Murder and Betrayal, plus vegetables

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/

Another case for Hasp Deadbolt

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.

A sample story. Not strictly a nursery rhyme, but the Easter Bunny myth is in a similar spirit, I feel:

R.I.P., Easter Bun

I have my soft, sensitive side, just like anyone else. I don’t show it to just anybody who walks in off the street, but it’s there. That’s why my last assignment really hit me hard. I caught the dirty rat who did it, but nothing can bring back the Easter Bunny. The fact is, life is just like that sometimes. Especially in my business. Men call me Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt.

I’m a private eye. It started like this….

I was leaning back in my desk chair, feet up on the desk, reviewing my notes from the Muffet case, when my keen ears detected a knock on the door.

“Come in,” I called, after shoving all the crap on my desk into a neat pile.

In walked the Easter Bunny. I knew who it was. You know how sometimes you just have a gut reaction that slips you information you didn’t know you had? Well, this was like that. Plus, she was wearing a fur-tight pastel jumpsuit embroidered with Easter eggs, and a baseball cap with the words “Easter Bun” embroidered in pink and pastel green thread. She moved up to my desk and put her hands on it, leaning forward until my face was just 3 inches from her cleavage. “Mr. Deadbolt,” she breathed (her chest expanding alarmingly), “I need your help.” I eased back from her decolletage and got up to open the window. It was getting pretty warm.

“Care for a drink?” I asked, as I manhandled the sash in its cheap aluminum frame. I turned around and she was right behind me.

“Please,” she begged, putting her hand on my arm, “I don’t know where else to turn!”

Anyone who’s read my reports in the past knows that I’m not

species-centric, but business is business. I cleared my throat and escorted her to a chair.

“Miss Bun,” I began, “why don’t you tell me all about it?” I got out my notebook, she took a few more deep breaths to settle her nerves and unsettle mine, and told me the following story.

It seems that a large dog or wolf had been hanging around the hutch for the past few weeks. Every time she went outside, he was waiting for her. She wouldn’t necessarily see him right away, but he was always there. Sometimes she’d see his tail sticking out from behind a bush. Or maybe a shadow would dart behind one of the painting sheds. She could feel his eyes on her, undressing her, possibly even skinning her. He seemed to have designs on her person, she said, that had more to do with the kitchen than the bedroom, if I caught her drift. I sure did. She couldn’t work, she continued, Easter was coming up very soon , and she had eggs to harvest, sort, and paint, not to mention all the candy chicks and so on that had to be prepared. She was way behind her schedule and losing ground fast.

“I’m afraid for my life,” she concluded, “won’t you help me?”

I promised her that I would give her problem my undivided attention. “You can rest assured I’ll find out who this wolf is and see that he stops bothering you,” I told her, and she seemed relieved.

“I’ll take that drink now, Mr. Deadbolt,” she said, and I mixed her a stiff one. I was on duty, so I went easy on mine. We talked for awhile, or rather, she talked and I listened. She talked about her business, how she’d inherited the job from an aged pika who wanted to move back to Mount Lassen, how she really loved making little children happy. I asked her about the hat. She’d made it herself and she hadn’t had room for the last two letters. She thought it looked OK and I assured her it did. She’d made the jumpsuit too, and done a fine job, I might add. By the time her drink was gone she seemed to be a lot less nervous.

“I think I’ll be able to focus on my work now,” she said, setting her glass on the credenza, “it’s so nice knowing you’ll be protecting me.”

We’d been chatting a while, and I’d almost forgotten how good she looked, but when she turned and picked up her purse, I saw that, just as her hat had made accommodations for her slender ears, her jumpsuit had had to adjust to her tail. I had to do some adjusting myself, so I quickly saw her to the door, telling her I’d get right on her case.

A few minutes later I was out the door and beating the street. I didn’t know who this wolf was who’d been stalking my client, but I knew how to find out. In half an hour I was downtown, leaning up against the bar in The Jumping Cow. The Cow is located in an old warehouse, and minimal efforts have been made at decoration. The bar is the nicest piece of furniture in the place, and it looks like it fell off the back of a truck. The tables and chairs

were probably picked up from the dumpster outside another bar in a better part of town. I’m certain the Cow doesn’t contain a broom, a mop, or even a rag. It’s not an ideal spot for a classy date, but it’s the best place to find the Weasel. The Weasel knows all the low-lifes and tough guys around, and if this dog or wolf had been in the area long, the Weasel would have the scoop. The Weasel would squeal, too, for the right price.

“Gimme a draft,” I told the ox behind the bar, and when he brought it to me I pumped him. “Seen the Weeze?”

He nodded and glanced over to his left. Sure enough, the Weasel was sitting alone at a table in the corner. “Thanks,” I said, grabbed my beer and headed over there. I slid into the seat across from him and shoved the beer into the middle of the table.

The Weasel took a sip. “Long time, no see, Deadbeat,” he hissed, “whatcha need?”

