Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

by R M Wild

  I scrambled backward and crawled toward the farthest wall, the whole room lit up in orange. The guard in the corner on my side of the glass grabbed me under my armpits and pulled me to my feet.

  “You ain’t goin nowhere, ma’am,” he said, “so don’t even bother.”

  I didn’t fight him. Why would I? I was powerless in awe of the fire.

  What the hell had happened?

  From the corner of the visitation room, the guard and I watched in shock as Phyllis flailed and screamed on the other side of the glass. Her entire body was on fire, her arms waving streaks of flames, that crazy haircut a crown of orange like a scarecrow had been struck by lightning.

  On the other side of the glass, two more guards rushed into the room and sprayed her with a fire extinguisher. There was a bright blast of white foam and she collapsed.

  No one could have survived that.

  In astonishment, the guard whispered in my ear. “What in God’s name did you do to her?”

  “Me? I—I didn’t do anything,” I stuttered. “How could I have done anything?”

  “We’ll see about that,” the guard said.

  When the foam settled, Phyllis Martin was lying on the floor. She was perfectly still, her body covered in a cocoon of foam. What little parts I could see of her jumpsuit were black and charred.

  My mouth was as dry as if I had been sucking on charcoal. My lips stuck together and I had to work my tongue to build up enough moisture to speak.

  “Is she—?”

  “Crispy,” the guard confirmed. “It’s too bad. I really liked her chowder.” He turned to me. “She wrote a special recipe for the cooks in the chow hall.”

  On the other side of the glass, a team with a stretcher entered the room and loaded Phyllis’s charred body onto it and carried her out the door.

  I watched them go, completely paralyzed, my feet stuck to the floor as if my soles had melted.

  The guard pinched my arm and pulled me toward the door. “Let’s go, lady. You got some serious questions to answer.”

  An hour later, I was sitting on a cold chair in a cold interrogation room at the cold barracks. But it wasn’t the cold that was making me shiver.

  A breeze was coming from nowhere, enough to ruffle my hair. I could have sworn the State Police were running the air conditioning, taxpayer’s treat, in early anticipation of summer.

  The cinder block walls were painted white, the table was metal, but covered in white splotches as if they had either forgotten to cover it with a drop cloth when painting, or they had left it outside for the gulls to use as target practice. The chair was metal, shiny enough that the reflection on the seat doubled the size of my thighs, and a giant mirror occupied the lefthand wall.

  Every time I closed my eyes, there was a flash of bright light and Phyllis exploded into flames. It was as if the ball of fire had seared the underside of my eyelids.

  Usually, consolation was knowing one hadn’t suffered. But Phyllis’s screams, as high pitched as a lobster’s in a boiling pot, would never leave me.

  Nothing about that moment computed. Phyllis hadn’t pulled out a match, she hadn’t doused herself with gasoline, she hadn’t done anything to warn of what was coming. Her hands had been empty and the nearest guard had been ten feet away.

  She had gotten angry, that’s all, and in a flash, she had burst into flames. It was purely spontaneous combustion.

  The door opened behind me and State Trooper Matt Mettle entered. He had a boxy thirteen-inch TV-VCR combo tucked under his right bicep. He carried the bulky thing as effortlessly as if it were an empty cardboard box. He sat it down on the table and ran the plug over to an outlet in the wall.

  I glanced at him as he bent over to plug in the cord, the view pleasant enough to momentarily distract me from the horror I had just witnessed. He was wearing his blue uniform. He had gained a little weight since Bella’s death, but he looked good, thicker and less like every vein on his body had been pumped full of steroids.

  In either laziness or depression, he had let his hair grow out and it was no longer buzzed so close to the scalp his skin looked blue. His hair was a bit ragged, giving me the inexplicable urge to lick my fingers and run them through it. He was the kind of guy who cared about his appearance in the way a gearhead cares more about the engine under the hood than the bodywork, and he wouldn’t use hair gel if there was a gun in his mouth.

  He stopped to smell the artificial breeze. “This is one heck of a place for a barbecue.”

  I had just witnessed a woman I knew burning to death and I wasn’t in the mood for any jokes. In fact, I didn’t know if I’d ever be in the mood for jokes again.

  “Your face is a bit red,” Mettle said. “I told you to use sunscreen when you’re out on the harbor.”

  “Not funny, Matt.”

  “Too soon? Please tell me you gave her the pointer and said, You’re fired!”

  “Matt, seriously.”

  “You went there to question her, right? I bet you gave her the third degree.”

  “Matt, stop it!”

  “What? Why? You want me to have pity for Phyllis Martin? She tried to kill me. She was a total bag of feces. And you know what you do with bags of feces? You put them on someone’s doorstep and you light them on fire.”

  “She wasn’t what she seemed,” I said.

  “Obviously. I heard she had become some butch’s little pony. One of my buddies at the prison told me she had brayed so loudly they called her Goat.”

  I buried my head in my hands.

  “I hope you’re not taking her side, Rosie.”

  The flames lit up inside my palms and I had to lower my hands and look at the table and blink repeatedly to make them go away, like purple splotches from looking at the sun.

