The Duke of Denison

There was a man in the town of Denison by the name of Vernon C. DeFranco. He was a shy and unimposing figure, no taller than five feet, with pale skin and deep-set eyes. He worked at the local market, doing whatever the manager asked him to do.

On his free time, Vernon would take his easel and paint the town in oils and bright pigments. He would donate the paintings to the library, and allow them to sell the paintings to help draw in some much-needed money into their coffers. Denison's main square proved to be Vernon's biggest inspiration. He would sit a the same corner every off day and paint what he saw in front of him.

The local townsfolk took to calling Vernon the “Duke of Denison,” for his paintings spurred a renewed interest in town pride. The merchants often cleaned and decorated their storefronts. They hoped their places of business would show well in Vernon's paintings.

One evening, Vernon was painting the band stand in the grassy knoll when a man in a grey flannel suit strolled up behind him.

“I see you are painting, young man.” the suited stranger said.

“Yes, sir.” Vernon said, not taking his eyes off the canvas in front of him.

“I hear you paint a lot,” the stranger said, “and that you give your paintings away for charity.”

“I do what I can.”

“Well, you are making a terrible mistake.”

Vernon stopped mid-stroke. “Excuse me?” he asked.

“You heard me. You are wasting your talents, giving your paintings away like that.” The man handed Vernon a business card. “My name is Ebeneezer Gulch, and I am a talent scout. Believe me, I know talent when I see some, and you've got talent! Talent like yours should be making lots of money. I believe your name is Vernon De Franco, is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, Vernon, here's my card.”

Vernon took the card, set it on his easel, “Well, thanks for the compliment. I just paint what I see, and if it can help people somehow, then that's what I want to do. I have to get back to this painting, if you don't mind. I'm running low on green, and I don't want my paints to dry.”

Vernon returned to his painting. Mr. Gulch stood there for a moment before tapping Vernon on the shoulder. Vernon stopped his work and turned around.

“Can I help you?” Vernon asked.

“You can't help me,” Gulch replied, “but I can help you. I can make you rich and famous. I can put your artwork all over the word, in the finest art museums and in the houses of all the rich and famous. I can make you a star, and you'd never have to worry about running out of anything ever again, especially anything green. Heck, with the money you could be making, you could buy this town a whole new library.”

Before Mr. Gulch left, he said, “You better call me. Your future, and your town's future, may just depend on it.”

Vernon finished his painting, packed up his equipment and went home. He lived in a one bedroom flat above the store. He placed the newest artwork on the kitchen table and set to making his supper. As he put his paints away, Mr. Gulch's card fell out. Vernon picked up the card, and was about to throw it away when he recalled Mr. Gulch's words; “you could buy this town a whole new library.”

Vernon pocketed the card. He would make the call in the morning. He hoped he would not live to regret it.

The morning arrived with plenty of rain to spare. The clouds kept Denison in the dark, and fairly well soaked, to boot.

Vernon packed his art materials away for the day. The rain did not agree with his paints. He recovered Mr. Gulch's card and read it again: “Mr. Ebeneezer Gulch, Talent Scout Extraordinaire.” Vernon took the card to the pay phone in the hallway. The call would set him back a dime, but he hoped it would be worth the cost.

A lady answered on the third ring. “Good morning. Brandenburg Building. How can I direct your call?”

“I'm looking for a Mr. Gulch.”

“Okay. I'm redirecting you to his office. Thank you.”

The operator put Vernon on hold as he was transferred to Gulch's office. Mr. Gulch answered on the fifth ring.

“You've reached Mr. Gulch, world's finest talent scout. How may I be of service?”

“Hello, sir. This is Vernon DeFranco. We spoke yesterday...”

“Oh,” Mr. Gulch interrupted, “you're the artist in the park, the one I met yesterday? Fine work you do, really easy on the eyes.”

“Thank you.” Vernon said.

“It's a good thing you called, Vern. Mind if I call you Vern? Well, anyway, I have an art show in a week, and I need to submit a few pieces. None of my regular artists can submit their work this time around, and I was wondering if you wouldn't mind stepping up to the plate and hitting this one out of the park?”

“What do I need to do?”

“I need three pieces. They have to be chronological and set in one place, like a church. They want morning, noon and evening. That's the requirements. If you can have them ready in three days, I'll pick them up and take them to this art show.”

