Ten Cent Comics, Issue No. Two

Issue No. 2 - "Homecoming"

February 12th, 1961. West of Anaheim county, shortly after 6 o’clock.

The sun was just beginning to crest over the horizon in a graceful display of orange and purple. Wesley’s ride was just pulling into the gate wall of his father’s estate. In his prime he was said to have owned 3 times this land, but after consciously downsizing, ended up at the nominal sum of 15 combined acres. The grounds were lush with wildlife, even for southern California. Valley oak trees line the paved road to the front door of his father’s massive mansion, built in art deco style.

The limousine pulled up to the door, coming to a screeching halt. Within less than an hour of landing in California, Wesley had been checked out of the airport, quickly ushered into the back of a sleek black limousine, and whisked off to the hills of Anaheim. Upon entry into the building, Wesley was greeted by two men. One was an older, gray haired gentleman. He was clad in a fine suit, and was slightly hunched in his posture- no doubt due to age. Next to him was a much younger gentleman, looking just over forty or so. Tall and imposing, his hair slightly graying at the top. This man extended his hand for a handshake. He gave a polite smirk.

“Hello Wesley, I’m Dr. Blackwell.” He gave Wesley a firm, warm handshake. “I’m glad you got my letter, I’m sorry for having you here on such short notice.”

“No problem, had no idea my old man had…” He paused, Wesley always wanted to find the right word- product of being an English major, “this much… room.” The words still sounded alien in his mouth.

“Indeed, even I am shocked by some of the things he’s managed to acquire.” Blackwell chuckled, a bubbly, warm sound. He gestured to the man next to him. “E, speaking of your father, this is one of his oldest associates. Morgan Schmidt.” The old man nodded his head. “He is the head butler here.”

“The only one, actually!” he laughed. “I run the whole show on the premises. Groundskeeper, Butler, Cooking, Cleaning. Whole kit and caboodle.” He widely smiled, eyes closed. He was pleased with himself, it was no doubt impressive for his age. Wesley said nothing and merely nodded in agreement. He was severely tired. Blackwell had noticed, “Would you like Mr. Schmidt to show you to your room? You surely must be very tired.”

“Indeed, I think I’d like to change into some lounge clothes and have a little walk around the premises.” Schmidt’s eyes lit up, “You would? Well I’d be ‘right pleased to show you around.” The old man had seemingly become twenty years younger. Blackwell laughed once again. “Forgive Morgan, your father rarely had any company.” He dusted off his suit jacket, and started for the door.

“I have a meeting with the auction coordinator within the next hour, Mr. Schmidt will take care of helping you around the place for the foreseeable future.” He ushered the limo driver back out to the car, following shortly after. “I’ll be seeing you again tomorrow morning, we have much to catch up on.” And with that, he smiled- nodded, and was out the door in a jiffy. Wesley stared after him, watching him through the lightly frosted glass on the front door.

“I’ll be taking these for you-” Wesley snapped back to reality, looking over at the old man. “I-I’ll show you to your room now.” He gestured after him, leading Wesley further into the manor. The building was bizarre; tight, winding halls. Low Ceilings. A faint smell of ginger permeating the air around the whole building. Wesley found it all very odd. His legs ached, and in the front of his head he began to feel the comings of a migraine.

After a quick 35 minute tour of the whole house, Morgan carrying Wesley's bags around the entire time- much to Wesley’s chagrin- they entered his father’s master bedroom. “This is where you’ll be sleeping, feel free to use any of the old master’s amenities!” The old master? Odd name. The be

droom was, to put it simply, enormous. The size of Wesley’s entire apartment, nearly twice over, complete with a full bathroom, office corner, and balcony overlooking the back garden and terrace. It was a room fit for a kind. Wesley felt very out of place. Morgan placed his paltry luggage at the foot of the massive king sized bed.

“Would you like me to tend to your things? I will gladly sort through everything for you.” Schmidt looked at Wesley eagerly. “Uh, no thanks, I’d prefer to do that myself.” He would prefer if the old man didn’t know absolutely everything that he had brought with him.

“Are ya’ sure? It’ll only take just a sec!” Schmidt was insistent. “I said I'm fine, thank you.” Wesley was beginning to get impatient. Morgan accepted defeat, smiled, and went for the door. “I’ll be seeing you shortly for the ground tour- but feel free to take as long as you like to get more comfortable.” With that, he exited the room, shutting the door behind him. Wesley was finally alone.

He slipped his jacket off, and began undoing his tie. After losing his last good pair of dress pants the day prior, he had to quickly buy a new suit. He ended up with an old, khaki blazer, with matching pants. It was a little loose. He quickly undressed fully and slipped into a more casual outfit; slacks, and a striped polo. He surveyed the contents of his two bags. In his briefcase lay various tools, common for his trade. A small tape recorder, various notepads and associated pens, his trusty cigarette lighter (though he wasn’t a smoker), and a Colt detective’s special.

Wesley wasn’t much of a gun guy, only carrying one on rare occasions since his time in the army. He wasn’t a terrible shot, but with the rivers of booze controlling his nervous system, he would prefer to avoid the loud option. Still, he checked the cylinder; six shots of .38 special, each tucked neatly into six chambers. He placed the gun back into his holster, and tucked it into his waistband. He had the feeling he’d be wanting this thing around.

He took one last look around the room, its opulence still not quite fully settled within him. He spotted something he had yet to process though, just above the door. The room’s high ceiling allowed for many paintings and photographs to be mounted along the walls. Shoreside still life, photos of who Wesley presumed were family members, and a curious sight hung just above the door.

A large painting of an older woman was hung close to the top of the doorframe. Her graying hair falling in waves past her shoulders, clad in a soft- velvet-y looking purple nightgown. Her face was somewhat hardened by age and something unseen. But what struck Wesley the most was her eyes. The whites of her eyes were gone, instead the whole of both of them were two black voids. Wesley was uneasy. Something about her- was she a mistress of his father? He didn’t know, nor did he want to really. The painting was off-putting enough to make him want to tango with the Groundskeeper once more.

He exited the room and looked around. Mr. Schmidt was nowhere to be seen. He hoped he’d be able to take a quick look around the manor once more without the supervision of Morgan. “Everything all right sir?” Wesley jumped, turning around in a flash. Morgan stood there, chin up, a smile on his face.

“Oh- yeah. I mean… yes. Fine. Thank you.” Wesley stammered out a response. “Uh, we should get with the whole… Looking around now, I’d like to turn in early tonight. He didn’t really, but that was besides the point. With that, the butler nodded, and gestured for Wesley to follow him. “We’ll be starting with the garden terrace. From what ‘eye remember, it was Lady Garnet’s favorite place to relax.” He kept a quick walking pace as he spoke.

Wesley said nothing, but he had a feeling he already knew the answer to his only question: “Who was Lady Garnet?”

END OF ISSUE NO. 2