set on dos
and don’ts. Am figured that owning a Frank Lloyd Wright house was about the same thing as owning a woody in Southern California.
You don’t add an indoor Jacuzzi or a sundeck to a Wright house. It’s inviolable. And you don’t just treat a woody like you
would any car. Am claimed he would have sold Annette years back if it hadn’t been for his neighbor Jimbo, who liked nothing
better than working on her and keeping her in “bitchin’ trim.” Whenever Am mentioned that he was thinking of selling her,
people responded as if he were spitting on the flag. They didn’t know about, or wouldn’t believe, her quirk. Annette drove
fine if you didn’t take her far from the coast, preferably within sight of it. Stray from that route, and she quickly let
you know you were on the road to hell.
Luckily, the drive from Del Mar to La Jolla is most easily navigated along the coast. Annette cantered along Old 101, her
V-8 purring and easily taking the grade up Torrey Pines. Temperamental? she seemed to be saying. Not me.
The scenic drive was lost on Am that morning. He had risen very early and purchased copies of the San Diego
Union-Tribune, the Los Angeles Times,
and the
Blade-Citizen.
All three newspapers had devoted a good deal of black ink to the life and times of Dr. Thomas Kingsbury. Or was that lives
and times? Kingsbury had been a doctor, a researcher, a magician, and a psychic/paranormal investigator. “When I was a healer,”
he was quoted as saying, “it was unacceptable for me to give up on a patient. I resented being stymied by the incurable, and
the unknown. I went into research to open doors. I went into the miracles business. That’s when I really started to resent
the phonies. I saw too many scientists giving their all only to be eclipsed by pseudo-science charlatans. I saw the sick being
preyed upon, false hopes being dangled for dollars. Every society needs their Totos pulling back the curtains on disingenuous
wizards. I made it my mission to promote reason and rationality, and expose snake oil and cosmic dust.”
The portraits the newspapers provided made Am wonder just whose death he was investigating. Was it Dr. Thomas Kingsbury, dedicated
hematologist; Thomas Kingsbury, M.D., research scientist; Tommy Gunn the Magician; or Dr. Tom, the avenging angel? The man
was a Rubik’s cube. He had won a slew of awards, most for research unpronounceable to laymen; work with globulins, glutinins,
hemoglobins, leukocytes, and polymerization. Kingsbury evidently never met a blood disease he wasn’t interested in. Maybe
that’s why he had so vigorously pursued the claims of the exploitive paranormal; he couldn’t stand bloodsuckers.
There had been occasional patches of fog along the drive, at first innocuous wisps, but a gray layer by the time Annette crossed
the borders of north La Jolla. The June Gloom had staked its position along the coast as firmly as a desert dweller on a beach
holiday. Am caught his first glimpse of the Hotel just above Scripps Institution of Oceanography, its telltale red tile roof
a beacon through the haze. The Hotel stretched along the expanse of La Jolla Strand, forty acres of beach-front property.
It had been housing guests for more than a hundred years, and during that time had undergone numerous expansions and renovations.
What hadn’t changed was the resort’s many charms. A masterpiece does not age; it just adds myths.
Am parked Annette in Outer Mongolia, the employee parking lot that was far away from the Hotel, but relatively close to the
security hut. He took a shortcut, a trail of his own making, cutting through the more circuitous flower-lined pathways. The
Hotel’s gardens were famous, from its towering palms to its colorful peonies. No walkway was without bird-of-paradise or hibiscus;
no trellis without bougainvillea or mandevilla; no trail without roses or orchids. Any stroll was a floral seduction, the
and don’ts. Am figured that owning a Frank Lloyd Wright house was about the same thing as owning a woody in Southern California.
You don’t add an indoor Jacuzzi or a sundeck to a Wright house. It’s inviolable. And you don’t just treat a woody like you
would any car. Am claimed he would have sold Annette years back if it hadn’t been for his neighbor Jimbo, who liked nothing
better than working on her and keeping her in “bitchin’ trim.” Whenever Am mentioned that he was thinking of selling her,
people responded as if he were spitting on the flag. They didn’t know about, or wouldn’t believe, her quirk. Annette drove
fine if you didn’t take her far from the coast, preferably within sight of it. Stray from that route, and she quickly let
you know you were on the road to hell.
Luckily, the drive from Del Mar to La Jolla is most easily navigated along the coast. Annette cantered along Old 101, her
V-8 purring and easily taking the grade up Torrey Pines. Temperamental? she seemed to be saying. Not me.
The scenic drive was lost on Am that morning. He had risen very early and purchased copies of the San Diego
Union-Tribune, the Los Angeles Times,
and the
Blade-Citizen.
All three newspapers had devoted a good deal of black ink to the life and times of Dr. Thomas Kingsbury. Or was that lives
and times? Kingsbury had been a doctor, a researcher, a magician, and a psychic/paranormal investigator. “When I was a healer,”
he was quoted as saying, “it was unacceptable for me to give up on a patient. I resented being stymied by the incurable, and
the unknown. I went into research to open doors. I went into the miracles business. That’s when I really started to resent
the phonies. I saw too many scientists giving their all only to be eclipsed by pseudo-science charlatans. I saw the sick being
preyed upon, false hopes being dangled for dollars. Every society needs their Totos pulling back the curtains on disingenuous
wizards. I made it my mission to promote reason and rationality, and expose snake oil and cosmic dust.”
The portraits the newspapers provided made Am wonder just whose death he was investigating. Was it Dr. Thomas Kingsbury, dedicated
hematologist; Thomas Kingsbury, M.D., research scientist; Tommy Gunn the Magician; or Dr. Tom, the avenging angel? The man
was a Rubik’s cube. He had won a slew of awards, most for research unpronounceable to laymen; work with globulins, glutinins,
hemoglobins, leukocytes, and polymerization. Kingsbury evidently never met a blood disease he wasn’t interested in. Maybe
that’s why he had so vigorously pursued the claims of the exploitive paranormal; he couldn’t stand bloodsuckers.
There had been occasional patches of fog along the drive, at first innocuous wisps, but a gray layer by the time Annette crossed
the borders of north La Jolla. The June Gloom had staked its position along the coast as firmly as a desert dweller on a beach
holiday. Am caught his first glimpse of the Hotel just above Scripps Institution of Oceanography, its telltale red tile roof
a beacon through the haze. The Hotel stretched along the expanse of La Jolla Strand, forty acres of beach-front property.
It had been housing guests for more than a hundred years, and during that time had undergone numerous expansions and renovations.
What hadn’t changed was the resort’s many charms. A masterpiece does not age; it just adds myths.
Am parked Annette in Outer Mongolia, the employee parking lot that was far away from the Hotel, but relatively close to the
security hut. He took a shortcut, a trail of his own making, cutting through the more circuitous flower-lined pathways. The
Hotel’s gardens were famous, from its towering palms to its colorful peonies. No walkway was without bird-of-paradise or hibiscus;
no trellis without bougainvillea or mandevilla; no trail without roses or orchids. Any stroll was a floral seduction, the
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