“And how much will be paid for these works?”

“We'll talk turkey when the bird is cooked.” Mr. Gulch said. “This art show is to get your name into the limelight, not to make a whole bunch of dough. You need to be well-known to make the good money.”

“And this will help get my name out there, so I can make the big money?”

“Oh absolutely. You can trust me on this! So what do you say? Do we have an agreement?”

“I suppose... sure. I can do this.”

“Excellent. I'll be there in three days, at around noon. Be ready.”

Mr. Gulch hung up the phone. Vernon hung up the pay phone and returned to his room. Although he appreciated having his artwork out there for more to see, something about the whole situation felt as sticky as the weather outside his window. He could not figure out why. He had not time to waste on feelings; he had some art to make. He unpacked his art materials and set out for the downtown district. If they wanted a church, he would paint for them his church, which he attended at least once a week. The church of Saint Peter Nolasco on Victoria Avenue was his home away from home, though he had never tried to paint it before. While there, he would pray for the painting's success, not for his own benefit, but for the good of the town. He only hoped Mr. Gulch would be true to his word.

The Church of Saint Peter Nolasco was virtually empty that morning, with the exception of one old lady. Miss Margo B. Duvall was an old widow who lived blocks away from the church, in a house her late-husband built with his own hands. They were married 53 years when he passed away from a heart condition.

Miss Duvall walked to the church three days each week. She would pray the rosary, or walk the 14 stations of the cross. She preferred to pray in solitude and silence, so she visited the church during the morning hours.

Vernon DeFranco saw Miss Duvall as a grandmotherly figure, so full of sage advice and decades of life experience. It was she who recommended the job at the market, which also helped him find the apartment above the store. Miss Duvall also brought the occasional dinner to Vernon, who in turn gave the old widow a few paintings.

Vernon could think of no other person he would want to include in his paintings of the church than the saintly old widow, Miss Duvall. He started the painting with a rough pencil sketch, including Miss Duvall in the lower right corner, in her favorite pew. She did not move an inch during the whole time Vernon painted his first setting.

She only stood up after he had applied the final touches to his painting. She stopped at Vernon's easel, to get a good look at his latest work. She examined it for a few moments, then she patted him on the shoulder.

“Good work, Vern.” she said. “You always amaze me. You have such an eye for art, and your paintings always have such Grace. So beautiful...”

She left Vernon alone in the church. He would stay for a few more hours. He had two more pieces to finish for Mr. Gulch, and not much time to get them right. He would include Miss Margo Duvall in all three of them, in the same spot she occupied for so many decades.

Vernon finished the next two pieces of art in no time. He packed up and walked home, gingerly carting the freshly-painted works back to his flat above the market. He set them on the table to finish drying.

The next day, before his work day started, Vernon called Mr. Gulch's office. He wanted to let Mr. Gulch know that the paintings were finished and would be ready for pick up. No one answered the line in Mr. Gulch's office.

During his lunch break, Vernon spoke with the store owner, Mr. Anthony M. Williams, about the paintings. Mr. Williams owned one or two of Vernon's paintings, and had one displayed in the market.

“So, that is how I met this Mr. Gulch.” Vernon told Mr. Williams. “He will be here tomorrow for the paintings. Although they won't make money this time, he assured me they will help get my name out there, so my future paintings will fetch the library and other places more money when they sell their collections.”

Mr. Williams shook his head, “Well I don't care much for traveling scouts. They're more like traveling snake oil salesmen; up to no good, the lot of them. I would remain weary of any of this man's promises, if I were you.”

“Why is that?”

“I've had past experiences with those types.” Mr. Williams said. “They can talk all sorts of sweet things, but in the end, the break your heart. They'll take away the only things in this life you care about. So I tell you, don't trust him.”

Vernon was deeply troubled by Mr. Williams' advice. He went home and studied the business card once more. It seemed legitimate enough. The card was professionally printed on high-quality card stock. The address and phone number all checked out to be genuine. Vernon called the City Hall to see if they had any information regarding Mr. Gulch and his business. The clerk told Vernon he would have something by early morning the next day. Vernon hoped the information would arrive before Mr. Gulch showed up for the paintings. The same sticky feeling he had earlier returned as he thought more and more about Mr. Gulch.

