I wrote a series of murder mysteries based on nursery rhymes. I used a comprehensive and beautifully illustrated volume, inherited from my mother, for my source material, These short stories are about as serious as you'd expect, but some are unsuitable for young children.
Jack and Jill. They were into a lot of stuff besides drinking water!
The
Hilltop Caper
After
that nasty business with the pussy in the well it was almost a relief
to be between clients. But it didn’t last long. My next job fell
into my lap before I had properly recovered. I had been walking in
the park after lunch, because the weather was so nice, and I sat down
on a bench to admire a bank of daffodils. Before I knew it, a small
brunette came hurtling through the air and landed right on me. Broke
the bench and didn’t do my back any favors. As I had cushioned her
fall, she recovered before I did, and helped me to my feet.
“Help
me find my boyfriend,” she demanded, “he’s around here some
place.”
That
didn’t seem to be quite a complete explanation, but I figured I’d
learn fastest by complying with her request.
“I’m
always delighted to help anyone who should happen to drop in,” I
replied, “what does he look like?”
“He’s
about so high, brown hair that’s never combed, blue eyes, he’s
about my age, and his name is Jack. I’m afraid he’s hurt himself
tumbling down this hill.” She pointed back up the way she’d come.
It looked pretty steep.
“You
crazy kids,” I said, “what we you doing up there? Couldn’t you
find a secluded spot that wasn’t so life-threatening?”
“We
just went to fetch some water,” she replied, holding up as evidence
the remains of a wooden bucket that had apparently journeyed with her
down the precipice. “Please help!” So we split up, each going
around the hill in opposite directions. We met on the other side. I
had seen no sign of Jack, or anyone like him.
“No
luck?” I asked.
“Nothing,”
she said, “all I saw was a smashed rhododendron and a lot of blood.
No sign of Jack at all.” She burst into tears.
“There,
there sweetie,” I said, patting her on the shoulder, “let’s
walk back around together and take another look. There’s just the
outside chance that the bush and blood will provide a clue.” So we
walked back around the way she had come, and sure enough, there was
every sign of the impact of a resilient body weighing about 150
pounds. Looking up, I could see a trail of ruined vegetation and
sharp rocks, and glancing out across the lawn I observed traces of
fresh blood forming an erratic path away from the wrecked
rhododendron.
I
was beginning to suspect foul play. Nobody could be as stupid as this
chick pretended. I asked her name, ready to add it to my mental list
of suspects.
“Jill,”
she said.
“Come
on,” I replied, wanting to keep her in my sight, “let’s follow
the bloody drip road.” The trail led to a bucolic residential
neighborhood. Spreading oak trees shaded postage-stamp yards in front
of small white houses, many in need of fresh paint. Almost no one was
around: kids were still in school, and parents at work.
The
closer we got to our destination, whatever it was, the more nervous
Jill got. I was beginning to form a theory. A theory that the twin
tumbles down the hillside had been an attempt to establish an alibi,
that the two lovebirds had been having an affair, and that they had
murdered Jack’s wife. But if that were the case, where had Jack
gone, and why? I would soon find out. In any case, Jill had made a
mistake when she had chosen to fall into the lap of Hasp Deadbolt,
Private Eye.
And
speaking of bolt, that’s what Jill looked ready to do at any
moment. I caught her wrist, and was soon almost dragging her along
the sidewalk, still following the trail of blood left by her injured
lover. We turned in at a walk. We went up to the house. I raised my
hand and knocked on the door. Jill let out a small shriek, muffled by
her left hand, which she had crammed into her mouth.
“What’s
the matter, honey?” I asked her. Just then, the door opened. There
stood a young man, his head wrapped in brown paper. The odor of
vinegar was in the air.
“May
I help you?” he asked. Then he noticed Jill. “I thought I told
you never to come here,” he hissed. I pushed past him, dragging
Jill with me.
“Where’s
the body?” I demanded, scanning the living room. No sign of a
struggle here. Jack had sidled around to block my view of the
kitchen, so that’s where I went, still towing Jill, who was now
wailing incoherently over Jack’s indignant protestations. “What
have you done to your wife?” I asked him, but the kitchen gave me
my answer. There were guts everywhere: the counter, the table, the
floor, the walls, even the ceiling. A double row of canning jars held
pumpkin guts, and chunks of the rind of a truly humongous pumpkin
filled the trash can to overflowing. I was a bit nonplussed, but now
Jill was angry.
