120917

As fast as you can

I had my feet up on my desk and the newspaper on my lap. I was thinking deeply. That's why I was so startled when I heard a knock on the door, that I accidentally threw the sports section out the window. We detectives are always on a hair trigger. My name is Hasp Deadbolt, and I'm a P.I.

I opened my door and looked out. I didn't see anybody.

"Hey! Down here!" It was a gingerbread man, raisin buttons, chocolate chip nose, icing smile (a frown right now) and all.

"That's right, you can stop staring anytime you like. Ginger Bread's my name, and I need your help."

"Mr. Bread," I said, "I don't think I've ever had a food item as a client before. I feel... honored." I escorted him in and sat down behind my desk. The gingerbread man perched on the edge of a chair.

"What seems to be the problem?" I asked, noticing that he wasn't sweating, even though it was nearly 100° outside and I don't have any air-conditioning. I guess baked goods don't have sweat glands.

"I'm afraid for my life," he said. "They already got my cousin. John Cake never did any harm to anybody -- cannibals!" He shuddered.

I gave an involuntary shudder in sympathy. Anybody who's read my stories knows I've been involved with the tragedy of cannibalism before – vegetable and animal. Cookie cannibalism wasn't much of a stretch, although I guess Johnny Cake was more like bread than a cookie, unlike Ginger Bread, who was more like a cookie than bread. This is why I never became a chef – it's too confusing.

"Would you like to talk about it?" I asked.

"It's a hard life, being food. There are so many weak-willed beings out there. His life almost ended just as soon as it began, but he hopped out of the griddle and rolled off. Like a shot a kid was after him with a knife and fork. If that wasn't enough, nearly everyone he met wanted to get medieval with flatware. A goat, a cow, a pig, and even a fox, every one tried to kill him. He eluded them all."

"And then what?"

"The kid caught him and ate him."

"That's a really sad story, Mr. Bread. But what do you want me to do?"

"The gingerbread man leaned forward earnestly and put his hands on my desk. "I need protection Mr. Deadbolt. Isn't there a witness protection program for confections?"

I didn't know what to say. He wasn't a witness, but I knew what he wanted. He wanted to be able to live his life in peace, away from licking lips and hungry eyes. He wanted to live in a magical place where everyone is treated with dignity and respect and kept off the menu. The priests talk about such a place sometimes if you listen to them on Sunday mornings, but I think you have to die to get there.

"Let me get back to you," I said.

* * *

That night I told Alma about it over dinner. Of course I didn't use his real name.

"So Mr. Cookie just wants what we all want," she said, "sanctuary."

Looking at her, all sparkly eyed and warm, and wearing one of my old flannel shirts, the one that's missing several buttons, I didn't think what I wanted was sanctuary. But I saw her point.

"I need a place to hide him."

"What about Bo Peep? She lives out in the middle of nowhere, and she's a vegetarian."

"Dear? Vegetarians still eat cookies. And she loses things."

"Well, she seems like a nice girl. I don't think she would eat him, and the sheep only eat grass. And it's been years since those sheep disappeared."

We argued about it for a while, but that ended up seeming like the best bet. As long as Bo Peep didn't have a bunch of farm boys with big appetites buzzing around her.

* * *

She didn't, and soon the frightened Mr. Bread was helping out around the farm and, I hoped, keeping out of sight.

Of course, one of the sheep talked.

They can't hold their liquor, and some of them keep falling off the wagon. One of the wool factories was bragging about how important he was, about midnight at some agribar. He let slip that they had a confection staying at their place through a witness protection program. Somebody at the bar had a sweet tooth – actually, 32 of them – and paid a late-night visit.

Bo Peep was furious. She met me at the front door of her farm house. She'd lived alone for about a year, since her husband had run off with a young flirt with a curl right in the middle of her forehead. (From what I hear the girl had had him on an emotional roller coaster since then, and it served him right.) I had known Bo Peep a long time, and the years had been more than kind. Right now, outrage made her hyperventilate distractingly.

"I have one word about this, Mr. Deadbolt: lamb chop!"

"That's two," I said, struggling to keep my eyes where my intentions directed them, "but anyway, what happened?"

Bo Peep invited me in, to show me where everything had happened. She had shuffled into the kitchen about five that morning, looking for coffee, she told me.

"I had hidden Mr. Bread in the flour bin," she said. "I didn't think anyone would find him there, because I do all the cooking. But when I entered the room I noticed immediately that the window was open. There was a cold breeze, but that isn't what gave me goose pimples. One of my good china plates was right in the middle of the table and all that was left of him were his hands and feet! I know it wasn't one of the sheep, because they can't reach the china."

A midnight snack and that was all she wrote. That was when I realized something about myself: I'm not good at hiding people, only finding them. And another thing. Life is short, and I really needed to get around to proposing to Alma. And there was something else: I had done the best I could for Mr. Bread.

It's no comfort, of course, but that's the way the cookie crumbles.

Reprinted from Nursery Rhyme Noir -- https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/42875