Despite his uncertain apprehension, Vernon was determined to make more money for the town. He only hoped Mr. Gulch would be that gateway to greater profits. He yearned for the next day to arrive and to bring with it a glorious change in the weather.

Vernon set up his easel in his usual spot, near the oak tree in the courtyard in the center of town. He wanted to get back to the usual routine. While it was fun painting in a new setting, he still felt there was more to explore in the well-tended courtyard.

Mr. Gulch would arrive at any moment. Vernon had the three paintings packaged and ready for the talent scout to take them to the art exhibit.

As Vernon applied some brilliant greens to his latest painting, Mr. Gulch showed up. He was dressed up in a pinstripe suit, dark slacks and a bright red bow tie. He looked somewhat like Mr. Jenkins, Denison's funeral director, though Vernon decided not to tell Mr. Gulch that.

“So how is my bright and shining, rising star today?” Mr. Gulch said. “I hope you have the paintings, so we can make you world famous.”

Vernon stood up and handed the packaged art to Mr. Gulch. “There they are, as you requested. I hope you think them good enough to display at the show.”

“I'm sure they'll be just fine.” Mr. Gulch threw the paintings under his arm. “Well, I must be going. Thanks and I'll call you when I have good news.”

With that, Mr. Gulch disappeared.

In the following days, Vernon continued to paint, however, he began trying new places to set his easel. His scope expanded to include other parts of Denison; the football field, the high school, the old mine shaft, and other places of interest. He even tried his hand at including more people into his works. Miss Margo Duvall was one of the first people he had painted in years. She was followed by the store owner, then the pharmacist, the mayor, some of the other shopkeepers, and a number of the old men who practiced their Barber Shop songs on the grand stands.

Days later, Vernon took his latest works to the library. When he arrived, he was surprised to see his other paintings were gone. He asked Miss Erika, the head librarian, what happened.

“Oh, someone came by and showed us a bill of sale.” she replied. “So we naturally assumed you must have sold them all.”

“Do you have the bill of sale?”

Miss Erika pulled out a sheet from behind the counter. She handed it to Vernon. The bill read: “12 paintings be Vernon DeFranco. Sold to Ebeneezer Gulch. Ten dollars.”

Below the hand-written note was Vernon's signature. Vernon was flabbergasted. He had not signed any such note. It was clearly forged, but he was powerless to do anything about it. He only hoped Mr. Gulch would return shortly, for he had plenty of explaining to do.

When Mr. Gulch did not show, Vernon decided to take matters into his own hands. He asked for, and got, the day off from work, after having explained the situation to Mr. Williams.

“I wish you all the best, Vern.” Mr. Williams said. “That is terrible, what some people can do. If you need any help, I'm more than willing to help you.” He handed Vern a twenty dollar bill. “I wouldn't go there without some money. You never know what kind of situation you'll end up facing over there.”

“Thanks, Mr. Williams.” said Vernon.

Before he hopped on the 10am bus for the big city, Vernon ran into Miss Margo Duvall, who was on her way to a town council meeting. He told her where he was going and why.

“That's too bad.” Miss Duvall said. “Well, just know that if you need anything, you're never alone. You can always count on me.” She gave him a five dollar bill. “You take good care of yourself over there, okay?”

“Yes, ma'am. Thank you.”

Vernon boarded the bus for the big city. He held tightly to his small satchel of basic necessities. The voyage to the big city would take four hours. Vernon would walk the six blocks from the bus depot to the the Brandenburg Building, which was located on 728 Tuell Terrace.

The Brandenburg Building was an old art-nouveau style structure from the early 1900s. Though its better days were clearly behind it, the richly ornate structure still amazed Vernon. Denison had no building taller than four floors, and Vernon seldom left the comfortable confines of his home town. The Brandenburg's large concourse equally impressed Vernon, though he knew he couldn't afford any distractions. He had to find Mr. Gulch's office before the close of the business day.

The lady receptionist stared at Vernon with a half-dazed look plastered on her face. “Mr. Gulch is on the fourth floor,” she slowly monotoned. “He is in office number 455. Would you like me to ring his office and let him know you are on the way?”

“No, thank you, ma'am.” Vernon said. “I want to make sure he's still there when I get up there.”

