Faded Glory - Part One
Samantha sat reclining in her old desk chair, eyes closed, contemplating excuses she could give to get out of her next assignment. Nothing came to mind. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and allowed her glance to fall upon the dusty portrait that lay on her otherwise pristine desk. Two people sat placidly on the canvas, a man and a woman. No one knew who they were. The picture was discovered during the previous week in the antique museum down in New Orleans. The only clue to the identity of the couple was an address scrawled in pencil on the back. Some people from the museum had called the historical society in Atlanta because they had heard about its penchant for solving mysteries pertaining to antiques. Samantha worked for the society in Atlanta, but at that time, she wished she didn't.
After a few seconds of hesitation, Samantha flipped the portrait over and read the address aloud to herself. Only one part captured her attention, and that was the city: New Orleans. It was Samantha's job to visit the location - if it still existed - and to gather clues to identify the people in the picture or the approximate date when the picture was taken.
"This is pointless." Samantha muttered to herself. "I'm not going to find any hints to this case in a swamp! Why couldn't the address say 'New York' or 'Los Angeles'?"
"Because those cities have their own mysteries and their own people to solve them." The voice of Mr. Gordon, Samantha's boss, startled her so much that she nearly lost her balance and fell out of her chair. He dropped some travel papers on the desk as he continued. "I know you want to leave, but you haven't escaped the South yet. Until you do, there will be plenty of work for you here. You leave tomorrow morning. Good luck." With that, Mr. Gordon left the room. Samantha waited a few seconds until she picked up the papers and followed his lead.
The next day, Samantha looked at the house which bore the same address as the portrait. The location was outside of the city in a moist, secluded area near Lake Pontchartrain. The scene reminded Samantha of the famous Louisiana bayous often found in scary stories. The house was a modest, single-story building that had probably once been blue, but the paint was chipped away and faded, leaving a hue of pale grey. Most of the place, including the surrounding trees, was covered in thick Spanish moss. None of the windows still contained glass, and portions of the exterior structure appeared to be crumbling even as Samantha stood there.
"Swamp. I knew it - I just KNEW it! I really need to start looking for a new job." Samantha inhaled deeply, then pushed open the door, which was quite a struggle because the house seemed to be leaning to one side, causing the door to be out of alignment and difficult to open.
Circumstances inside of the house were no better. The roof, badly in need of repair, was leaking fat droplets onto Samantha's head while she imagined then thousand other places she'd rather be. As she looked around, she wondered how long it had been since anyone inhabited the house. It was covered in moss and contained the potent smell of decay. Samantha also noticed something that seemed very out of place: a decomposing yellow rose. When she moved closer and picked it up, it crumbled in her hands. She glanced around the room. Strewn everywhere were individual roses, all of them yellow, and all of them in various states of disintegration. It appeared as though there was one rose for every year since the house had been built, but the person who received the roses flung them away as soon as he or she touched them.
After a few seconds of hesitation, Samantha flipped the portrait over and read the address aloud to herself. Only one part captured her attention, and that was the city: New Orleans. It was Samantha's job to visit the location - if it still existed - and to gather clues to identify the people in the picture or the approximate date when the picture was taken.
"This is pointless." Samantha muttered to herself. "I'm not going to find any hints to this case in a swamp! Why couldn't the address say 'New York' or 'Los Angeles'?"
"Because those cities have their own mysteries and their own people to solve them." The voice of Mr. Gordon, Samantha's boss, startled her so much that she nearly lost her balance and fell out of her chair. He dropped some travel papers on the desk as he continued. "I know you want to leave, but you haven't escaped the South yet. Until you do, there will be plenty of work for you here. You leave tomorrow morning. Good luck." With that, Mr. Gordon left the room. Samantha waited a few seconds until she picked up the papers and followed his lead.
The next day, Samantha looked at the house which bore the same address as the portrait. The location was outside of the city in a moist, secluded area near Lake Pontchartrain. The scene reminded Samantha of the famous Louisiana bayous often found in scary stories. The house was a modest, single-story building that had probably once been blue, but the paint was chipped away and faded, leaving a hue of pale grey. Most of the place, including the surrounding trees, was covered in thick Spanish moss. None of the windows still contained glass, and portions of the exterior structure appeared to be crumbling even as Samantha stood there.
"Swamp. I knew it - I just KNEW it! I really need to start looking for a new job." Samantha inhaled deeply, then pushed open the door, which was quite a struggle because the house seemed to be leaning to one side, causing the door to be out of alignment and difficult to open.
Circumstances inside of the house were no better. The roof, badly in need of repair, was leaking fat droplets onto Samantha's head while she imagined then thousand other places she'd rather be. As she looked around, she wondered how long it had been since anyone inhabited the house. It was covered in moss and contained the potent smell of decay. Samantha also noticed something that seemed very out of place: a decomposing yellow rose. When she moved closer and picked it up, it crumbled in her hands. She glanced around the room. Strewn everywhere were individual roses, all of them yellow, and all of them in various states of disintegration. It appeared as though there was one rose for every year since the house had been built, but the person who received the roses flung them away as soon as he or she touched them.
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