Madame Tibaldi was full of energy as she boarded the plane. New Orleans just oozed psychic energy of course and the anticipation of going home also made her feel so light as if she could practically fly home without a plane. As she settled in to her seat, she knew rest would be impossible. Her mind was racing as she did as she was told and fastened her seat belt. The pilot turned on to the runway, wiggled his flaps, the engines picked up and then with a bump the plane started forward, picking up speed until the ground was a blur and then that unmistakable feeling - they were airborne. The other passengers settled back but Madame did not notice as she was already fast asleep.
As the plane touched down in Boston, Madame awoke with a start, probably caused by the squeal of the wheels as they touched the runway. The landing was alright, but probably - hopefully!- not the pilot's best as it had a bit of a bounce to it. Madame half-muttered a comment about having nodded off for a moment. Those who had been seated near enough to have been serenaded by her snoring for the past hours tried to put a good face on it, smiling tightly as they gathered their belongings from over head and exited the plane quickly. Madame Tibaldi had no time to notice, she was home and the urge to be in her home now drove her - she hadn't really missed it that much until she was here, so close and yet, still with a few miles to go.
The taxi cab fairly flew along as traffic was unusually light and soon Madame Tibaldi was deep in the familiar streets of the oldest parts of town. The driver pulled up in front of a bakery in the North End and let Madame and her luggage out. She paid the cabbie as a man and some boys came out of the bakery and greeted her warmly, sweeping her and her luggage into the bakery with them, much like a tide at the shore. The smells of the bread and cakes and other goodies baking away was like a warm blanket of comfort that went right to Madame's bones and she felt she was truly home again. But she needed to be in her own home, which was above the bakery, to stretch, relax, and remove the feel of travel from herself. So to the little service elevator at the back of the bakery she went. The elevator was as old as the building and creaked and groaned aplenty as it worked to take her up two stories. No matter how many times she rode it, she always found herself watching the cables and the bricks going by, for it was one of those old cage types that let you see everything around you. The boys, each with a piece of luggage had come along. A skeleton key opened her flat. The boys piled her belongings in and vanished - they knew that sooner or later she would reward them for their help.
Madame dropped her purse, kicked off her shoes, shucked out of her coat and plopped - there is no other word for it, on her very comfy, overstuffed couch. Her flat was actually 2 floors and the roof where she had a bit of a patio and some flowers, some herbs and tomatoes. The bakery and building had been in her family for about four generations - but she was the last of her immediate family and while she loved to cook - that was the reason for the tomatoes - she was a bit dreadful at baking. There was nothing else to say. Yeast died when she looked at it. She always guessed wrong as to whether she was about to toss in salt or sugar. (Yes, she could have labeled the canisters, but she just never bothered because, she reasoned, if she got the sugar and salt right, she would have some other disaster and she was right!)
Madame Tibaldi still owned the building and the bakery - but she left the baking and the running of the business to Aldo Francioni a second-generation Italian-American who had practically grown up there. His father, Frankie Francioni had been her father's right hand man for decades. The arrangement worked well. Aldo and his family lived next door above a deli in a building that Madame also owned having inherited it from her uncle, which combined with the bakery building made her a well propertied woman. No one would ever guess it to look at her and she wasn't one to discuss such things, so we'll just leave it there.
Because she lived in the home she was raised in and her father before her, and because she firmly believed that if something wasn't broke you did not fix it, her home was a virtual museum. Because she was a bit of a pack rat who collected things but generally never threw anything out except on occasion when something broke, her home was a bit cluttered. Because as a medium she met all sorts of interesting people who often paid in goods rather than cash, her home could be described as a bit eccentric in overall style. Even as she rested, she was contemplating the perfect place for a velvet bag of chicken bones.
The next day dawned bright and clear - not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day for Madame's mission - to find her Answer! To be honest, she was feeling a wee bit apprehensive - she knew Boston like the back of her hand, if the answer was here, surely she would have known that when she left Schooner Bay?
While she was gone, Aldo's kids had faithfully delivered her mail to her massive "catch all" table. Among the envelopes large and small, was one clearly marked from Schooner Bay, but somehow Madame just kept missing it as she dug though all the letters, cards and boxes - a couple should have been opened as they contained cakes and other once edible items. Food beyond saving was one thing Madame would throw out. But as she sorted the mail somehow she kept missing that oh so important one from Schooner Bay.
But now she was off. Her unpacking only half done, and mail organizing abandoned, she was off to find the answer, or Answer as she thought of it. She would start by walking and so had on sensible shoes, hat, comfortable dress, her purse on her arm. Down the elevator she went right into the bakery and full stop! Fresh coffee and pastry must come first. Fortified, she set off in earnest.
Her plan was simple. She lived in the oldest part of Boston so she would begin there. She considered searching every street and alley, but decided against it. It was not a dignified way for a medium to search. Now if you ask me, I would have said it was a perfectly sensible thing to do and she was just being a lazy bones - but she didn't ask me, so I probably shouldn't have put my two cents in. Just forget I said anything. Really.
Plan B! was to walk about and let the spirits be her guide. Straight out of the bakery the spirits guided her to the antique store across the street, followed by a pawn shop, a jewelry store, a millinery, a chocolate shop, a book store, a second book store, another antique store before finally ending up at the Old North Church. Yes, the famous church that let Paul Revere know what was up with the British.
Madame Tibaldi took a short break in the shade of the church while gathering her thoughts and hoping for a bit of guidance. She felt drawn down another street and there it was! A tavern with great baked beans and Boston Creme Pie. She had to stop in. The pie was sublime and Madame Tibaldi felt a desperate need for a nap. With a great amount of will and in spite of a great protest from her sleepy brain, she pressed on. Once outside, the bright sun helped with revive her a bit and she was on the move. She stopped to get her bearings - she was still in the older part of town but on a street she rarely traveled. As her gaze wandered upwards while she tried to straighten out her thoughts her eyes settled on the street sign above her. It pointed to an alley - Anne Searce Alley. She found the name interesting and then turned in the opposite direction.