“I understand, sir. Have a good day...”

Vernon took the stairs to the fourth floor. The fourth floor halls seemed narrow compared to the extravagant, wrought iron and gilding of the concourse. Office 455 was on the furthest end of the building, near the public restrooms. Vernon knocked on the wood door. No one responded. He tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He entered the office.

“Oh.” was the only word Vernon could say as he viewed Mr. Gulch's office space. It was almost entirely empty, with only a folding chair, a matching table and a telephone for furniture. A waste bin in the corner held old a dozen take-out containers and a few, empty, glass drink bottles.

Vernon noticed a smoldering cigarette butt near the office door. From the looks of it, the half-dazed receptionist broke her promise not to call Mr. Gulch. Vernon wondered if he should stay in the office or try to follow Mr. Gulch. He stood there, not knowing what to do or where to turn.

He left the building. He felt cheated. He felt lied to. Worse still, is that he had no recourse, and no way to recover his lost artwork. He called Mr. Williams and told him about the whole raw deal before turning in for the night at a cheap motel not far from the bus depot. Mr. Williams sounded concerned.

“You sit tight, Vern. We'll help you make it right.”

“Okay.” Vernon said half-heartedly.

Vernon would board the afternoon bus back for Denison the next day. He only hoped the library and the citizens of Denison would forgive him for his bad business dealing, and for all the lost art and much-needed income Mr. Gulch had stolen.

He hoped the next day would bring with it better news.

Vernon could not sleep that night. His missing artwork haunted his waking dreams. He could hear the voices of his friends and fellow citizens of Denison.

“You cost us our funding.”

“You should leave now, and never come back.”

“You are a disappointment and a failure, and we don't want you here.”

As he packed his meager belongings in the morning, Vernon considered where he would go if he left Denison once and for all. He knew nothing other than the little town by the woods, and the little stream that served as a fishing hole during his misspent youth.

He wondered if his Aunt Marion would house him for a few days. Aunt Marion lived in Green Bay, not far from a pickle factory. Vernon could get a part-time job at a nearby restaurant, and continue to develop his craft. That would mean giving up on the town square that so inspired him many a time.

He called Aunt Marion. “Oh, that would be fantastic.” she told him. “Your younger cousin, Victoria, would love to learn a few painting tricks from you. Just come on over. We'd be glad to have you here. You could sleep in the unfinished guest room on the second floor.”

“Okay.”

“Is everything alright out there?” Aunt Marion asked.

“No.” Vernon said. “I have hurt too many people out here. I think it's best if I leave. I am unworthy of their trust or friendship.”

Vernon headed for the bus depot. Along the way, he looked up the cost to travel from Denison to Green Bay. He had enough at the bank in Denison to cover the cost of bus fare from there to his Aunt's house. He would buy the ticket as soon as he arrived safely in Denison.

The 10am bus from Denison arrived at 2:15pm. The bus would be emptied, then Vernon would board the bus. He would be back home by 6:30pm.

Vernon waited for the passengers to clear off the bus. To his surprise, Mrs. Duvall, Mr. Williams and Miss Erika stepped off the bus and into the bus depot. They were joined by a dozen other townsfolk, including the mayor, Mr. Brandon Fisk, and the Sheriff, Mr. Steven Alwyn.

He rand over to them. “Hello.” Vernon said. “What brings you here? Are you here to arrest me for losing all those paintings to that crook Mr. Gulch? I can explain...”

“No,” Mr. Alwyn said, “we aren't here to arrest you. We're here to help you.”

Vernon shook his head. “Help me?” he asked. “But I cost the town all those paintings.”

“That you donated in the first place.” Mrs. Duvall said. “You have helped us so much, Vern, that we couldn't watch idly as you suffered at the hands of such a dastardly con man.”

“Thank you.” Vernon said. “I wasn't certain if you would ever want me back in town again.”

But you're the Duke of Denison.” Miss Erika said. “You instilled in our town a sense of civic pride which was in danger of totally dying off.”

“We're here,” Mr. Williams said, “to make sure our favorite son isn't swindled ever again.”

“But Mr. Gulch is gone.” Vernon explained. “He cleared out his office. I don't know how to find him.”

