrived. His PA, Madisyn, just picked me up from the airport. When
we arrived, a sheriff deputy charged her with his murder and have
taken her in to book her.”
There was silence for longer than Colton would have preferred.
But when Rowan spoke? He realized how the man immediately took
charge of the situation.
“Mr. Blackwell…”
“Colton, please…”
“Colton… I’m so deeply sorry for your loss. Samuel was my
father’s most cherished and oldest client, besides being his best
friend. I’ll contact him for you as soon as we finish this call. I’m a bit
flabbergasted myself. If you’d told me he had a heart attack, I
wouldn’t have been surprised, but… murdered? That’s astonishing…
and it’s preposterous that the sheriff’s office would think Madisyn is
suspected of this. It’s more than preposterous—it’s ludicrous. She
was devoted to him.”
“I thought so as well. Counselor, this is way out of my league.
What do we do next?”
“Colton, it’s just Rowan, okay? Our fathers have been on a first-
name basis since before I was born, so let’s keep that tradition. As
you said, you’ve only just arrived at the estate. Get something to
eat, have a shower, and if it’s all right with you, I’ll pick you up in
say… about an hour and a half? We can go down to the sheriff’s
office together. In the meantime, I’ll do some digging and see what
else I can find out from the DA’s office.”
“Thank you, Counsel… Rowan. I appreciate being hand-carried
through this. I’ll see you soon.”
Colton disconnected the call—in typical Blackwell fashion—and
turned toward Patricia. Willard had already taken his bags up to his
room, and he needed a shower.
“Have Cook prepare something light for me? I can’t eat a lot—
I’m too emotional from what happened to Dad, and now to Madisyn
—but if I don’t get something in my stomach, I’ll fall over.”
Patricia gave him a hug and headed toward the kitchen, while
Colton took off to his room. Feeling refreshed and less like someone
who’d just traversed the country from one end to the other, he
dressed in a white shirt, tie, and a dark suit. He knew his father
wouldn’t have been at an official business meeting in anything less
than a suit; he felt the need to make his dad proud. He grabbed his
laptop and headed down to the dining room.
Cook hugged him as soon as he walked in, tears in her eyes.
Colton knew she was trying to comfort him, but as much as she
sobbed, he was aware it might be the other way around. When she
had control, she brought in a tray of various meats and cheese, a
glass of sauvignon blanc, and a few desserts for him to choose from.
“I told Patricia I just wanted something light, Mercedes.” He
shook his finger at her, which caused her to smile. He wasn’t sure if
it was because of his comment or that fact that he called her by her
first name, something almost no one ever did. She shrugged and
started to return to the kitchen but stopped just outside the door.
She turned to inform him that Patricia had left for the evening, but
promised she’d be back in the morning. Colton nodded.
This wine is phenomenal, and now that I see this spread, I
realize how hungry I was. Now… who is Rowan McKay exactly?
Colten put a few things on his plate and opened his laptop. He
Googled “Rowan McKay attorney Santa Barbara.” He found
considerably more about Rowan than he’d expected. He wasn’t just
“the attorney in charge” in Keefe’s absence. It was now his firm. His
father continued to take care of Colton’s father personally since their
relationship was so longstanding.
Rowan, however, didn’t inherit his father’s firm without earning
it. His résumé was impressive, and his charitable work made Colton
wonder how he still had time to run the practice.
Graduated from Harvard Law School at the top of his class.
Impressive history of getting his defendants off and sizable
compensations for the plaintiffs he represented in lawsuits. Vice
president of the Santa Barbara Board of Attorneys, board president
of Santa Barbara Museum of Art, past board member of the Museum
of National History, and co-legal counsel with… no… Pacific Pride
Foundation? The local LGBTQAI+ organization for the county? Odd,
no pictures, though, on the… wait… Colton quickly switch to Goggle
Pics. Wow. He’s taller than any of the people in these pics. His lover
is probably an attorney, too… no, wait… a doctor. That would make
them a picture-perfect gay power couple. But where are pics of
them together if there is a lover? There’s nothing here about his
personal life. He might be straight and an ally.
The front door chime sounded. Colton closed the laptop, put on
his suit jacket, and walked to the door to open it.
“Hi, Colton, I presume? I’m Rowan.”
Colton looked up at this attractive man, not something he often
did as he was over six feet tall himself, as was his father. Rowan
must have been at least six foot five inches. He didn’t appear to be
overly muscular, but he sure wasn’t skinny either. His handsome face
stood out in sharp contrast with the copper red of his hair. Rowan’s
hair was styled, but whatever product he used normally was missing.
A large shock of hair had flipped down over his forehead. He’d
quickly attempted unsuccessfully to smooth it back, but as soon as
he removed his hand, it slid down again. Colton tried to regain his
composure, after feeling his mouth drop open. He was still going
through the disbelief of losing his father and Madisyn having been
arrested for his murder… but all that momentarily left his conscious
mind in favor of gazing up at the hunk in front of him.
“You presume correctly, Rowan.” Colton offered his hand, which
Rowan took. “I’m pleased to meet you, despite the circumstances.”
They stood there for a few more seconds, their hands grasp firmly
around one another.
“And I’m just as please to meet you, Colton.” The men released
one another’s hands.
Was it my imagination, or did Rowan offer a gentle squeeze of
my hand as we released? If he did, I’m sure it was only a way of
offering his condolences.
They walked without speaking to the car, where Rowan walked
to the passenger’s side and opened Colton’s door. The shorter man
seemed puzzled.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
by the square piece C. Screws are turned through the legs and into
the square piece to keep it in position.
 Keeping Magazines in a Book Form

