As he held court with the newspaper reporter on the mansion’s lawn, George West’s vociferous voice invaded the study through a closed window. While scrutinizing Leland’s wall map, Scott found it increasingly difficult to ignore the current assault on his concentration from the vineyard braggart’s words.
Seth found it impossible. “If I hear that blustery bastard promote El Pinal one more time, I’m opening the window and bouncing a damn dictionary off his bald, shiny-assed noggin.”
Scott’s eyes stayed focused on the map while briefly reflecting on Westcott’s anatomical description of their competitor’s head and the not-often-implemented use of a dictionary. “Seems plausible.”
Taking a step closer to the illustration, Scott’s finger traced an imaginary trip from Sacramento to Stockton on Stanford’s Central Pacific. Upturned corners of his mouth gradually produced a full smile. The map had spoken and, like a chessboard, offered Scott three moves ahead. “Where’s the land office from here?”
Seth turned away from the window. “Not far. Near the train station.”
A leather portfolio gobbled up hastily gathered documents from the table. “We’ll meet up back at the hotel.” Snagging a dictionary from the bookshelf, Scott handed it to Westcott. “Give my regards to King George.”
During the flood in ‘62, Sacramento’s Land Office saved much of its valued surveys from floating down the river. However, the building had suffered structural damage. Relocation not only provided a larger facility but closer proximity to the train station and telegraph office.
Stepping inside, Scott discovered impressive surroundings. Most often a land office proved to be a dusty, cramped hole in the wall. With a wide counter, two tables and a back room for storage, Sacramento’s was downright luxurious.
With no one in sight, the neatly written note displayed next to an ornate brass counter bell informed visitors how to proceed.
Ring for Service
Scott’s palm bounced up and down on the bell clapper button. The continuous metallic dinging prompted a short, bespectacled man to materialize and purposefully amble from the back room archives.
As the clerk approached the counter, squinty, suspicious eyes drilled in. “No need to wear it out.” His hand slowly pushed the bell down the counter and out of reach.
Scott’s tinge of guilt needed a defense. He picked up the note and pointed to it.
“I know what it says.” The plucked note joined the bell. “I wrote it.” The man’s chin jutted upward - hoping to add inches to his height. “Now. Do you need assistance, young man, or do you just enjoy ringing bells?”
Eyes squinting. Chin jutting. Head bobbing like a drunken prairie dog. Why was the feeling of familiarity tickling Scott’s brain while he stared at this little man? And then the answer presented itself in sharp clarity.
Doppelgänger.
Double-goer. Stranger twin. Lookalike. Scott assumed a Doppelgänger only existed in mythology and literature. However, at this moment, Jelly Hoskins’ tailor-suited, clean-shaven, hair-oiled, perfume-scented Doppelgänger stood before him in the Sacramento Land Office. Yes, this version smelled better, but the facial expressions and mannerisms were strikingly similar.
Finding his voice, Scott continued with his request. “I’d like to view a few survey maps.”
“Well, now.” The clerk’s head angled to the right as one eye peered over his glasses. “Is there a reason for your request?”
“Do I need one?”
“Not necessarily.” However, silence complementing the lack of assistance suggested that a reason was indeed necessary.
Cantankerous took top billing over facial expressions and mannerisms.
With faith that the clerk also possessed Jelly’s inflated ego and know-it-all attitude, Scott rested an elbow on the counter. His wagging finger signaled the sharing of a confidential matter was about to take place. His voice lowered as the little man leaned in. “Exploratory research for the Garrett Foundation.” Straightening to his authoritative, military posture, Scott carried on. “You strike me as an educated, well-informed employee of the United States government. Unless I’m mistaken, no further explanation is required regarding my reasonable request.” An inflection of doubt entered the conversation. “Sir? Surely you’re aware of the Garrett Foundation."
The chest puffed up like a bullfrog on Hoskins’ hygiene-conscious double. “The Garrett Foundation - certainly I’m aware of the Garrett Foundation. The Garrett Foundation researches ...” The unfinished sentence hung in the air - mingling with the little man’s D.R. Harris Classic Cologne.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Exploratories.”
The clerk’s dapper bow tie twitched under the strain of annoyance. “I was just about to say that.” Hands tugged on the bow ends for realignment. “Now - what may I assist you with Mr. ...” His chin dipped allowing skeptical eyes to skim the rim of their owner’s spectacles.
“Lancer.” Scott’s line of sight easily cleared the top of the clerk’s head and settled on the storage room in the back. “Well, not knowing how extensive your archives are -”
“Please.” The bow tie resumed its dance of indignation. “This is Sacramento. Our archives are extensive.”
“All right.” The gauntlet had been thrown down. Scott gladly picked it up and ticked off his list. “I require surveys from southern Sacramento county - east of the Central Pacific railroad along the Cosumnes River and Willow Creek. Also, San Joaquin County - north of Stockton encompassing all areas along the Mokelumne and Calaveras Rivers.”
Jelly’s Doppelgänger countered the request with an aloof response. “Is that all?”
“No.” Placing his hands on hips, Scott upped the ante. “I need ownership documentation which corresponds with the aforementioned surveyed plats - grouped by townships - surnames listed alphabetically.”
Removing his spectacles, the clerk casually blew off imaginary dust from the lenses and returned the glasses to the bridge of his nose. “One moment.”
Well. I'll be damned. Scott’s arched eyebrows emphasized his surprise while watching the clerk enter the land office storage room.
Suspicion that nosey could join cantankerous led Scott to chose the table furthest from the clerk’s counter. Unloaded from his leather portfolio, the Viticulturist Association documents and papers from Seth created a heap reminiscent of Murdoch’s desk. A few were extracted from the pile and set aside. Snagging the silver cased pencil from his pocket was momentarily interrupted by the sound of shuffling feet.
The vision gifted Scott with a smile. Stacked high, several large, thick, leather-bound catalogues had grown bow legs which took an occasional side-step from their intended path. Books landed with a thump and a whoosh - making loose paperwork float to the floor.
Bow tie and glasses were again restored to their proper positions as Jelly’s neatly attired twin stepped away from the table. “I believe this will satisfy your requests.”
Giving the teetering stack the once over, Scott slowly nodded in agreement. “I believe it does. Now, just one other thing - I need a few sheets of plain paper.”
Blusterous exasperation completed the Jelly-like persona. “You mean to sit there and tell me you people don't have the simplest of supplies?”
Scott held out his hands. “I never said the Garrett Foundation was lucrative.”
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