Poor P.J. “Sleepy” Jacobsen. What a lousy attempt at revenge. The previous August, I had brought the public’s attention to the slipshod way in which Sleepy ran his office as Assistant City Treasurer. I guess he hadn’t heard that old adage that says you shouldn’t pick fights with people who buy ink by the barrel. The Express buys it by the tanker truckload.

I WASN’T CONCENTRATING at all now, just flipping through the envelopes, bored silly. Among other injuries, my right shoulder had been dislocated and my right thumb had been broken, so I was slow as molasses on the keyboard. Over the last few days, I had managed to peck out a few commentary columns and a couple of obits. Lydia sent some rewriting my way, nothing that was on fire.

MY THOUGHTS DRIFTED to Frank, and the conversation we had as he drove me back to work.

“You know what you need?” he had said, glancing over at me. “You need a good story to work on. Something that will get your mind off your injuries.”

“I’m not much use as a reporter right now. Besides, the most intriguing stories don’t just knock on the paper’s front door, looking for a reporter. You have to go out and find them. And I’m stuck at a desk.”

Nobody’s right all the time. As I said, it was my day to be wrong. That November afternoon, trouble came looking for me. Trouble got lucky. There was a story waiting for me on my desk. It was over two thousand years old, but it would become big news in no time.

I DIDN’T SEE IT until I made a second pass through my mail. It arrived in a plain blue envelope, addressed to me in care of the paper, the address on a white computer label.

Dear Miss Kelly,

You will always be the first to know, because you will be my Cassandra. Who will believe you? I will.

The time has come for us to begin.

The first Olympian will fall on Thursday. The hammer of Hephaestus will strike her down and the eyes of Argus will be upon her remains.

Clio will be the first to die.

Forgive me my riddles, but it must be so. Soon you will be able to see the truth of it, Cassandra. But who will believe you?

Your beloved,

Thanatos

Oh brother. Here was a letter from no less a figure than Thanatos, the ancient Greeks’ name for Death himself. My beloved. And I was going to be his Cassandra, the prophetess who spoke the truth but was never believed. Charming. I looked through the rest of my mail. Little of worth.

Having nothing better to do, I read the Thanatos letter again. It had been years since I had read anything about ancient Greek stories or mythology. I couldn’t remember Hephaestus or Argus. Thursday – tomorrow. My brows furrowed for a moment over that.

Clio would be the first to die. Clio was one of the Greek Muses, the nine daughters of Zeus who presided over the arts. I was trying to remember which one she was when the phone rang.

“Kelly,” I answered.

“Hello, Irene. It’s Jack. I told Frank I’d give you a ride home from work. He’s going to be tied up for a while. What time should I pick you up?”

“Jack! Just the person I need to talk to.” Jack Fremont was our next-door neighbor. “Didn’t you once mention that your mom used to tell you stories from Greek mythology instead of nursery rhymes?”

“You’ve got a good memory. Yes, I did. She loved mythology, especially Greek and Roman.”

“Well, which Muse was Clio?”

“History. Why?”

“Nothing important – just satisfying my curiosity. I got a letter from a kook today and it’s full of references to Greek mythology. What about Argus?”

“Argus. The giant with a hundred eyes. You know who Zeus was, right?”

“The Olympian head honcho.”

“Right. He wasn’t known for being faithful to his wife, Hera. One of the women he went after was Io. Hera got miffed about it and turned Io into a heifer. She gave Argus the task of guarding her.”

“I suppose a guy with a hundred eyes could make one hell of a cowherd.”

“Tough to sneak up on him. He could sleep with some eyes while the other eyes stayed awake. So Zeus sent Hermes, the messenger god, to kill Argus. Hermes was clever; he told Argus one boring story after another, until finally Argus fell completely asleep. Hermes killed him, but Hera took the one hundred eyes and put them in the tail of her favorite bird, the peacock.”

I smiled to myself. “Thanks, Jack. The letter doesn’t make any more sense, but at least I know more about the names he mentions in them.”

“Read it to me.”

I did. There was silence on the other end of the line. “Am I boring you, Jack? Have you fallen asleep like Argus?”

“Maybe you should show the letter to Frank, Irene. This letter writer sounds like the Zodiac killer or something. He calls himself Death, you know.”

“Yes, I remembered Thanatos was Death.” I thought about it. “If my editor doesn’t mind, I guess it wouldn’t hurt. But I get weird stuff like this all the time.”

“Really? Like this one?”

“Well, no,” I had to admit. “The Greek mythology is a new twist. And it is a little unusual in tone, a little more grim than most. Talks more about death. Okay, Jack, if John doesn’t object, I’ll show it to Frank.”

“Now, before I forget – what time should I pick you up?”

“Any time. I thought there might be something here for me to do, but Lydia’s just making work for me.”

“You want me to come by now?”

“If you can, sure.”

He told me he would be on his way.

I stumped over to John Walters’ office. He’s a bear of a man, and he was growling over a sheaf of copy when I entered his lair.

“Okay if I go home early?”

“I thought you just got here,” he snarled.

I’m used to him. “I did,” I said evenly, “but we both know it’s a slow day. Too slow to force you and Lydia to think up things for me to do – no, don’t protest, John. I went through my mail and there’s nothing left for me to work on. It wasn’t even good mail. Take a look.” I showed him the letter.

“You attract these types like flies, you know it?”

“Thanks, John. Lovely thing to say.”

“I mean it. I don’t think Wrigley himself gets more of these, and they figure they’ve reached the top dog when they write to him.”

“Okay if I show it to Frank?”

He shot a questioning look at me, then gave the letter another reading. “Is there something more to this?”

“Not that I know of. I had to have Jack tell me who Argus was and which Muse was Clio. I forgot to ask him about Hephaestus.”

John went over to a dictionary. He thumbed through some pages and came to a stop in the Hs. He rank his finger down a column, then paused and read the entry. “‘Associated with fire and the forge. Blacksmith and armorer of the gods. Son of Zeus and Hera. Identified with Roman god Vulcan.’”

“Well, it all makes sense now, doesn’t it?”

He made a copy of the letter and handed me the original. “Probably just another nut. But go ahead and show it to Frank.” I saw him glance at the cast. His brows drew together. “Go on home,” he said, setting his large frame back down in his chair. He went back to frowning over news copy.

JACK TOOK ME home, where I was greeted with loud yowls of welcome by Wild Bill Cody, my twenty pound gray tomcat. I managed to feed Cody, fix a sandwich, and take off my shoes by myself – all much easier to do with the new splint. Frank called and said he’d be late, then asked if he should call Lydia and ask her to come over and help me out. I told him not to bother, bragged on my accomplishments, and told him I had a letter from a lunatic to show him.