Wicked Business (Lizzy and Diesel 2)

I left Cat 7143 to guard the house. I had the Van Gogh under my bed, and the bell in my clothes dryer. Diesel didn’t want to return them until the stone was found. Having stolen priceless artifacts in my house seemed like a ticking time bomb to me, but I saw his point. We didn’t want them available to any new treasure hunters.

I was riding shotgun, next to Diesel, and I was enjoying the trip. There was a chill in the air, but the sun was bright, and people were running and biking on the Esplanade path next to the Charles River. We crossed the bridge and cruised up Massachusetts Avenue. Diesel turned a couple blocks before Harvard Yard and followed his GPS through a residential neighborhood. Tichy Dog Park was attached to a larger municipal park with a lighted baseball field. We parked and walked to the statue positioned at the entrance to the fenced-in dog area.

The bronze statue of Peder Tichy represented him as a portly, mostly bald little man with a bulbous nose and double chin. There was a simple plaque at the base of the statue with his name and dates of birth and death. A pack of dogs chased one another in the enclosed space, and dog owners were lined up on a bench, talking, watching the dogs play.

“The history of Tichy persuades when innocence prevails,” Diesel said.

“What does that mean? What history is it referring to?”

“Don’t know. He had a variety of interests.”

I reached out and touched the statue. “I’m not feeling it. No trapped energy.”

“Moving on,” Diesel said. “The Tichy House is a block from here. We can walk.”

Diesel is a big guy with a long stride, and you cover a lot of ground fast when you walk with him. I imagine when he’s barefoot on a beach he slows down, but today he wasn’t wasting time. We stopped at the front stoop to the house and read the plaque. Again, nothing fancy. Tichy House. Circa 1850. Open to the public. Donations appreciated.

The house is on the fringe of Harvard’s campus in a neighborhood that I suspect is, to a large extent, faculty housing, just as it was in the 1800s. The homes are modest but sturdy. Not many are as old as Tichy House.

I turned just before going through the house’s front door and caught a glimpse of a car as it drove past. It was a beat-up junker, and Hatchet was behind the wheel. He was focused on the road ahead and didn’t notice us. Probably running down all the Tichy leads, like we were doing.

The two front rooms of the house held displays of Tichy memorabilia. Framed awards and diplomas, bound professional papers, photographs of Tichy and his family, some personal treasures. Threadbare Oriental rugs covered the wide plank floor. A woman who looked as old as the rugs sat behind a spindle-legged writing desk.

“May I help you?” she asked. “Feel free to look around.”

“Is the rest of the house open to the public?” I asked her.

“Yes, but it’s not historically interesting. The upstairs rooms are empty. The kitchen and bathroom were renovated in 1957. The last Tichy to live in the house moved out in 1962, and the house was turned over to the Trust.”

Diesel and I walked through the house, studied the mementos in the downstairs rooms, left a donation, and returned to our car.

“Next stop is Tichy Street,” Diesel said.

“I think that little museum was our best shot at finding a clue, but I touched everything in there, and nothing registered.”

Diesel headed back to Massachusetts Avenue. “I saw Hatchet drive down the street just as we were going into the Tichy House. He could have gone through ahead of us and taken something.”

“That’s a depressing thought.”

We traveled the length of Tichy Street and briefly got out and looked at the Tichasaurus Armatus. It was a fun replica, but it wasn’t enchanted, and I couldn’t find any hidden messages.

“I have one more stop,” Diesel said. “Mount Auburn Cemetery. Tichy’s buried there.”

“I’m trying to forget I was threatened with death today. Visiting a cemetery isn’t going to contribute to my mental health.”

“Just think of a cemetery as a history book with grass.”

“What about the ghouls and ghosts who live there?”

“No different from anyplace else.”

“And your opinion on death?”

“I think it’s to be avoided. Beyond that I have no opinion.”

“How about life? Do you have an opinion on life? What do you value?”

“Honor, duty, sex, and the NFL. Not necessarily in that order.”