Several Boxes will Appear the Same as a Set of Books and will Preserve the
Magazines

Desiring to preserve magazine copies without binding them, I

made up a series of boxes that gave the appearance of books, and
placed the numbers in order in them as they were received. The
sides of the boxes consist of two thin boards, a little larger than the
size of the magazine to be placed in them. The ends are made of the
same material, wide enough to equal the thickness of the copies to
be placed in each box, four or six numbers, or a volume. One end of
these pieces is made slightly rounding, and the pieces are then put
together as shown.
The rounded ends of the end pieces and the opening between the
sides are covered with a piece of cardboard or bristol board, to
shape the back of the box like a book. The finished box is entirely
covered, like a book, with cloth or imitation leather. The backs can be
lettered and decorated to appear like a book.—Contributed by R. M.
Guarino, New York City.
 A Cardboard Creaser

The Wire on the Creaser Presses the Paper into the Space between the Two
Wood Pieces

A simple apparatus for creasing thin cardboard or heavy paper in

a perfectly straight line without broken edges is described in the
French magazine La Nature as follows: On a base of convenient
dimensions are fastened two pieces of wood, well smoothed and of
equal thickness, so that there remains a slot, about ¹⁄₈ in. wide,
between them. At one end a hole is bored through these pieces for a
shaft on which the creaser will turn. The creaser is made of a piece
of wood somewhat longer than the baseboard so that a handle can
be formed at one end. At the other end it is slotted for a piece of
metal, perforated for the shaft and fastened with two pins or rivets,
as shown. On the under side of the creaser a stiff steel wire is
fastened so that it coincides with the slot. The wire is fastened by
heating the ends red hot, bending them at right angles to the main
part and driving them into the creaser.

¶A razorlike edge can be put on a knife blade by carefully stropping

it without lubricant on a piece of smooth aluminum after first whetting
on an oilstone.
 A Miniature Illuminating-Gas Plant
By MORTON SOUTHARD

