121217

Hot Cross buns

I had developed a Saturday morning habit of stopping by the bakery on my way home from my run. The Three Boatman Bakery, despite its odd name, was not owned by a retired sailor. I never did hear the story behind the name. Anyway, I'd pick up a couple of hot cross buns and by the time I got home with them, Alma would have made tea. We couldn't afford a house with a garden, but we had some potted plants in front of a big living-room window, and we'd have breakfast there. One Saturday when I got to TB2 it was closed. It looked like Harold Baker had not even been in that morning.

-----

I had to tell Alma why I didn't have hot cross buns.

“Maybe he's on vacation, or he got sick, kidnapped by wallabies,” she said.

“It's that last one I'm worried about,” I said. “This is very good tea by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“No, I don't think wallabies were involved. I looked for footprints, and this isn't their kind of game anyway. If we were talking about a protection racket I would suspect straightaway. But I'm sure that he's not on vacation. I'll stop by his house in a bit and see if he's ill.”

Alma handed me a napkin. “Your chin. Well, I have a few things for you to do, but why don't you check on Mr. Baker first. You won't be able to concentrate on anything else till you've done that.”

-----

Baker lived alone, but I solicited the help of a neighbor and I jimmied the back door. The house was empty. He had no pets. We checked his house plants. None of them needed water, which meant nothing, because we already knew he had been gone less than 24 hours. I saw no signs of a struggle. I went back to the shop, and talked to some of the other shopkeepers in the vicinity. The bootmaker next door said he had seen Harold leaving the bakery the previous evening. He did not stop hammering shoes together.

“Did he seem okay?” I asked.

"As far as I can tell. But I don't know him very well. You might learn more talking to either the butcher or the candle vendor. The three of them go way back. Look, I hate to be rude, but I'm working on a rush order. Some cat brought these boots in to be repaired and he's leaving town tonight.

"Then I have 12 sets of royal ballet slippers that I have to finish by sundown, and I'm not even talking about the seven league boots!"

"I get the picture: you're busy. Aren't we all. Say, how much for a pair of seven league boots in my size?"

He looked me over. "You can't afford it."

-----

The bells hanging from the door of the butcher shop jingled pleasantly as I pushed my way in. The air was redolent with the smell of spiced sausage. Behind the counter a stout man wiped his hands on an apron that had seem better days.

"What can I do for you sir?" he asked.

I introduced myself, told him I was looking for his neighbor the baker.

"The boot maker said you knew the baker pretty well," I said. "Any reason you know of why he might have gone away suddenly?"

"Oh, well, we had some good times when we were younger, even sailed together for a while, but we haven't really had much contact lately. I couldn't tell you if he has a girlfriend or a house in the country, or anything like that."

"What about enemies," I asked, "or stalkers?"

The meat chopper had no clue. I struck out on the other side as well. The candle seller wasn't in. On the door of his shop was a sign saying he would return in a few minutes. I waited around for about an hour, but he didn't show.

So Harold Baker had been kidnapped. I was sure of it, but I had no evidence. Who was the culprit? Jack Horner? He seemed to have his finger in every pie in town. Joan Sprat (or whatever her last name was now) had a history of extravagant relationships with baked goods, so she was a possibility. I wasn't as familiar with carbo-related crime as I should be. I couldn't do this on my own.

I needed some hard information about the gustatory arts, and for that I went to The Wizard. The Wizard of Whipped Cream was a retired chef of keen insight, and his knowledge-gathering tentacles extended the length and breadth of the land. He had helped me out before, in the spine-tingling matter of Kook E. Cutter and the creampuff killings.

"Maybe he was taken out by a rival."

"A rival BAKER!?"

"There's a big pie-baking competition coming up. The king needs a new baker, having disposed of the last one. It has royal sponsorship and a big purse to the winner."

I hadn't heard anything about this. "I hadn't heard anything about this. What was wrong with the old baker?"

"I hear the King referred to him as a birdbrain; said something about West Nile virus."

"Hmm," I mused. "I did not know there was killing-level competition for a job where the last person to hold it was summarily executed by his employer. So who fancies himself a good baker, but might think HB is better?"

"Not a clue." His tone made it clear the conversation was over.

-----

I couldn't spend all my time wandering around the city looking for someone no one was paying me to find, so I headed over to my office. When I got there, someone was sitting on the steps in front of my building. She was plump, fiftyish, and looked like she smiled a lot. She wasn't smiling today.

"What seems to be the problem, Ma'am?'

"It's my husband, he's been missing since last night. He didn't come home from work. I went to his shop and he wasn't there. No one knows where he is. I'm worried, this is so unlike him, he can't have run off. Something is wrong." By this time she was trembling and it was hard to understand her words.

"I thought Harold Baker was single," I said.

"My husband makes candles. He's good at what he does."