  “It was a terrible way to go. For anyone.”

  “I told you a million times not to go see her,” Mettle said. “But you kept going anyway.”

  “She knows things, Matt.”

  “Yeah, so? You can’t just ignore her moral transgenders—”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Her what?”

  “Transgenders.”

  “You mean transgressions?”

  “Yes, transgressions,” he said. “C’mon, you’ve got to admit, what happened is nuts. A woman bursts into flames right in front of you? That’s freaky. They’re already calling you a witch.”

  I dropped my hands and glared at him. “Who is calling me a witch?”

  “The guards. They say they’ve never seen anything like that before. Not even close. And they’ve seen a lot of dangerous shenanigans: shanks hiding where the sun don’t shine, little packets of drugs sewn into people’s cheeks, needles hidden under fingernails, you name it, but they have never ever seen spontaneous combustion before.”

  I drew my finger across the table. “I’m not a suspect, am I?”

  “That’s not for me to decide,” he said. “Above my pay grade.”

  He glanced to the mirror and then nodded and turned to leave. “Good luck, Rosie.”

  He opened the door and left.

  A moment later, Detective Slate entered. He was wearing the same tight black T-shirt he had been wearing when I first met him nearly a year ago, his police badge dangling from his neck, the barbs from his once-trendy, but now trashy tattoo sneaking out his sleeves.

  In a different world, one where inbreeding was acceptable, he would have been handsome. He was my cousin—not by blood, but I drew no distinction. If you shared a family tree, either naturally, or hanging from it, boom boom was off limits.

  Detective Slate smiled. “So. Rosie. We meet again. Under similar circumstances.”

  One body had been in the water, the other in the fire. I failed to see how that was similar. “Yes. I would have preferred a family picnic.”

  “Me too,” he said. “Let’s cut to the meat, here.” He leaned across the table and pushed a button on the monitor that Mettle had brought in and then looked to the giant mirror and circled his finger
to say “roll the tape.”

  A black and white video played on the screen. It was the security feed from Phyllis’s side of the glass. You could clearly see me sitting on the other side of the glass and giving it a tap before the guard told me to knock it off.

  “I don’t want to see this,” I said. “I just lived through it.”

  He motioned for them to pause the video. “Why did you tap on the glass?”

  “Is that a serious question?”

  “Right now, you’re a subject, not a target,” Slate said. “Depending on your answers of course.”

  “Those guards are far more guilty than I am. As you can clearly see, I was on the other side of the glass.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Have you spoken to all the guards yet?”

  Slate was standing over me, his arms crossed. “It’s in progress. Either way, you need to cooperate. You can talk with me or they can send another detective in here to take my place. Which do you prefer?”

  I groaned. “When I tapped the glass, I was merely seeing how sturdy it was.”

  “Why?”

  “I was curious.”

  “You didn’t read the sign?”

  “Of course I read it, but you’ve been to the zoo, haven’t you? No one listens to those signs. It’s practically an invitation.”

  “Why did you choose that particular seat?”

  “Because it was close to the wall. I needed a buffer zone.”

  “Why? So someone else didn’t get burnt?”

  Great. I walked into that one. “No. More like a urinal.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “What do you know about urinals?”

  I gritted my teeth. “I know that most men prefer not to stand too close to each other with their willies hanging out. I guess they’re afraid a fencing match might break out.”

  Slate cleared his throat and changed the subject. “The guards said you insisted on bringing your cell phone into the interrogation room. Why?”

  “C’mon, Barry. You know me. Or at least my father,” I said, blinking rapidly and fighting off a flash of Peter Hardgrave. “My foster father that is. He’s your uncle. Do you really think he’s capable of raising someone who would burn another human being alive?”

  “Jeffery Dahmer had a very nice mother.”

  “Barry, seriously.”

  “It’s Detective Slate, Rosemary.”

  “Then it’s Miss Casket to you.”

  “Fine, Miss Casket, isn’t it possible you had some kind of remote detonation device in your phone?”

  “I left my phone in the locker.”

  He nodded to my thighs. “Do you have it in your pocket?”

  “Yes.”

  “Unlock it for me.”

  “No.”

  “It’ll make this a lot easier.”

  “I’m not unlocking my phone, Barry. I don’t know the slightest thing about tech. I was an English teacher.”

  Detective Slate turned back to the window and motioned for them to roll tape again.

  I glanced to the giant mirror. “Are they recording this?”

  “Yes. Watch.”

  I turned back to the monitor. On screen, the door in the prison visitation room opened. There was no sound. The guard behind the door passed Phyllis Martin to the guard who led her into the visitation room. Our view was from behind Phyllis’s shoulders as she sat down at the stool.

  Slate pointed at the screen. “Your lips are moving there. What are you asking her about?”

  I closed my eyes, trying to recall our conversation, trying to sort through the confusion of Phyllis’s new haircut and nickname, but I kept seeing that blast of orange.

  “We talked about family,” I said.

  “Why would Phyllis Martin bother talking to you? You’re the whole reason she was convicted.”

  “Believe it or not, we were friends.”

  “She tried to kill you. She pleaded guilty.”