“Why
you cheating little weasel!” she shouted, pulling free of my
momentarily slackened grasp, “this isn’t your wife! You’ve been
two-timing me with the teenage slut next door!”
“The
next door neighbors are giant pumpkins?” I asked.
“Shut
up,” Jill
suggested, and she picked a slimy butcher knife out of the mess on
the table. “What’s the matter? She was pregnant? The kids would
have had your loathsome face, and everyone would have known what
you’d done? Is THAT why you killed her? And where IS your wife? Did
you kill her too?” She advanced menacingly on Jack, who was soon
backed into the corner by the fridge, pleading with his hands and
eyes; all that would come out of his mouth at this point was
gibberish. Just then, a giant egg entered the room. It was all dolled
up in a muu muu, flowered hat, high heels, lipstick and all the rest,
and it carried a large shopping bag.
“Hi
honey, I’m home,” it said as it walked in the door, then
“Aieeeeeeeee! What have you done! Have you been screwing that
pubescent pumpkin kid from next door again? Oh my god, what will we
tell her parents NOW?! And who is this?”
“This
your wife?” I asked Jack, who was evidently trying to squeeze
behind the refrigerator. He whimpered.
The
egg turned to me, and I recognized her. Yes, Marjorie Dumpty had been
on the society pages quite regularly a few years back. Rumor had it
she’d married some human and settled down as a housewife in
suburbia. I guess rumors are true every now and then. Jill was now
hissing audibly and waving the knife back and forth about an inch
from Jack’s nose. I had seen enough.
“Ma’am,
I’ve seen enough. I’m Hasp Deadbolt, P.I. I’m on this case.”
OK, a little white lie. Nobody had hired me to do anything, but
somebody needed to prevent any further murders from taking place in
this kitchen. There simply wasn’t room for it. “Please call the
police. I’ll handle this excitable young lady.” For a wonder, Ms.
Smith nee Dumpty (I’d seen the name on the mailbox) did as she was
told. I managed to calm Jill down enough to pry the knife from her
white-knuckled, trembling fingers. Jack appeared to have soiled
himself, but had not been cut. The police arrived after about a half
an hour, and I turned the whole thing over to them.
I’m
sure you saw it in the papers, though it wasn’t in the society
section. It seems that Jack had married Marjory for her money. “Who
could love a giant egg?” he was quoted as saying in court, by way
of explanation. Moron. He’d been having an affair with Jill since
she was his student in the high-school band. It came out during the
trial that several other former students also had not resisted his
advances, including a talented young banana named Chiquita, whose
parents had shipped her to South America halfway through her senior
year just as the fruit of their liaison was beginning to show. His
appetite for fruits and vegetables didn’t end there. The young
pumpkin next door had apparently enjoyed his attentions at a very
early age. However, she had become pregnant, and was blackmailing him
by threatening to go public. This would have cost him both his
teaching job and his wealthy wife, so he convinced Marjorie to take a
shopping trip to New York, lured the young vegetable into his house,
where he butchered and canned her, and then cleaned up and met Jill
in the park for an alibi-making tryst, in case the murder was
discovered. This is where things began to go wrong. He hadn’t had
time to clean up the kitchen―the young lady had put up more
resistance than expected. Then, he had apparently fallen right off
the hilltop in the park, bumping into Jill on the way and sending her
tumbling after. He’d hit his head on a rock and the injury had made
him forget his plans for an alibi. He’d stumbled home to mend his
head, and the rest you know. And you know what? I even got paid,
after all. Marjorie was grateful to me for saving her husband’s
life. I guess she still loved the murderous cheating little worm,
though I can’t imagine why. At any rate, she paid me a handsome
fee. I felt sorry for her; despite being a smooth prolate spheroid
she was quite a classy lady. I hear she’s doing better for herself
lately, though she hasn’t been featured in the newspaper like she
used to be. High society can be so unforgiving.
The
end
The book is available from Alban Lake: http://store.albanlake.com/product/nursery-rhyme-noir/
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