ery few persons realize that the smoke issuing from

chimneys is mainly coal gas carrying minute particles
of unconsumed carbon that gives it a dark-gray color,
containing, besides, some sulphur and sulphuric
gases, carbonic-acid gas, and other impurities. It is
only necessary to collect the impurities to get a gas
that will burn with a bright flame.
The products obtained from a gas plant are gas,
ammoniacal liquor, coal tar, and coke. Of 1 ton of coal,
1,500 lb. remains in the retort, or furnace, as coke; 20 gal. of
ammoniacal liquor and 140 lb. of coal tar are taken from the
cylinders and washers. When distilled, the ammoniacal liquor will
yield close to 18 gal. of ammonia, which is used in the manufacture
of artificial ice and cold storage. The coal tar will yield approximately
19 lb. of benzol, which is the base of all true aniline dyes; 6 lb. of
naphthalene, commonly known as camphor flakes or moth balls,
which also yields some dyes; 4 lb. of toluene, which is valuable as a
solvent and is the base of saccharine, and about 2 lb. each of phenol
(carbolic acid), pyrene, anthracene, xylenol, cresol, chrysene, and
alizarin. The residuum is coal-tar pitch, used extensively as a binder
for briquetting coal dust for household consumption, and also for
roofing and street paving. From these various coal-tar products, dyes
of every tint, shade and color are obtained, as well as other industrial
chemicals, from flavoring extracts to perfumes, from volatile oils to
high explosives, and from the sweetest of all sweets to the bitterest
of bitter.
A model gas plant—one that will be instructive and in no way
dangerous if proper precautions are taken—can be built from a few
fire brick, some pieces of pipe, and a few tin cans. Enough fire brick
must be secured to build a furnace 14 in. square by 20 in. high,
inside measurements. Build up the four walls on a level surface of
the ground, laying the bricks with a cement mortar to seal them
perfectly, as coal gas will find any small crevice and escape. For this
reason it is best to build a second wall outside of the first and plaster
the joint between them as it is built. When the four walls are finished,
make a grate of fire brick in the bottom by setting the brick on edge
and spacing them about ¹⁄₄ in. After the walls are dry, make ready the
material for the fire. Place sufficient kindling on the grate to start a
quick fire, then cover it with coal. When this is done, cover the
furnace with a heavy piece of asbestos board large enough to reach
the outside edge of the furnace walls. The board must be cemented
to the top surface of the brick walls. Place the cement mixture on the
wall top, then press the board on it, and place a weight on top until
the cement becomes dry. The cement mixture should consist of one
part cement to two parts of fine sand.
Procure a large can, such as used in canning tomatoes, having a
diameter of more than 4 in. and with top and bottom whole; also two
other cans, each having a capacity of 2 gal. with closed heads.
Connect the first can to the furnace with a piece of 2-in. pipe, as
shown in the illustration. The pipe can be bent for convenience, but
in case such a piece is not at hand, regular pipe connections can be
made with threaded ends, ells, waste nuts, etc. In either case, be
sure to make the joints gas-tight. If a bent pipe is used, the ends can
be cemented in the asbestos furnace top and the can top. Cut a hole
centrally in the asbestos top and at one side in the can top. Fit one
end of the pipe in the hole made in the asbestos and seal the
connection with asbestos cement, then do likewise with the end that
enters the can top.

The Furnace Made of Fire Brick is Connected to the Condenser and Washers
with Ordinary Iron Pipe through Which the Gases Pass After being Purified
Before They Enter the Storage Tank

