Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

by R M Wild

  “No,” I said.

  “This is Charlene Pots. She shared a cell with Phyllis since day one.”

  “You mean Goat.”

  “Yes. Whatever,” the warden said. He turned to me again. “Sometimes the inmates give each other pet names.”

  “I ain’t never heard of nobody having no goat for a pet,” Pots said.

  “You know what I mean,” the warden said.

  So Pots was the one who gave Phyllis that stupid name. “How did she become the Goat?”

  “Just Goat.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “No, you said ‘the’ Goat. It’s Goat. With a capital G,” Pots said. “I made her eat the straw out of my mattress. When she bent over—”

  “Okay that’s enough,” Mayweather said. He nodded to the guard standing beside her. “Did you find anything in her cell?”

  The guard held up one of two plastic bags. In it, was a bunch of orange thread, probably pulled from the prison scrubs.

  “Under her mattress, we found a few paperclips and a half-knitted cap,” he said. Then he held up the other bag. It was full of a thick, white liquid that looked like watered-down mashed potatoes. “And some of this god-awful gunk.”

  “What is that, inmate? Is that pruno?” Mayweather said. “Because if that is in fact pruno, you are going to lose your recreation privileges for a month. No library, no outside time, no visitation.”

  “What’s pruno?” I whispered to Mettle.

  “Prison wine,” he said.

  I wrinkled my nose. But I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t take a swig at this particular moment.

  “I don’t know how to make no pruno, sir,” Pots said.

  “Don’t play dumb with me, you old hag,” Mayweather said, even though he was old enough to be her spouse. “Bring me that bag.”

  The guard brought Mayweather the bag. Mayweather took it and squished the mushy mass between his fingers and pinched a chunk and squeezed it to smithereens. Then, utterly fearless, he opened the Ziplock, sniffed, and recoiled.

  “God in Heaven, cripes almighty. This smells like you put dirty socks in a blender.”

  “That’s my special chowder,” Pots said proudly. “It’s made from cafeteria ingredients. I got folks linin up for that batch. Do you want to try a spoonful?”

  “Absolutely not,” Mayweather said.

  “You sure? There ain’t no alcohol in there. It’s good ol’ comfort food. There ain’t nothin in the handbook against it. I guarantee a spiritual experience.”

  “Did Phyllis give you her secret recipe?” I asked.

  “She did,” Pots said proudly.

  Phyllis must have been in real trouble. I had practically begged her for the recipe, but she never gave it up.

  “I don’t care if she makes wine from blood,” Mayweather said and dropped the bag in the waste can beside his desk. It landed with a loud squish. “And I don’t care if chowder is not explicitly mentioned in the prison Bible, but hoarding cafeteria food and trading it is against the rules, inmate. Understood?”

  Pots twiddled her thumbs as if she were playing innocent. “I don’t trade it, sir. It’s free for everyone. All you gotta do is ask me. I was hopin maybe I could get a job in the kitchen one day, so everyone could enjoy my chowder. You think I could do that?”

  “Absolutely not,” Mayweather said.

  “But you said we’re supposed to find our calling. This is mine. I wanna be a chef.”

  Mayweather snorted. “I don’t grant favors to extortionists. We’ve brought you here today for an entirely different matter. You used to be cellmates with one of the recent burn victims.”

  Pots glared at me. “Ayuh. Phyllis never got to share her latest recipe.”

  “Did Phyllis ever mention anything about this woman?”

  “What’s her name again?” Pots asked.

  The warden looked to me.

  “Rosie,” I mumbled.

  “Did Phyllis—”

  “Goat.”

  “Right. Goat. Did Goat have a grudge against Rosie Casket?”

  “Not that I heard,” Pots said.

  “You didn’t trade stories of your crimes?” Mayweather asked.

  “Of course not,” Pots said. “This is real life, you old fool.”

  “Watch your tongue, or I’ll snip it off,” the warden said. “Did you ever see her playing with any kind of fire?”

  Pots shook her head. “Nope. But she was fearless of the hotpot. That’s all I know. She used to touch the dern thing with her bare fingers. She showed me the tips once. They were practically melted.”

  “Did she ever talk about expecting visitors?” the warden asked.

  “I dunno,” Pots said. “I didn’t memorize everything she said.”

  “Do you think she took her own life?” I said.

  Pots glared at me. “Nope.”

  “How can you be so sure? It sounds like you abused the woman.”

  Pots’s eyes caught fire. “You don’t know the first thing about prison life, Dear.”

  I turned to the warden. “That’s what Phyllis used to call me. She was listening.”

  Mayweather planted both palms on the desk. “Calm down, both of you.”

  “I don’t like being accused of nothin,” Pots said.

  “That’s rich,” I muttered.

  Mayweather gritted his teeth. “I’m warning you both. Calm down, or one of you is going to spend the next month in the hole.”

  Pots couldn’t move her arms, so she had to fire both her pointer fingers from the hip as if she were a gunslinger who had gotten her threads caught and had to shoot through her holster.

  “This woman here is in cahoots with the devil. She’s one of his dirty minions. She’s runnin around this county, settin innocent people on fire! Meanwhile the devil’s returned to Maine and he wants to burn this whole state to ashes.”

