the money he handled for his “investors” which was the only word he’d ever used. She’d never asked him for what company he worked and had never heard him utter the names Morgan Stanley, Charles Schwab, or Edward Jones. These things only first occurred to her during the embassy interrogation. My God, how naïve can I be? she thought. She remembered what BeBe had said about people doing insane things when they were in love. She guessed her lack of due diligence in researching the possible criminal history of her boyfriend to rule out ties with deadly Mafia organizations counted.
“Cemetery Road, Manteo, North Carolina. You’ve got to be kidding,” Ella said aloud. “I hope this isn’t some spooky foreshadowing.” Having Cemetery Road as the address for your new hideout from Mafioso hit men could not be a good foreboding she concluded. Well, she was here and there was really nothing she could do about it. Pedaling into the little town, Ella was struck by its beauty. She began to pass large two story Victorian homes, some of which had been turned in to bed and breakfasts and little inns. On the right was a tiny shotgun house with a small porch displaying bonsai trees. The small yellow sign out front read in a beautiful scrolled font Outer Banks Bonsai . Then clearly added later, in freestyle handwriting, were the words and gifts . Making a living selling only bonsai trees would prove pretty difficult Ella figured. Even during the height of tourist season Ella figured one could not live on the sale of bonsai trees and bonsai trees alone.
Up ahead was a gray cedar shake cottage with pine garlands woven in and out of the front porch banisters. The garlands were decorated with red and aqua glittered balls. A large white wreath made of oyster shells embellished with red glittery starfish adorned the front door. Ella didn’t find this odd in the least although it was late July. Most of the towns Ella had been placed in for safe keeping were tourist towns since they had to be incredibly pedestrian friendly to accommodate Ella’s current “no vehicle” status, and every one of the towns dubbed as a tourist destination had contained a Christmas shop. Most of the time the signage used the word Shoppe instead of shop, giving the store a quaint, old fashioned feel. She’d finally come to the conclusion that the sight of anything Christmas got people excited, a Pavlovian response left over from childhood Ella guessed. She also figured that apparently owning one was lucrative or there wouldn’t be so many.
As Ella passed fishing charter businesses, more inns, and churches, she arrived at the edge of the downtown business district which had cobblestone streets lined with shops, galleries, and restaurants. The downtown architecture was a mixture of turn of the century red brick buildings with arched windows and fancy wood trim, or stacked, wood framed, coastal cottages with double porches. The different type of architecture was due to a fire in 1939 which had destroyed two thirds of Manteo’s downtown waterfront district.
Parking her bike in front of a small red cottage with blue trim, Ella placed Old Finnegan on the ground and wound the cable of her bike lock through the spoke of the wheel and the handle of her suitcase. She’d made the mistake a few times of trying to let the old case remain balanced on the bicycle’s basket after she secured the kickstand only to watch the handle bars swing wildly to one side and have both bike and suitcase come crashing down. Ella didn’t think Manteo was exactly a high crime city but she’d been sternly warned to use the lock religiously or The Bureau would not replace the bike and she would have to pay for a new one out of her own pocket from her meager living stipend. Living more leanly than she already was would be almost next to impossible in Ella’s eyes, so she heeded The Bureau’s words and locked the bike faithfully.
The cottage had a colorful sign
“Cemetery Road, Manteo, North Carolina. You’ve got to be kidding,” Ella said aloud. “I hope this isn’t some spooky foreshadowing.” Having Cemetery Road as the address for your new hideout from Mafioso hit men could not be a good foreboding she concluded. Well, she was here and there was really nothing she could do about it. Pedaling into the little town, Ella was struck by its beauty. She began to pass large two story Victorian homes, some of which had been turned in to bed and breakfasts and little inns. On the right was a tiny shotgun house with a small porch displaying bonsai trees. The small yellow sign out front read in a beautiful scrolled font Outer Banks Bonsai . Then clearly added later, in freestyle handwriting, were the words and gifts . Making a living selling only bonsai trees would prove pretty difficult Ella figured. Even during the height of tourist season Ella figured one could not live on the sale of bonsai trees and bonsai trees alone.
Up ahead was a gray cedar shake cottage with pine garlands woven in and out of the front porch banisters. The garlands were decorated with red and aqua glittered balls. A large white wreath made of oyster shells embellished with red glittery starfish adorned the front door. Ella didn’t find this odd in the least although it was late July. Most of the towns Ella had been placed in for safe keeping were tourist towns since they had to be incredibly pedestrian friendly to accommodate Ella’s current “no vehicle” status, and every one of the towns dubbed as a tourist destination had contained a Christmas shop. Most of the time the signage used the word Shoppe instead of shop, giving the store a quaint, old fashioned feel. She’d finally come to the conclusion that the sight of anything Christmas got people excited, a Pavlovian response left over from childhood Ella guessed. She also figured that apparently owning one was lucrative or there wouldn’t be so many.
As Ella passed fishing charter businesses, more inns, and churches, she arrived at the edge of the downtown business district which had cobblestone streets lined with shops, galleries, and restaurants. The downtown architecture was a mixture of turn of the century red brick buildings with arched windows and fancy wood trim, or stacked, wood framed, coastal cottages with double porches. The different type of architecture was due to a fire in 1939 which had destroyed two thirds of Manteo’s downtown waterfront district.
Parking her bike in front of a small red cottage with blue trim, Ella placed Old Finnegan on the ground and wound the cable of her bike lock through the spoke of the wheel and the handle of her suitcase. She’d made the mistake a few times of trying to let the old case remain balanced on the bicycle’s basket after she secured the kickstand only to watch the handle bars swing wildly to one side and have both bike and suitcase come crashing down. Ella didn’t think Manteo was exactly a high crime city but she’d been sternly warned to use the lock religiously or The Bureau would not replace the bike and she would have to pay for a new one out of her own pocket from her meager living stipend. Living more leanly than she already was would be almost next to impossible in Ella’s eyes, so she heeded The Bureau’s words and locked the bike faithfully.
The cottage had a colorful sign
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