I looked at her. "The candlestick maker. I went by his shop today. It's not a coincidence when two businessmen who knew each other well and who owned adjacent shops disappear in the same night."

"Oh Mr. Deadbolt, you'll take my case?"

"Come inside, Mrs..."

"Fordham." She struggled to her feet and hefted her purse, passing it from one hand to the other.

Upstairs, she seemed uncomfortable, looking every way but at me when I looked at her, and staring at me when I focused my eyes anywhere else. She knew something. I finished shoveling my papers around on my desk and cleared my throat. I went through the usual drill: enemies, jilted lovers ("certainly not!"), and so on.

Finally I said "Mrs. Fordham. If you keep secrets from me, I can't find your husband. Whatever you're not telling me, it could be important."

"All right." She took a deep breath and let it out. "I'm angry at myself and my husband about this, that's all. Something was bothering him. Some person. Someone who was there almost all the time, but he said he wasn't ready to accuse anybody, and I respected that. He never told me who was bothering him or exactly what that person was doing."

She wasn't telling me anything. "That's okay, I'll see what I can find out." I showed her out politely and shut the door. I didn't know whether she was still hiding something or she really didn't know anything.

-----

The baker and the candlestick maker had disappeared without a trace. I couldn't find any witnesses who had seen them during the time they must have vanished and I couldn't find any physical clues on the ground. Maybe I was approaching the whole problem from the wrong end. Maybe I needed to look at the possible culprits. A little investigating showed that Jack Horner had been out of town for a brass competition. I still had gotten no traction with the rival baker concept. No one seemed worked up enough about the competition, and the betting was not in Harold Baker's favor anyway. That left...

-----

"Joan Sprat." A cold icy feeling started to spread through my midsection, beginning with the spot just above my navel where she had her pistol pointed. I raised my arms slowly.

"Pound," she snapped, "not Sprat. I haven't been together with him for years."

She had been a big woman when she was married to Jack Sprat, and the years had not taken off any pounds. Still, her physical condition didn't matter much when she stood behind a loaded gun. I had tracked her movements over the past few days and discovered she'd made several trips to a seemingly abandoned warehouse in a postindustrial neighborhood due for reclamation. Then I had slipped up and let her get the drop on me.

"I slipped up and let you get the drop on me. At least tell me why."

She set her lips in a thin line, then took a breath. "I just can't keep away from his cream puffs. Or the éclairs. Definitely the cream puffs and the éclairs are the best in the city. And the doughnut holes. There's just something about them..."

Normally I would have interrupted such nonsense, but I let her ramble, while I looked for a way out. The longer she talked, the better my chances were.

"So I kidnapped him," she concluded.

"What about the candle seller? He doesn't make pastries does he?" She scowled and shifted her weight, but not enough.

"No, he got there just as I was hustling the baker into my van. I had to take him too. It's not like anybody would miss that baker. Other people don't appreciate him like I do."

Now I started to get mad. "That's just not right," I said. "I miss him! I've never had hot cross buns half as good as the ones he makes every morning. I've been buying them every week for a year. Alma feels the same way. You haven't seen me there because you don't get up as early on Saturday morning as I do. So I can't just walk away from this. No one's paying me to find Harold Baker." This was true, but I was being paid to find the candlestick maker. Baker was just lagniappe. And now she was going to shoot me.

But she didn't pull the trigger. "You care?" I nodded. "I thought I was the only one. I thought no one would mind if I kept him for myself. This changes everything. I can't deprive fans of sweet pastry. If I did that, how could I look at myself in the mirror in the morning." I was already wondering that, but decided to say nothing about it. She went on for a while in the same vein, and then walked over to an interior wall and used a key to open a door in the middle of the wall. She started to step in, but turned with a hand on the doorknob. "They are locked in the back, Deadbolt," she said. "You'll be able to get them out." With that she closed the door quickly and I heard her footsteps retreating beyond the wall. I ran to the door, but it was locked. By the time I broke through to the other half of the warehouse, which was almost completely filled with junked equipment, and out the door on the other side, she was gone.

-----

You win some you lose some. I did not catch the villain, but I freed the innocent. And I can once again enjoy the pastry that marks its own spot every Saturday morning. Oh, and a grateful client gave me a lifetime supply of candles. Alma told me that I light up her life. Isn't that sweet.

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

121117

Check the Bathwater

I should've known I was in trouble the minute she glided into my office. I should have known I was in trouble when I saw the narrowest trace of brown roots in her luxuriant blonde hair, and the plunging “V” of her tightfitting dress. I should have known I was in trouble when she leaned on my desk and looked me straight in the eye, her generous bust burning holes in my faux-leather blotter. I should have known I was in trouble when she reached into her dress to pull my retainer out of her bra and I could see that she wasn't wearing one.

