The Museum
The Smithsonian National Postal Museum is one of those places that you are taken during your induction if you work for the Post Office in Washington. I remember it being interesting, if a little conservative. I know I was much more interested in Dorothy's ruby slippers in the Museum of American History than in anything I came across in the Postal Museum. Oliver O'Toole must be rubbing off on me because this visit was much more meaningful and emotional. According to the website, the National Postal Museum is dedicated to the 'preservation, study and presentation of postal history and philately'. I think I should get that printed on a business card for Oliver. 'Oliver O'Toole, Section Leader, Dead Letter Office, Denver. 'Dedicated to the preservation and study of postal history'. Of course, if I did, I would want to put a QR code on it (linking to nothing more than the USPS website), because Oliver would never know what it was or what it linked to, and therefore would be in conniptions over it! Enough frivolity. Today was a heavy, momentous day.
I knew that Oliver wanted to go to the Pony Express exhibit to cauterise old wounds. I desperately wanted to go with him and metaphorically (okay or maybe literally) hold his hand. I didn't want him to have to face that alone, but I knew that he wanted to. How could that vile empty-headed woman leave him at such a personally important place? Who does that? I have thought up electronic revenges for Holly before, but today, I really wanted to enact some of them. Who takes the gift of such a true and kind heart, and tramples it through such selfishness? So, as much as I wanted to stand guard over Oliver as he returned to the scene of the crime, I instead beat a retreat into the William H Gross Stamp Gallery. I tried to lose myself in philatelic art, but who was I kidding?
After about 20 minutes, I made my way to the first-floor foyer, needing, I thought, to be the supportive face that Oliver saw upon the completion of his quest. I was beyond surprised to see him bringing Harper to the front door, in search of medical attention. Poor Harper! Such as lovely man, who had faced so much, was bravely facing serious health issues on top of having a missing daughter. Poor Harper … poor Phoebe! Norman was a wonder though. He calmly took charge of both Harper and Phoebe. I wonder when Rita will realise what a gem she has there?
The Meeting
Harper and Phoebe being otherwise occupied (and Norman too), Oliver, Rita and I kept the arranged meeting with Steve. Steve has many faults - being emotionally unavailable and self-absorbed for two – but he can be exceedingly useful. Of course, he had to do the 'neither confirm nor deny' cloak and dagger rot that almost drove me crazy, but he did give us a glimpse into a way forward. A letter had arrived at the Department of Defence, addressed to 'Feeb'. Phoebe! He had a letter for Phoebe!
Steve was determined not to share the contents of the letter, but had reckoned without Rita and her amazing mind. We left the meeting with a series of odd clues, and a request to keep Steve informed if we deciphered the message. I am not sure if he had any hope that we would, but he just might have underestimated the determination of the postables.
The day will end fast.
The birthday of Liberty.
Return to the four-poster.
Song 5196
Proverbial 1810
Grim Feet
Lunch?
In our own ways, we are four clever people. I don't say that as an ego boost, but really, we are. Rita has an amazing memory and a compassionate nature that makes her a wonder. Norman, too is a clever man. His understanding of chemistry and general knowledge is first rate. I am better than average with technology, art history and can think algorithmically. Oliver, is a borderline genius. We are the group who should be able to figure out what these random clues mean. We should, but for a good hour or so, we really struggled. Proverbial? Grim feet?
After puzzling without success, we went our own ways, Rita to dance (that should be interesting to watch), Norman to support, and Oliver and I to continue to grapple with the letter. Then all of a sudden, a breakthrough. I wonder if the code breakers at Bletchley who unravelled the enigma code felt like we did. Intellectually challenged, but knowing that there were very human consequences of success or failure?
Partial Decoding
A flippant comment about the Lincoln Bedroom led Oliver to the clue, 'return to the four-poster'. Not an army base, but a bed? Then Rita and Norman flew in with the brilliant idea that 'the birthday of Liberty' was not in fact the 4th July, but rather, the actual birth date of the Amidon dog, Liberty. We could hardly contain our excitement as we made our way to see Harper.
Like the pieces of a jigsaw, things began to fall into place.
The day will end fast: Fasting. Ramadan this year ended on 17 July.
The birthday of Liberty: Liberty's birthday is 21 July.
Return to the four-poster: Randilynn fell from her four-poster bed as a child. She fell from a chopper when she was captured.
Song 5196, Proverbial 1810: Really, these were the most obvious clues. We should have figured these out first. Proverbs! 'The name of the LORD is a strong tower; the righteous run to it and are safe.' Randilynn was going to a tower?
Leaving Harper as we didn't want to get his hopes up while we were still uncertain what would happen, we moved our discussion from Harper's room to mine. We were giddy with success. Everything was falling into place. Everything except for 'Grim Feet'. We spent more time than we should have trying to decode this odd clue. Every search I ran lead to either strange tales about severed feet turning up on beaches (I mean, gross!) or articles on foot and mouth disease. I really hope these are not the answers we need.
We had enough. I decided to call Steve.
In Steve's Hands
Feeling a little self-conscious, I called Steve. I spelled out what we had uncovered, clue by clue. Initially, he was a little dismissive. It was almost as if he doubted that a group of postal employees could beat the team of analysts that the DOD had on the case. We are an elite taskforce, Steve!
Waiting to hear what might happen, we decided to order room service and continue to consider 'grim feet'. Over bruschetta, fries and aioli and fruit and cheese, we continued to discuss the final clue.
Oliver suggested an anagram. That sounded promising until we realised that there was no clear anagram, and we were in fact, left with things like 'regime FT', 'fig tree M' and 'met grief'. We spent a lot of time on that one, but couldn't see what it might mean. Rita returned to her room to comply with her curfew, and Norman, Oliver and I developed headaches researching the nauseating number of feet-related horror stories in Grimm's Fairy Tales. I may never sleep again after reading the original Pinochio and Cinderella stories. Thankfully, Steve called back, ending our frustrating rabbit-hole diving.
Steve's message was short. Be prepared to attend an emergency Senate sub-committee meeting at 9:00 a.m. tomorrow! Norman and Oliver left, ostensibly to sleep, but in my case at least, to toss and turn in wakeful worry. Writing this has helped, Diary. Sleep, please come!