Page 16 of Theo of Golden

He made the short walk to Ponder House, satisfied it would be a good place to call home if it could be rented.

Already, he had acquaintances, maybe the beginnings of friendship, in the neighborhood.

His plan was working beautifully.

CHAPTER 10

Each weekday morning at seven o’clock, James Ponder pulled into his parking space at the back of Ponder House, entered the building, walked to his second-floor office, and reviewed his calendar for the day (hardly necessary since that was also the last thing he did before leaving his office the previous evening). Then he would retrace his steps, walk a few doors down to the Chalice, purchase a coffee, and return to begin the day’s work. He typically had an undisturbed hour or so before his office officially opened at nine. Sometime thereafter, if the weather was agreeable, he would stroll to the post office for a bit of exercise.

He was a pleasant, reserved man who personified discipline and routine. His daily attire was a starched shirt, expensive tie, suit or sport coat, and shined shoes. That meager level of decorum and formality made him an anachronism in the casual, virtual, tech-driven marketplace of Golden. Nonetheless, and despite his outdated ways, Mr. Ponder was a highly regarded and well-connected presence in the community.

He had influence.

His office building, inside and out, was a picture of refinement and order, a stark antithesis to Tony’s bookshop. Theo, to his credit, would prove to be as comfortable in one as he was in the other.

Theo stepped beneath the awning and stood before the heavy door, locked at the moment, that led into Ponder House. The door was veneered in oak with a heavy steel frame and two deadbolt locks. A gleaming bronze plate was affixed to the wall beside the entrance. It said:

James Ponder

Broker and Consultant

By Appointment Only

Below it, a smaller historical marker, as shiny as the other, stated the building’s name and year of origin, 1845. A brass lamp fixture, also spotless, was mounted beside the door. The brick walls were brushed and clean.

Theo pressed a button on the call box.

A matter-of-fact female voice, lacking any inkling of welcome, replied. “May I help you?”

Theo leaned close to the speaker. “Yes, good morning. I would like to make an appointment with Mr. Ponder, please.”

“Are you a client?”

“Not yet.”

The voice was about to announce that Mr. Ponder was not accepting new clients when Theo heard someone behind him.

“May I help you, sir?”

Theo turned to see a man, perhaps as old as himself, meticulously attired and holding a handful of mail.

“Good morning, sir,” Theo said. “Yes, I was just trying to make an appointment with Mr. Ponder. I am new to his town and wanted to ask about a piece of property.”

“I’m James Ponder.”

They shook hands. Theo bowed slightly.

“Ah, how nice. It’s good to meet you, Mr. Ponder. Please call me Theo.”

“Mr. Ponder,” the female voice squawked through the speaker. “I was just getting ready to tell the gentleman —”

“It’s OK, Mrs. Gidley. Go ahead and let us in.”

The locks released. Mr. Ponder stepped back to let Theo enter first. The door closed heavily behind them as they stepped into the reception room. In little more than a glance, Theo discerned from the artwork, antiques, topiaries, and rugs that Ponder House was more than a mere office building. Wall hangings were arranged at perfect height and exact right angles, precisely spaced. The tassels of the rug on the pinewood floor were freshly combed. The furnishings suffered no dust, and every item on display — crystal, brass, stone, wood — had been recently polished.

In subsequent visits, Theo would verify that all the artwork, aside from being notably eclectic, was, indeed, original — Cassatt, Thiebaud, Bartlett, Fujimura; that the mahogany display cabinet with the lion’s paw feet was indeed Thomas Chippendale, late eighteenth century; that the sideboard with satinwood and ebony inlaid checkering was indeed a Hepplewhite; and that the nine-by-twelve rug was indeed a late nineteenth-century Persian Serapi silk. He had no idea about the provenance of the topiary but guessed that it, too, had a distinguished history.

While Theo was doing a quick survey of Ponder’s waiting room, Mr. Ponder, in a simultaneous glance, was doing one of his own, postulating from the attire, the wristwatch, the cufflinks, and the scarf that the old man standing before him was no ordinary visitor.