“Is 500 enough?” She murmured in a voice like chocolate eclairs, a voice that could not only launch a thousand ships but burn them to the water line and sink a thousand careers in a single night. I blotted my forehead and raised the window a little higher. Not that it would do any good. The air outside was so thick you could squeeze 8 ounces of water out of a double handful.

I cleared my throat. “That's more than enough ma'am, for the ordinary run of cases. What seems to be the problem?” Anyone who's read my stories knows how I feel about beautiful women, but this was business.

“Oh!” She said “I am hardly old enough to be a 'ma'am.' My name is Susie and there is a problem with my baby.”

This was almost too much information and yet nowhere near enough. “Okay. What happened to your baby, Miss Susie?”

She leaned forward again and I scooted my chair back, hoping for a cool breeze.

“It all started when I tried to give Tim a bath.”

“Tim?”

“Because he was so tiny and all. That's his name. Anyway,” she unbuttoned the top button of her dress. It only had three buttons. “It's really hot in here. Do you have air conditioning?”

“It's hot.” I said. “Wish I could afford air-conditioning. But please, keep your clothes on anyway. The bath?” I had to do something, so I walked across the room and got a glass of water. I offered her some and she said thank you. Finally she gave it to me. The baby had eaten the soap and drunk the water. Where he put it all if he was so tiny I have no idea. Apparently he even started chewing on the fixtures and this was when his mother started to suspect there was a problem. I'm sorry, but the woman was no genius. I believe that she loved her son, but she definitely was not playing with a full gallon. More like three quarts. Possibly 3 ½. Or 3 ½ liters. But isn't that about the same? I was babbling, but at least I wasn't doing it out loud. Anyway, the kid wasn't able to get the bathtub down his throat but he was frothing at the mouth, looked like he had rabies, and she called the doctor. He shows up with his nurse and some broad who at first I thought was a neighbor, but then it turned out Miss Susie had never even seen her before. She doesn't know her name, only that she carries an alligator purse and that she was the only one of the three with more than two brain cells firing.

The doctor concluded the kid had some communicable disease and wanted to quarantine the house. The nurse felt much the same, except they got in an argument about exactly what Tim had and Miss Susie thought they might come to blows. In the end, she kicked both of them out, but when she went to thank the other woman, she was nowhere to be found.

“So what, exactly, do you want me to do?”

“Find my boy, Mr. Deadbolt. Did I forget to tell you he was missing? He disappeared with the lady with the alligator purse. Find him! Find him!” She was gripping my lapels, her face buried in the front of my shirt. And she was crying. I always hate that. Eventually I pried her off and promised I would look into her problem as soon as I finished a couple of other pressing tasks. I had two pairs of pants at the cleaners being pressed and I picked them up on the way home.

*

I was in trouble.

“I'm sick and tired,” my fiancée declared, “of beautiful young women trying to play games with you.” She's particularly lovely when she's angry. “Smearing their lipstick on your shirt,” she continued, “and for all I know other places that are easier to clean.” She picked up the laundry basket. I had tried to sneak the shirt past her, but I'd been too slow.

“Alma, no matter how they try they won't get through to me,” I assured her. “Besides, Miss Susie was distraught. I'm sure it won't happen again.” I tried to kiss her a few times, and eventually she relented. We shared a bottle of wine on the balcony overlooking the practice field where the cabbages were working on their offense.

After a while, she laughed. “They really are pretty bad, aren't they.”

“Terrible! The eggplants are going to blow their leaves off. They'll never get out of the vegetable league.”

She snuggled closer and I put my arm around her. We were cool again. Now if I could just keep Miss Susie off me.

*

I didn't want to, but I had to visit Miss Susie at home. I needed to see the scene of the abduction. I did not dare go alone, so I took Jack Spratt with me. He owed me a favor because of the Olive Oyl incident. And he would sympathize; he had had his share of trouble with women.

My client lived in a small brownstone squeezed into a space tighter than her dress. I walked up the steps and knocked on the door of 69 ½ Spradlin Street. Miss Susie answered the door, wearing the kind of T-shirt you buy in the entertainment district, the part that's open all night long. As far as I could see that was her only garment.

“Good afternoon ma'am,” I said, “Jack Spratt is helping me on the case.” I could see beads of sweat starting from Jack's forehead and I had to elbow him in the ribs to get him to close his mouth.

She gave him the once over. “You married, Mr. Spratt? You need a good woman's cooking to put some meat on your bones.” That brought a little frown to his forehead.

“He's a little sensitive about food. Ugly divorce,” I said and invited myself in, dragging Jack with me. “Where did you last see Tim?”

“In his bed,” she replied. Eventually I got her to show us just where they had all been when the baby was abducted. I didn't see anything that would help me crack the case. Jack was trembling and seemed to be trying to speak. I said my goodbyes and got us out of there.

