Free As she rides by by David M Pierce Page A

sunglasses. Then the V. D. master plan commenced.
    Step One: I called a film producer pal of mine—who lived just down the hill, by the way—Lew Lewellen. His lovely wife said he was at the studio already, and could she help?
    “I remember one time when I was baby-sitting Lew,” I said, “and at about three in the morning we drove out to some property he’d just bought and listened to the tide come in. He said you were going to build a bungalow there and maybe a guest house and get stairs put in leading down to the water and maybe a little dock of some kind to swim off of and tie a boat to, if you ever got a boat. What’s the state of affairs there now, darling?”
    She laughed. “Well, the stairs are in,” she said. “And the foundations and about three feet of walls are up, the part that’s natural stone, and that’s it. Lew’s doing his nut, of course, there’s just been one holdup after another. Oh. Did I say the road’s been graveled, too?”
    “No,” I said. “Sounds like my kind of place. Can I borrow it for a few hours later in the week?”
    “Honey, you could probably buy it for $2.95,” she said. “Borrow it all you want, although goodness knows what you want it for.”
    “I don’t suppose,” I said, “you’ve gotten around to putting up a big gate at the entrance or anything like that?”
    “So what’s to protect?” she said. “We were out there last week with the architect, there’s just that thing sticking up at the side of the road, like what they let down when a train comes through.”
    “Perfect,” I said. “Love to Lew, thanks to you, and hello to that extremely well-brought-up son of yours.”
    “We like him too,” she said, and rang off.
    Step Two, immediately thereafter: On his telephone answering machine, Phineas left the following message: “Hi! Phineas here, dears. Guess who’s going cruising, and I don’t mean in West LA , I’m talking on the briney, sailors, I’m talking following winds and salt spray against the cheek, foreign ports and exotic lands, starting Wednesday and ending... but who can read the future? Not even I, Phineas...”
    “Perfect,” I said when he was done. “Wish I had a flair with words like you, but I went to the kind of school where even the teachers played hookey.” We grinned at each other, then said hello to the pretty Mexican maid who had just come in (I said, “Buenos días”), then we col lected King, who didn’t take much collecting as he was already waiting by my car, and off we drove to work.
    Next Steps: As soon as we arrived at the boutique, I had a word with the cashier-wrapper-telephonist, whose name turned out to be Derrone.
    I asked him to (a) spread the word to all concerned, callers and employees, that Phineas was about to hoist anchor for a few days, and also to please make up a sign for the door, which he then proceeded to do, using a much more graceful and artistic penmanship that I was capable of. In ten minutes the sign was duly up. It read, “Although the boss is off Wednesday on an extended sea trip, we humble slaves left behind will endeavor to struggle on without him and to fulfill your every (floral) need.” During this time, Phineas, at my suggestion, was phoning the officer in charge of the case and reassuring him that, appearances to the contrary, he, Phineas, would, indeed be in court at the appropriate hour.
    Then, as I couldn’t think of any other way of spreading the word except hiring a skywriter to spell it out in smoke puffs, I retired into the workrooms where Susan, Melody, and Phineas were filling up seven hanging baskets the size of TV dish antennas with such blossoms as Busy Lizzie, Sweet Alyssum, and that perennial favorite, Wandering Jew. After contributing a useful tip or two, I took my leave, as per the master plan, of Phineas, at great length, outside his front door, just in case anyone happened to be interested. I couldn’t see anyone particularly interested in me, but a slim young