“Well, that's why we're all here.” the mayor said. “We're going to find him, we're going to get back your paintings, and we're going to bring justice to that con man Gulch.”

The other townsfolk cheered the mayor on. Vernon was touched by their kindness. He felt unworthy of such an outpouring of affection.

The mayor continued. “You have inspired each of us, Vernon, with your skills, talents and most of all, your charity. We will spread out in this city, and use our individual skills to help you recover what you lost. Now, let's go. We don't have time to waste. Mr. Gulch is going down... tonight!”

Vernon and his fellow citizens from Denison began their man-hunt of Mr. Ebeneezer Gulch, talent scout-at-large. From the bus depot, they split into three groups. Vernon teamed with Mr. Williams, Miss Erika and the Sheriff, Steven Alwyn. They would head back to Mr. Gulch's office, to see if they could retrace Mr. Gulch's exit strategy from the day before.

“He's in office 455, on the fourth floor.” Vernon told his friends. “When I went up there last night,he had just left. I think the receptionist called him and let him know I was on my way.”

“Let's sneak around the receptionist.” Miss Erika suggested.

“No.” Sheriff Alwyn said. “Let me handle the receptionist. I guarantee you she won't call Mr. Gulch, not this time.”

“Fine.” Vernon said. “I'll go to his office if you three wish to stay down here.”

“I'm going with you.” Miss Erika said.

“If you wish.” Vernon blushed.

Vernon and Miss Erika took the elevator to the fourth floor as Sheriff Alwyn and Mr. Williams distracted the receptionist. Vernon turned to Miss Erika.

“I'm really sorry about the paintings.” he said. “I had no idea Mr. Gulch was a shyster. If I had known, I wouldn't have accepted his offer. He wouldn't have stolen the paintings I made for you...” Vernon cleared his throat. “I mean, the paintings I made for the library so you could buy whatever you wanted, or, well, whatever the library needed to please you, that is...”

“I understand what you're saying.” Miss Erika interrupted. “I don't hold you responsible for this man's actions. You don't need to apologize. It's the library that should be apologizing to you, and thanking you for all the good you've done.”

“Well, you're welcome.” Vernon said. “The library is welcome, yes, but you're welcome, too.”

Miss Erika placed a hand on Vernon's shoulder. “Relax, Vern.” she said. “Everything will work out. You've got us helping you. In fact, you have the whole town behind you. You mean so much to all of us.”

“Thank you, Miss Erika. That means a lot.”

The elevator doors opened to the fourth floor. Vernon and Miss Erika walked down to office 455. Vernon did not expect to find anyone inside the office, nor did he expect to recover his paintings. When he opened the door, he was not surprised to find the office entirely empty.

“I hope the others have better luck in tracking down Mr. Gulch.” Miss Erika said. “I don't want to lose those lovely paintings. I enjoyed looking at them every day I work.”

“You do?” Vernon asked.

“Yes, very much.”

“That's good to know.” Vernon said. “Well, if you ever want anything particular, just let me know, okay? I'd love to paint you, I mean paint for you, for the library, though I wouldn't mind painting you.” Vernon's blush deepened to crimson. He cursed himself for his inability to speak clearly.

“Well, we should get back with the others.” Miss Erika said. “We don't want to be left behind.”

“Sure.”

They rejoined the other downstairs. The Sheriff was beaming.

“I found us a lead.” he said. “I got a last-known address for Mr. Gulch. It's an apartment not far from here. It seems we're not far behind this thief after all. Don't worry, Vern, we'll get your paintings back for you.”

The group left the Brandenburg Building for the Chase Apartments three blocks away. The Chase Apartments once hosted the rich and somewhat famous as a four star hotel. It's glory days coincided with the time the Brandenburg Building was a reputable place of business. Both spots fell victim to the apathetic march of time and progress.

Vernon, Sheriff Awlyn, Mr. Williams and Miss Erika approached the five-story building cautiously.

“I say we break into two teams as before.” Sheriff Alwyn suggested. “This way, no one will tip off Mr. Gulch of our arrival.”

“Good idea.” said Mr. Williams. “I think I'll go with Vernon this time.”

Sheriff Alwyn shrugged. “That will be alright, I suppose. Let's go. We'll meet in the lobby in ten.”