  “She claimed it was an accident.”

  Detective Slate crossed his arms. “It’s always an accident,” he mumbled. “Why did you drive all the way to Thomaston to talk about family?”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have much family,” I said.

  “What does Phyllis know about your family?”

  “You mean your family?”

  “I mean your biological family.”

  “She knew my mother,” I said. I decided not to mention anything about my half sister Lori, nor Peter Hardgrave.

  Slate tapped the monitor. “And what was that moment there? Her shoulders look like they slumped.”

  I looked at the black and white version of myself on the monitor. I had leaned into the glass. “That was probably when she got mad at me.”

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t tell her that her daughter was dead.”

  Slate pointed to the monitor hard enough to nudge it. “Right there, she seems to have gotten really angry. What did you say to her?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me what I wanted to know.”

  “Which was?”

  I had to play it safe and stick to what was public knowledge. “About my missing sister.”

  “Right there, she stood up.”

  I looked away, knowing exactly what was coming next. “Yes.”

  Slate watched the screen intently. Me, I couldn’t stand it. Out of the corner of my eye, there was a flash of white light on the screen.

  “Did you curse her?”

  I shook my head. “What? No. Turn it off, please.”

  Slate pushed the button and the screen went black. “How can you explain that? A woman who had been locked in her cell all day long suddenly catches on fire. This morning’s records show nothing out of the ordinary. She woke up, she went to the bathroom, she went to the library for a little bit, and then a guard came and escorted her down to the visitation room.”

  “I told you. I have no idea what happened,” I said. “I was on the other side of the glass. The guards patted me down. They took my phone. I wasn’t carrying anything.”

  “And that’s why they’re calling you a witch.”

  “That is so ridiculous.”

  “A woman got angry at you and then burst into flames right in front of you. Do you have any explanation other than magic?”

  “No,” I said quietly. Then louder, “Except this is not Salem for Chrissake.”

  “Are you happy she’s dead?”

  I looked up at him. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “You mean my uncle?”

  “He’ll support me.”

  Slate shook his head. “No, no need for that. You can talk to me freely.”

  “What about the men behind the mirror?”

  “Yes, them too,” Slate said. “We’re on your side, Rosie. We really are. Phyllis Martin was a real piece of work and nobody’s upset she’s gone. Especially not me. She tried to kill my uncle. We just want to get to the bottom of this, check off a few boxes, and close the case.”

  “Other than magic, what’s the other explanation?”

  “Self immolation.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “We don’t know yet.”

  “If I haven’t been charged with anything, I’d like to get back to my inn. I have customers waiting.”

  Slate sighed. “Sure thing. C’mon. I’ll walk you out.”

  In the parking lot, Matt Mettle was waiting for me. He got out of his cruiser and came to meet me. The sun was setting and my little gray Honda looked tiny next to all the blue cruisers.

  I nodded toward the coroner’s building on the other side of the lot, the place where Meat Locker Joey did his slicing.

  “Is Phyllis in there now?”

  “I don’t know what they did with her,” Mettle said. “The prison has its own protocol for disposing of expired prisoners and contacting next of kin. In Phyllis’s case, she has none, and no will, so they’re free to conduct their own internal investigation.”

  I wrinkled my nose.
“Like her organs?”

  “Not that kind of internal investigation. I mean the warden is conducting interviews with the guards and other prisoners. They’re supposed to share the findings with us, but they’re not going to tell me. I’m too low on the totem pole.”

  “Then what good are you?” I said.

  He narrowed his eyebrows. “The totem pole would fall over without a sturdy base.”

  “Right,” I said.

  We stopped at my car. I thumbed my keychain to unlock the door.

  “Let me get that for you,” he said and opened my door.

  “Thank you for stepping in,” I said. “I felt better knowing you were on the other side of the mirror.”

  “I wasn’t,” Mettle said. “I had to beg them to let me deliver the monitor.”

  “Regardless, thank you.”

  “When I heard what happened, I couldn’t stay away,” Mettle said.

  “Are you really mad at me for going to see Phyllis?”

  “A little bit,” Mettle said. “But you had your reasons.”

  “You don’t actually believe I had anything to do with her death, do you?”

  Mettle let out a long sigh. “I’ll admit, the whole thing has left me a bit uneasy. Every time you bat your eyelashes, I get a hot flash.”

  “Not funny.”

  “Not even a little?”

  “No,” I said. I slid into the driver’s seat and he closed my door. Then he leaned over and tapped on the glass.

  I turned the ignition key and rolled down the window.

  “So where are you headed now?”

  “Back to work,” I said. “I have to make sure Herrick isn’t passed out on the dock.”

  Mettle groaned. “I told you not to work with that flagrant moron.”

  “I know. I know. But I’m working on another plan.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll let you know if it pans out.”

  “And what about our date?”

  “Right now, I’m just trying to keep my head above water. But we will. I promise. Soon.”

  “If you want me to do some poking around, let me know,” he said and flashed a skeevy grin.

  His face was so stupid, so inappropriate, I couldn’t help but smile. “You’re impossible.”

  “I can’t help it. You’ve put a spell on me, Casket.”