  Mayweather stood and punched at the air like a referee ejecting a player. “Get this raving lunatic out of here.”

  “Yes, sir,” the guard in the corner said and dragged Pots out of the office.

  “You know what happens when you bargain with the devil, Dear!” Pots said over her shoulder as the guard dragged her down the hallway. “The same as hot soup, you get your tongue burned!”

  Pots’s protests continued down the hallway, the echo off the cinderblocks trailing her like a pair of wet footprints before fading and finally getting cut off by the slowly closing door.

  For a brief moment, I could have sworn Phyllis was back, inhabiting another inmate’s body.

  When she was completely out of earshot, Mayweather went to the door and opened it again.

  “You two are dismissed for the time being. But if I were you, I wouldn’t cross state lines, not until we’ve got this mess figured out, you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Mettle and I said in unison.

  22

  Before we left, the warden pulled Mettle aside. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk to him about, but the guards wouldn’t let me hang around long enough to eavesdrop on their conversation, so I went outside to the parking lot and waited beside the cruiser.

  The sky was bluer than I had remembered it, a stark contrast to the flashes of orange that kept haunting my vision. When Mettle finally emerged from the exit, he headed straight for the cruiser. His stride was hesitant, as if he was finally paying the price for the morning’s workout.

  “What was that all about?”

  Mettle kept his eyes on the asphalt. “Nothing important. A lousy job offer. Let’s go.”

  On the ride back to Dark Haven, we sat quietly and listened to the sound of the tires rushing over the pavement beneath us.

  I reached to turn on the radio.

  “Don’t touch that,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s broken.”

  “No it’s not.”

  “Fine, but I don’t want you frying the circuits. Sometimes that radio is my only saving grace on lon
g nights at work.”

  “Give me a break. I’m not going to fry the circuit board,” I said and reached for the dial again.

  “Stop it. I will pull this car over.”

  I sat back and crossed my arms and pouted. Now I knew how lepers felt. For a while, the rhythm of the road was almost comforting, almost enough to help us forget everything that had happened this afternoon, the rushing pavement somewhere between listening to the recording of water running over rocks in a babbling brook and going crazy by listening to white noise—but suddenly a van in front of us braked hard and Mettle swerved onto the shoulder to avoid rear-ending him. The thudding from the wake-up grooves jarred us back to reality.

  “Watch it, you moron!” I shouted at the van.

  “It’s fine,” Mettle said. “He didn’t mean it.”

  He pulled back onto the road, but didn’t speed up.

  “What kind of idiot doesn’t pay attention to the cop in his rearview?”

  Mettle shifted his weight toward the far window, trying to put as much distance between us as he could. Ahead of us, the van sped up and darted in and out of traffic.

  “What are you doing? Pull him over. He must be drunk.”

  “I can’t. I’m suspended. Remember?”

  “Then make a citizen’s arrest.”

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said.

  “You can’t just let him go. That van is a danger to everyone on this road.”

  “If you’re so keen on punishing him, why don’t you throw a fireball at his tailpipe?”

  I turned so red I practically was on fire. “Okay, enough, Matt. You don’t really think I’m a witch, do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Casket. That was some freaky ish back there.”

  Fuming, I turned and looked out the window.

  We were quiet again. As we passed the Trading Post, I twisted to see if I could get a glimpse of Eldritch in his upstairs window. The curtains were pulled, no shapes behind them, just a reflection of the clouds in the sky. But still, I considered jumping out the cruiser and trying to hang out with him for the night. Anything was better than the awkward tension in this vehicle.

  I turned back to Mettle and watched the screwdriver jiggle itself loose from the ignition.

  “So what happens when it falls out?”

  “What?”

  “The screwdriver.”

  Mettle glanced at it, barely caring. “I don’t know. I’m not a criminal.”

  “I’m not tucking, you know.”

  A snicker escaped his lips. “Thank God for that. I’d have to arrest you for not having a concealed carry permit.”

  I smiled. Mettle’s reset button was easier to find than I had anticipated. All I had to do was tell an inappropriate joke and he was back to normal.

  “You remember that warning I told you about?” I said.

  “Which one?”

  “Double, double toil, and trouble?”

  “Yeah, the Olsen twins movie.”

  “No, Shakespeare.”

  “Same difference.”

  “What if the prophecy is coming true?”

  “What prophecy?”

  “In Macbeth, the witches control MacBeth’s fate, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “But the events only start manifesting themselves after the witches plant the idea of taking over the throne. Ultimately, they were controlling Macbeth’s fate.”

  “What in blazes are you talking about?”

  “Hear me out, Matt. Double, double, toil and trouble, fire burn and cauldron bubble. The fire has burned twice now. Two murders. I’ve been toiling so hard, I can barely sleep, and now we’re both in trouble. Me with the law and you with your suspension.”

  “So what’s the cauldron?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Six months ago, that would have seemed ludicrous.”

  “I know,” I said quietly. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on me. How had we gone from trying to find Chrissy to talking about witches and prophecies?