In connecting the first and second cans, use a piece of 1-in. pipe.
This may be bent or connected with ells to form a U-shaped piece. In
either case, one end should be longer than the other so that one will
just pass into the first can, where it is sealed with asbestos cement,
while the other end passes through the second-can top, where it is
sealed, and extends to the bottom of the can. For the connection to
the third can, make a hole in the top of the second can, but do not
seal it up to the connection until the can is first filled with water to
within 2 or 3 in. of the top. Also put powdered coke into the water,
about halfway of the can’s height.
The connection from the second and third cans should be made of
glass so that the gas can be observed passing through it between
the cans. This is not absolutely necessary, however, and a piece of
¹⁄₂-in. iron pipe can be used instead. This pipe is connected in the
same manner as that between the first and second, extending to the
bottom of the third can and being sealed where it passes through the
tops. The third can is filled with water to within 2 or 3 in. of the top.
The gas coming from the third can or washer, is ready for use, but
as the pressure would not be uniform, a storage tank must be
provided. To make a storage tank suitable for the needs of this small
plant, procure two pans from 10 to 12 in. in diameter and from 3 to 4
in. deep. One pan should be a trifle smaller, so that it may be
inverted in the larger pan, as shown. Make a connection from the
third can with a rubber hose to the bottom of the larger pan, near the
center, and use this pan as the bottom part of the storage tank. Pour
into this pan enough water to make it 2 in. deep, invert the other pan
and set it into the water. Attach a gas hose to the bottom of the
inverted pan and fasten a gas jet into the rubber-hose end. This will
make the gas plant complete and ready to operate.
To start the furnace, bore a hole in one side of the brick walls,
about the size of an ordinary lead pencil, and insert a lighted taper to
set fire to the kindling. There may be some difficulty in getting the fire
to burn at first, and it may be necessary to force considerable air in;
however, when the fire is fairly started, it will burn freely and the
gases will soon find their way through the first pipe to the condenser,
which is the first can. There they will mingle and deposit some tar
and ammonia, then flow out through the second pipe, up through the
coke and water in the second can and through the glass tube, where
they may be observed passing into the can of water, where some
more tar and ammonia will be deposited. After leaving this can the
gas will find its way through the rubber tube into the storage tank. It
passes from this tank to the burner, where it can be lighted and will
burn with a bright flame.
If it is possible to force steam into the furnace when the fire is at its
height, a much better quality and a larger volume of gas will be
made. This is accomplished by placing a closed can of water over a
fire near the furnace and connecting it to the latter with a piece of 1-
in. gas pipe. The water in this can must be boiling hot at the time the
fire in the furnace is lighted. The steam entering the furnace is
decomposed, the hydrogen being released as a gas. The pipe
connecting the boiler with the furnace should be fitted in the furnace
wall so that the steam will pass in at the top of the fire; about halfway
up the side of the furnace being about right. The steam will start the
gases more rapidly and force them through the pipes.
Make sure that all connections are carefully sealed to prevent the
escape of gases, as they will always follow the lines of least
resistance and pass out through a very small crevice. The only
danger with a plant of this size is from fire, wherefore it should be
built away from inflammable materials. It will not make sufficient gas
to be of injury to any living being.
 Webfoot Attachments for Swimmers
In order to make the feet more effective in swimming, webfoot
devices are frequently used. A simple arrangement for this purpose
is shown in the illustration. It consists of three thin sections of metal,
or wood, fastened together on the back side with spring hinges,
which tend to remain open, thereby keeping all the sections spread
out in one straight surface. The center section should be cut to
conform closely to the shape of the foot, or it will produce
considerable resistance during the onward stroke of the foot, and
tend to stop the forward movement of the swimmer. Straps should be
provided for attaching the device to the foot; one to fit across the
toes, and the other adjusted around the ankle by a buckle.
 Device for Attaching to the Feet to Work Like Webfeet

When using the device, the upward or forward stroke of the legs
will cause the wings to brush against the water, creating sufficient
resistance to overcome the slight force of the springs, thereby
pushing the wings parallel with the direction of the stroke. During the
opposite, or pushing, stroke, the resistance of the water combined
with the opening tendency of the hinges will quickly spread the wings
out flat, greatly increasing the effectiveness of the feet.—Contributed
by J. B. Laplace, New York City.
 Repairing Sectional Spun-Metal Candlesticks
In repairing hollow, spun-brass candlesticks I find that frequently
the metal rod holding the sections together becomes loosened from
the pitch composition designed to hold it in the base. By tinning the
outer edges of the sections that fit into the other portions, which are
also tinned on the inner surfaces, and then using an iron, or an
alcohol torch, to run the solder together at these points, I secure a
very firm job. Paper can be placed at points necessary to keep the
solder from running out of bounds. When the rod is firm and the nut
only gives trouble, solder can be used to fasten the nut permanently
to the grease cup at the top.—Contributed by James M. Kane,
Doylestown, Pa.
 Alcohol Blowtorch for Difficult Soldering

Clamps for Holding the Alcohol Receptacle on the End of the Blowpipe

To solder in close places, I have found the device illustrated quite

convenient, as it leaves both hands free to handle the object being
soldered. Two pieces of spring brass, about 3 in. long and ¹⁄₄ in.
wide, are bent to the shape shown at A and clamped together with a
screw taken from a dry cell, as shown at B. This device clamped to
the blowpipe end and fitted with a tube, such as used for holding
pencil leads, filled with a wick saturated in alcohol, completes the
blowtorch. It makes an excellent tool for small work, as the hands
are free to hold the parts to be soldered in place.—Contributed by J.
A. Tandy, Ghent, Ky.

¶Electric wires should never be run crooked.