Back on the street I took Jack into a little café a few blocks away. I ordered him a big chocolate no-fat milkshake.

“Stop drooling,” I said. “The milkshake isn't that good. Did you see anything? Anything that would help me find the kid?”

He moved his hands in suggestive curves and grinned sheepishly. He was hopeless. Miss Susie could have had the University of Michigan marching band in there and he wouldn't have seen them.

*

I spent the rest of the day tracking down the lady with the alligator purse. I eventually located her in a three-story brownstone about a mile from Miss Susie's. She was a hard nut to crack. She didn't seem to have any close friends, but by canvassing the residents of whole neighborhoods I discovered that she took a walk of several miles each evening. She passed right by Miss Susie's house. Her name was Knapps.

I knocked on the front door.

“Who is it?”

“Hasp Deadbolt, ma'am. I'm looking for Lavinia Knapps. May I come in?”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Deadbolt, but I'm afraid not.” And nothing I could say got another word out of her.

I was getting pretty worried about what she might be doing to the baby, but the house was built like a fortress. I needed help.

*

There are only certain times when I have a use for Sergeant Satyrday, but this was one. I had to sit through the usual snide diatribe about THE DEPARTMENT, and “rent-a-dicks”, but the mayor was up for reelection and he didn't need a baby-napping to spend time on the front page of the newspaper. The sergeant followed me back to Ms. Knapps' house with two burly flat feet and we were inside in five minutes. Lavinia Knapps was seated in her front room, knitting a baby blanket. She denied knowing anything about the disappearance of Tiny Tim. Something seemed wrong to me. The police made a halfhearted attempt to search the house, but they didn't find anything. The oddest thing we found was a bunch of stuffed heads mounted on the wall in the dining room. There was quite a variety represented, and I thought I recognized a few of them. A large mouse with unusually big ears kind of reminded me of a former client, and a black duck was the spitting image of one who had caused quite a stir the previous Thanksgiving. Still, this was a far cry from absconding with a child. Satyrday was about to leave when I put it together. I snapped my fingers. ”I've put it together,” I said. The Sergeant knows me well enough to pay attention when I say something like that.

“She doesn't have any children. Why is she knitting a baby blanket?”

“It's for my niece,” she put in, but she looked uneasy.

“Hold on to her!” I shouted, “and you (I pointed at one of the patrolmen) come with me.” I raced out the back door and started crisscrossing the backyard. It didn't take long to find the baby. I brought him back in and confronted the kidnapper.

“We found him lying in the grass. He was completely unharmed, but any kind of wild animal could have found him there before we did!”

She shook her head grimly. “Not at all. Wild creatures know better than to enter my yard. It isn't just alligators who have learned to keep their distance from me.”

She had a point.

*

There was one more thing I had to do. A week later I stopped by Miss Susie's house. She answered the door with her son on her hip. She was as fetching as ever, if slightly more demure than the last time we met.

“I can't thank you enough, Mr. Deadbolt, for finding my son.” She handed me a check.

“Well, it's what you hired me for ma'am. But you're welcome.”

“There's something else,” she said. I leaned backwards a little, almost imperceptibly, protecting my shirt and my reputation, and she laughed. “No, silly. Thanks to you I'm seeing someone.”

Thanks to me? No. It couldn't be.

It was Jack. “Ain't this the greatest?!” He gave me the victory sign over her shoulder. “And she's a vegetarian, too!”

I shook my head and waved my hand at them as I turned away. Some stories turn out right. But I had to hurry. Alma was waiting in the car with a loaded picnic basket, and that was a potent combination.

The end

Here are the two children's rhymes referred to in this story.

Miss Suzie had a baby

Miss Lucy had a baby 
She named it Tiny Tim 
She put it in the bathtub 
To see if it could swim 
It drank up all the water 
It ate up all the soap 
It tried to eat the bathtub 
But it wouldn't go down its throat 
Miss Lucy called the doctor 
Miss Lucy called the nurse 
Miss Lucy called the lady 
With the alligator purse 
Measles said the doctor 
Mumps said the nurse 
Nothing said the lady 
With the alligator purse 
Miss Lucy kicked the doctor 
Miss Lucy punched the nurse 
Miss Lucy paid the lady 
With the alligator purse

(there are several distinctly different versions of this song.)

Jack Sprat

Jack Sprat could eat no fat
His wife could eat no lean
And so betwixt the two of them
They licked the platter clean

Jack ate all the lean,
Joan ate all the fat.
The bone they picked it clean,
Then gave it to the cat

Jack Sprat was wheeling,
His wife by the ditch.
The barrow turned over,
And in she did pitch.

Says Jack, "She'll be drowned!"
But Joan did reply,
"I don't think I shall,
For the ditch is quite dry.".

This is one of those political nursery rhymes. You can look it up.

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