  Mettle finally turned onto Beacon Street. As we neared the inn, a car sitting in my driveway emerged from behind the trees. With all that had happened, my heart fluttered at the thought of trying to take care of a guest tonight.

  Thankfully, it was just the Apache. I never thought I’d be so relieved to see that bucket of rust. No wonder Eldritch’s curtains had been pulled.

  “Do you want to come in for a few minutes?” I offered.

  “I need to head back to my place,” Mettle said. “Regroup, you know?”

  I was pretty sure that was code for drinking a six pack and watching an action movie.

  “No problem,” I said, faintly disappointed.

  Mettle pulled into the driveway and parked behind the Apache. “It’s not you; it’s me.”

  I grabbed my bag and climbed out. I didn’t want him to think I was hurt. Which I wasn’t, honest. The feeling was already gone. “I’m pretty sure it’s me. You think I’m a witch.”

  Mettle didn’t refute that, just let it hang on the air. He shifted into reverse and gave me a big, fake smile. “I’ll be in touch,” he said. Then he pulled out the driveway before I could even close the door. I watched as he drove down the road, the door flapping open. He pulled over, ran around the back bumper, slammed the door, and climbed back in and screeched off.

  “He was in an awful hurry.”

  I turned around. Stanley Eldritch was sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch.

  “I think he got spooked,” I said.

  “For a cop, he spooks awful easy.”

  “What are you doing here? We don’t have any guests tonight.”

  “I was worried about you,” Eldritch said.

  I climbed the porch steps. “There’s been a lot of that going around. You don’t think I’m going to set you on fire, do you?”

  Eldritch shook his head. “Any man who believes you’re anything but an angel is a moron.”

  “Thank you,” I said and plopped into the rocking chair beside him. It felt good to hear. At least someone wasn’t crossing himself and moussing his hair with holy water in my presence. “Why are you so good to me, Mr. Eldritch? After everything I’ve put you through, I hardly deserve it.”

  “One of these days, I’m gonna need someone to change my diapers.”

  I laughed. “I’ll consider it an honor.”

  We rocked back and forth, our chairs groaning in tune, and watched a delivery truck whip around the corner, the late afternoon sun making us squint as the glare slid over the metallic siding.

  “I almost forgot. That rat-faced Herrick stopped by earlier,” Eldritch said.

  “Great, what did he want?”

  “He dropped this off,” Eldritch said. He fished in his pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and handed it to me.

  I opened it, half-expecting to see another line from Shakespeare. Instead, in a child-like scrawl it said: Need Money. Going back to bugging. This business relationship is soggy toast. Over and out.

  I crumpled it up and tossed it on the porch and sighed. “I’ve got no partner. I’ve got no business. And I’ve got no more leads on Chrissy or Peter Hardgrave,” I said. I didn’t even have the energy to tell him that my last lead had just gone up in flames. Literally.

  Eldritch stood, his joints creaking, and stretched. “Things will get better, Red. They always do. I have faith.”

  “Not this time. We’re out of options.”

  Eldritch patted me on the shoulder. “They said the same thing when the Hindenburg caught fire.”

  “Yeah, and half the people died.”

  “But not all of them. Something will come up. It always does.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “One of my headlights is out. I need to get back before dark so I don’t get pulled over.”

  “Okay,” I said sullenly.

  “I don’t like seeing you like this, Red. What can I do for you? How can I
help?”

  “Nothing, I guess. Not unless you’ve got a magic wand to bring my guests back.”

  “You want me to go grab you some dinner?”

  “I’m not hungry. Besides, you’re broke.”

  “I was bein literal. I’ll row out back and grab a pot and grab us a lobster.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  Eldritch stepped off the porch and hobbled toward the pickup. “Something will surface. Everything’s gotta breathe. Even old secrets.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  He climbed into the Apache and waved goodbye. I watched the old clunker pull onto the road and disappear around the trees. Suddenly, the porch was very quiet, the only sounds the creaking trees and the waves licking the rocks down by the dock.

  I shivered, feeling very alone.

  Against my better judgement, I took out my phone and pulled up the Facebook page for my business, hoping all the bad chatter had finally calmed down. Maybe if I changed the name of my inn, rebranded, and took out a new page, I could get a fresh start. The only other option was to sell the place and move out of Dark Haven, an increasingly appealing choice.

  But I wasn’t one to let these trolls get the best of me. For a few short weeks, I had been busy, but hopeful, and had gotten a brief glimpse of how rewarding it would be to operate my own successful business. I couldn’t go back to a regular job again, not knowing that any day I might say the wrong thing or accuse the wrong person and end up on the street. I was convinced that being an entrepreneur was the only option for me. If it meant I had to start over ten times before finding success, then so be it. I would do it.

  Full of renewed resolved, I went into my virtual settings and hovered my thumb over the button to delete the page. But then a new posting popped up in the comments.

  “Oh no, please no.”

  23

  I thumbed the new link. A black and white video played. It was security footage, the angle over our shoulders from the back of the visitation room. On the screen, Mettle and I were trading banter about hidden appendages.

  Then Dimitri walked up to the glass.

  I pressed stop. As much as I hated him, I couldn’t bear to watch him die again.