 Preventing Sewing-Machine Thread from
Tangling

The highly enameled surface of a sewing-machine arm offers so

little resistance to the bottom of the spool that the thread will unwind
faster than it is used, thereby causing a tangle. A piece of paper
slipped over the spool post will cause enough friction to prevent the
spool from revolving beyond the proper speed.
 Bearing Made of a Brass Cartridge

A brass cartridge makes a good bearing to fit in a wood driving rod

used to run a small piece of foot-power machinery. It prevents wear
on the wood and admits more lubrication than the bare wood. Cut
the cartridge to the proper length, and ream out the cap hole even
with the diameter of the bore of the shell.
 Lighting a Match in the Wind

To light a match in a stiff wind is very easy if the wood part back of
the prepared end is cut and turned up about it before striking the
match. The curled-up shavings about the striker will catch fire easily
and hold a flame, where in the ordinary way it is easily blown out
when the composition of the striker has burned up.—Contributed by
E. K. Marshall, Oak Park, Ill.
 A Miniature Cement Plant
By MORTON SOUTHARD

Formolded
many years geologists searched for a substance which could be
into any size and form, and would have the hardness of
rock. As a matter of fact it was found that limestone was composed
of carbonic-acid gas, clay, and lime, and that when great heat was
applied the sealing bond was disrupted and the rock was reduced to
a powder. When this powder was placed in water the gas was set
free so fast that it made the water boil. The powder, or calcined rock,
is now known as lime. This action demonstrated that nature used
heat and moisture in forming these materials into rock. Knowing that
clay contained silica, and that silica furnished the sealing quality of
rocks, experiments were made to reverse the order of this rock
formation, and a cement was produced. Equal portions of lime and
clay were mixed together and stirred until all parts were thoroughly
mingled, and then the mixture was subjected to a very high heat,
after which the resulting mass was ground to a powder. When this
powder was mixed with water, instead of the gases passing off as
they did in the case of the lime, they penetrated the clay and the
mixture became hard. This was first called Portland cement, as it
was made from Portland limestone.
 The Furnace is Built Up of Ordinary Brick and Used for Calcining the Lime

This discovery partly solved the problem of artificial-rock making,

but not wholly, for the best makes will break, peel, and crack without
the slightest cause and when least expected, and besides its dark-
gray color and rough appearance is unattractive. Much progress has
been made with cement for interior decorations and many of the
finest marbles are closely imitated. This grade of cement will not
weather and its use is confined wholly to interior work. A white
cement is much desired and many of the large manufacturers
maintain laboratories where experiments are carried on constantly in
the endeavor to produce it.
 To build a miniature cement plant, first secure sufficient common
brick to make a furnace with an inside cavity, 20 in. square and 24 in.
high. Two sides and one back wall are built up, sealing the brick with
mortar, clay, or cement. The bottom is covered with bricks standing
on edge, and so placed that they will be about ¹⁄₄ in. apart, to serve
as a grate. The top is then covered with a piece of tin, or asbestos,
and a hole is cut in its center to receive a pipe, about 3 in. in
diameter, for a chimney. This chimney should be about 15 in. high.
Build the front wall halfway up by laying the brick loosely together so
that the fire will get the air through the crevices, then cover the grate
with kindling, place coal on top of it, and start the fire. When it is well
under way, place a few fair-sized lumps of limestone on top of the
fire and complete the wall to the top by laying the brick as closely as
possible. Use sufficient coal to burn at least two hours.
When the fire has burned itself out and the furnace has cooled,
remove the front wall and take out the burned limestone. Some parts
of the limestone will be mixed with the coal, but most of it will remain
in the lump, which is known as “black lime,” and when it is placed in
water it will give off gas very fast. Obtain some fire clay and
thoroughly mix equal portions of lime and clay, then place the
mixture in a one-piece pan, made of pressed tin or sheet iron, as a
soldered-bottom pan will come apart with the heat. Build up the front
of the furnace as before, build a fire and place the pan on the fire
and let it burn itself out. When the furnace has cooled, remove the
front, take out the pan, and pulverize the mass in the pan. When this
powder is placed in water it will become hard. If some sand or gravel
is mixed with it, and the mortar thus formed is spread out over a flat
surface, a miniature cement sidewalk will be the result.