Trophy Room — November, 1928
I walked into the room expecting to see some sign of my host. Instead, a horde of dead eyes stared back at me. The firelight played off mounted heads: buffalo, deer, bear, and wolf. In the upper corner, an owl looked down with wings and talons outstretched. Above the mantle, an eight-foot long swordfish had been mounted, frozen in mid-leap. In the corner by the door stood a large cat, one of the mountain lions so prevalent in the Americas.
Outside, a cold November wind blew, howling around the mansion. The taxi ride from the station had been fraught with peril as we plunged along on icy roads packed with snow. Upon my arrival at Straeon Manor, the butler took my bags and showed me to my room. Dinner, he said, would be at eight o’clock, but my host wished to meet for drinks beforehand. I had taken time to clean up and rest from my travels. Then I dressed for dinner and arrived as instructed at the appointed hour.
I moved among the trophies and soft leather furniture toward the fireplace. The warmth was welcome and made me feel more at ease. A wireless set stood on a table beside one of the chairs. From the RCA Radiola came the happy strains of a ragtime melody I had not heard in years. The music warmed my heart as the fire warmed my bones.