The four searchers split into two groups. Miss Erika and the Sheriff approached the old concierge desk, while Vernon and Mr. Williams headed for the post boxes just right of the main lobby. Vernon and Mr. Williams did not find a Mr. Gulch listed in any of the mailboxes, though they did find an Ebeneezer G. King in apartment 512.

“I winder if he's using an alias.” Mr. Williams said. “This man could have a dozen aliases for all we know.”

Vernon and Mr. Williams took the stairs to the fifth floor, as the elevator was out of order. The stairs wrapped around the old-fashioned, wrought iron elevator shaft.

“No wonder why it's out of order.” Mr. Williams said to Vernon. “Those thing were death traps. You could open the door and step off into nothing. You'd fall to your doom.”

“I'll keep that in mind.” Vernon said.

Mr. Williams and Vernon headed down the fifth floor hallway, toward room 512. The door was ajar. Mr Williams nudged the door open all the way. Inside the apartment were stacks and stacks of paintings, more than Vernon either gave to Mr. Gulch or the library combined.

“It looks like you weren't the only one who trusted this con-man, Vern.” Mr. Williams said. “Look at all that artwork. This has to be the works of a dozen artists, if not more. If you hadn't gone after him, who knows how many more artists he would have cheated. You may have saved many other from the same, terrible fate, Vern. You should feel good about that.”

“I suppose.”

Vernon heard someone quickly approaching the apartment from the stairs. Vernon peeked out of Gulch's apartment to see Gulch himself running down the hall towards them. He stopped dead in his tracks upon spotting Vernon.

“Not you again!” Mr. Gulch said. “Gotta get away from these people.”

Mr. Gulch then took off the other way, towards the stairs. Vernon and Mr. Williams followed.

For some inexplicable reason, Mr. Gulch threw open the elevator shaft door and hopped inside. The elevator proved a faster trip than the stairs all the way down to the lobby. Vernon glanced into the shaft. Mr. Gulch lay motionless on top of the elevator car, which was all the way down in basement level, five floors below.

“As I said earlier,” Mr. Williams shook his head, “these elevators were death traps. He had no idea what he was getting himself into. Now he'll never know. One thing is certain.”

“Yeah?” Vernon asked. “What's that?”

“Mr. Gulch sure got away from us.”

“Mr. Gulch cheated so many artists. It seems he also cheated death. But he won't cheat the law from dispensing justice.”

Sheriff Alwyn pulled the broken, bleeding Ebeneezer Gulch from off the elevator and into the lobby. Mr. Gulch was still breathing, though he was not responsive. Mr. Williams, Miss Erika and Vernon gathered around the suffering conman.

“What do we do about this?” Mr. Williams asked Sheriff Alwyn. “Should we call the local authority?”

“If we call right now,” Mr. Williams said, “they'll seize all the paintings as evidence, including all of Vernon's works. Who knows how long it would be until we get them back again. The library needs those funds now, isn't that right, Miss Erika?”

“I don't think we have a choice.” Miss Erika chimed in. “He needs to go to the hospital soon, or he might die. The library isn't as important as a human life, even one so foul as Mr. Gulch.”

“Miss Erika's right.” Vernon said. “He has to live to stand trial. Besides, I can always paint her some more paintings, you know, for the library.”

“I'll get an ambulance.” Miss Erika ran off for a phone.

Mr. Williams and Sheriff Alwyn glanced at Vernon. Their glances said enough. Vernon blushed.

Mr. Williams laughed. “Another work in progress, Vern? Best of luck to you, my friend. She's quite the lady.”

Vernon smiled. "She is, indeed; more lovely than any painting."

Moments later, an ambulance arrived. Mr. Gulch was taken off to the hospital, while local authorities investigated the conman's apartment. Vernon and the rest of the citizens of Denison left the big city behind, to return to their peaceful, normal and quiet lives.

Vern returned to the city park, though he would occasionally paint elsewhere. The library became one of his new favorite places to paint. Miss Erika appreciated Vernon's presence and paintings very much. With Vernon's works, and the publicity garnered from the Gulch court case, the library made more than enough money to cover its costs for many years.

And with his share of the money, Vernon proposed to his sweetheart librarian, and together they painted a wonderful portrait of a family; The Duke and Duchess of Denison, complete with a royal brood of their own.

THE END