“That’s Deadbolt,” I told him, “I’m looking for a big dog or a wolf, been stalkin’ the Easter Bun. You know anything about it?”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. “I know something.” I knew that’s all I’d get without the green, so I slipped him 5 twenties under the table. I had to give him another 3 bills before he spilled the beans. He knew the wolf alright. Went by the handle of BB (the Weasel didn’t know what it stood for) and he was one bad-assed dude. Wanted across the state line for all kinds of thievery and violence, and maybe murder. It seems he’d been under suspicion

in the case of three young swine who’d been killed and devoured right in their own homes. In fact, the homes had been pretty much destroyed by the unknown assailant. He was evidently one tough customer. Nothing had ever been proven, but the Weasel said BB had been overheard bragging about some “bacon” he’d “cooked.” At this point, I started to get worried, and I headed out to see my client. I wanted to make sure she was safe. She might need to move to a safe house until I could apprehend BB.

The Easter Bun lived way out in the country, and it took me quite a while to get there. She had a big ranch, with chicken houses, dormitories for the staff, painting and decorating areas, huge warehouses, a fleet of trucks, and more; it was a busy place. I was almost as impressed with her operation as I had been with her configuration. I pulled up in front of the main office and strode in. A spring chicken was behind the desk, chewing gum.

“I need to see the Easter Bun,” I snapped, “and make it snappy.” She blew a bubble and it snapped in my face.

“She’s back there,” the desk hen told me, “but she don’t wanna be

distoibed.” I pushed on past and opened the office door. I knew right away that something was wrong. The bunny that had embroidered more than 100 eggs on her jumpsuit would not willingly leave her office in this condition. Plus, the window was broken. I looked out in time to see a sorry-looking black Chevy pickup disappearing among the Easter-egg trees in a cloud of exhaust. I ran back out to the front, hopped in my Nova, and took off after the truck. The car took a beating going cross country, and I couldn’t make good time no matter how hard I pushed on the gas pedal. “Damn!” I slammed my hand on the wheel. Why hadn’t I bought an SUV!

I found the truck, finally, parked in front of a weather-beaten shed up against the big woods at the back of the Easter plantation. Smoke rose from the chimney. The license plate of the truck read “YUM YUM.” I had a sinking feeling in my gut as I slammed the Nova to a stop, jumped out with my gun in my hand, and ran for the shed. I took a deep breath, kicked the door hard,

and the whole place fell in.

And there he was. Seated at the table. Napkin tucked in. Red checked table cloth, white china plate, and the clean-picked bones of my client, as graceful in death as she had been in life. “Want some?” he asked, holding out a bloody tibia in his paw.

It was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, not shooting him down in cold blood, but I didn’t do it. He’s doing 10-20 for consuming a mythic figure, and when he gets out, THEN I’ll shoot the bastard. In the meantime, there’s a new Easter bunny, a bright young fellow named Raoul. I’m sure the kids are happy, but I’m not. I’m just sitting here, drinking carrot juice and waiting for another case that might serve to draw a temporary veil over my painful memories of the best thing I ever saw in a pink jumpsuit.

“Here’s to you, Easter Bun. I’ll always remember you the way you were when I first saw you, and not the way I saw you last, a litter of white curvilinear elements, blood-spattered, dotted with clumps of fur, your little jumpsuit in tatters by the fireplace … Oh, God!”

END

Available from Alban Lake http://store.albanlake.com/product/nursery-rhyme-noir/

Nursery Rhyme Noir

I wrote a series of murder mysteries based on nursery rhymes. These short stories are about as serious as you'd expect, but some are unsuitable for young children.

A sample story:

Nursery Rhyme:

Little Miss Muffet sat on a tuffet,

Eating her curds and whey,

Along came a spider and sat down beside her,

And frightened Miss Muffet away.

I thought there might be a bit more to this...

Arachnophobia

The trouble actually started when Little Miss Muffet was busted for

gambling. She was operating under the alias of Wax Liploc. I think she was

involved with the Pumpkin Eater prostitution/white slavery ring, but making

bets was the only thing we could pin on her. She was out on the street

again in less than a year.

My name is Deadbolt, Hasp Deadbolt, and I'm a private eye. I'd been hired

by the City on a temporary basis. They'd been short-handed since the Jack

Horner debacle. I had the job of seeing that Muffet went straight.

For a while she seemed to be adhering to the requirements of her probation.

She spent a lot of time in the library, checking out books on explosives

and poisons, and audio-visual items like "Arabic in 4 easy lessons" but I

wasn't fooled. She was a pie waiting to spew birds, a shoe waiting to vomit

kids.

Then it happened. She was in the park, eating a light lunch on a sort of

portable stool she'd brought with her, and I was pretending to sail a small

boat in the pond. It was not easy with no wind. I heard a scream and looked

up. A wolf spider the size of a small horse was hitting on Muffet. As I ran

up I heard it say "Hey baby, how about you fly into my parlor?" It wrapped

a few hairy legs around her and sat down right on the tuffet with her.

Muffet screamed again and wrenched herself free. She whipped out the

umbrella that she always carried with her and she brought it down. Again.

And again. And again. I jerked it out of her hand. She was still screaming.

I slapped her once, twice, and she shut her mouth with a shudder. She was

spattered from head to toe with spider guts. All she would say, over and

over again as she was led away, was "I hate spiders!"

Oh yes. She got off on a plea of temporary insanity. If you ask me, that

girl is going to be trouble.

Available from Alban Lake
http://store.albanlake.com/product/nursery-rhyme-noir/