Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery

by R M Wild

  “I did. I put him in handcuffs in the church parking lot after finding a bag of Molly stashed inside one of the hymnals at the church. He must have made a deal or something. I guess the rotten fruit doesn’t fall too far from the bowl.”

  “You mean the tree?”

  Mettle looked at me. “No, my mom always kept fruit in a bowl on the kitchen counter and it would always rot before we could eat it and she’d get really mad when we ran through the house and knocked it off the table.”

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m not sure,” Mettle said. “But I know who to call.” He held up his phone and showed me the contact list. All of the names were codewords. Joey Bunker was Meat Locker. I was Red Hot, and so on.

  “Who the heck is Billygoat?”

  “A guy I know on the force. His name’s Billy Ganz and he drinks goat’s milk for breakfast. The name stuck,” Mettle said. He dialed the number. “Billy, it’s me, Matt. Yeah, yeah. I know. Soon. A few weeks. Listen, I was hoping you could help me out of a pickle jar here. I don’t want to log onto the system. Could you find me the address for Roman Caesar? We busted him a few months ago. Yeah, that guy. Wanted to be a minister. I know. There’s only so much beer in the world, it gets old, you know? Skunks out. Definitely. Okay. No problem.”

  Mettle tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while we waited for Billygoat to return with the requested information.

  “Yup, I got a pen,” Mettle said. He motioned for me to get one from the glove compartment. “452 Rufous Street. Thank you. Absolutely. Maybe Friday. Alright, man. Sounds good,” Mettle said and hung up. “Great, I’ve committed myself to high-carb beer.” He turned to me. “Rats. I’ve forgotten it already. Why didn’t you write it down?”

  “No need,” I said and tapped my forehead. “I know exactly where that is.”

  We followed the crescent edge of the harbor around its sickle-like bend, departed old town, and passed some of the newer suburban developments that had sprung up in the 1980s when one of the old timers in Dark Haven had croaked and given his wife permission in his will to sell off a few hundred acres of harbor-gazing meadow.

  Well past the old Stony Point Grocery, we made a left onto Rufous Street and then pulled into a trailer park of tiny houses, many of them still sitting on the flatbed trailer that had been used to deliver them. The last time I had been here, I had come to look for Mark Halbert, one of the lawyers at my foster-father’s firm who had been kidnapped by Phyllis Martin.

  We passed about a dozen of the tiny houses, each as cute as a dollhouse left outside in the rain, and then we came to an empty plot.

  Mettle parked and leaned forward to see out the windshield. “There’s no house here.”

  Indeed, sitting in the middle of the wet grass was a large tent.

  “The plot to the right is 450 and the plot to the left is 454. This has to be the spot. Maybe Caesar can’t afford a house.”

  “Why not? He’s got a government job,” Mettle said.

  “I stand corrected. He must be rich.”

  We got out of the cruiser. Caesar’s tent—if it was indeed Caesar’s—was sitting on a square patch of yellow grass, all of it dead.

  “Looks like his trailer might have been towed away recently,” I said as we went up to the front flap. “What do you do if there’s no door to knock on?”

  “We shout,” Mettle said. He cupped his mouth. “Caesar? You in there?”

  The vinyl tent answered by whipping as loudly as a flag in the cross wind.

  “What are the rules for entering someone’s tent without a warrant?”

  “I don’t know,” Mettle said. “It never came up at academy. Everything here is observable, though. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to unzip the flap a little. We could say we found it that way.”

  The tent poles wobbled in the wind. I unzipped the vinyl flap and crouched for a look inside. The tent was stuffed with junk: a sleeping bag, pots and pans, even an old cast iron stove.

  “This guy’s a total weirdo,” Mettle said. “He probably uses that stove to keep warm, but look how smooth the vinyl is on the back of the tent. He’s already melted half his kitchen.”

  Next to the stove, was something that looked like it had fallen from the sky and landed on Wile E. Coyote’s head.

  “Is that an anvil?”

  “Looks like it,” Mettle said. “He probably uses it to keep the tent from flying away.”

  “With that awful haircut, what would Caesar need that giant bottle of hairspray for?”

  “Probably setting things on fire,” Mettle said.

  A few books were stuffed into a plastic bin, two of which were copies of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar. Next to the bin was a half-empty case of beer cans. There were even a few twisted metal ornaments, tiny horseshoes, and a hammer.

  “Looks like our little ugly-haired friend had a cute little hobby,” Mettle said. “I bet he comes out here at night and bangs away on the glowing metal. The neighbors probably love it.”

  I pointed to a bunch of metal rods sitting on top of the anvil. “What are those things?”

  “My guess is ferro rods,” Mettle said. “I learned how to use them in the Cub Scouts. You scrape the sticks together and they spark.”

  “I wouldn’t mind one of them for my fireplace. That would be way easier than using matches and burning my fingertips,” I said and dropped the flap. “So now what?”

  “Given the time stamp on those videos, I’m guessing Caesar’s still at work. What do you think? Are you up for a little stakeout?”

  “I’m not hungry,” I said.

  “I said stakeout. Not take out. But now that you mentioned it, let’s go grab a bite to eat and come back. We’ll make a picnic out of it.”

  27

  If this was Matt Mettle’s idea of showing a lady a good time, he had better re-examine his game. He drove us to the Walmart, bought a few cans of tuna, a jar of dill pickle slices, a box of plastic forks, and a case of bottled water.

  “What is all that junk?”

  “Stake-out food,” he said as he put the grocery bags on the back seat.

  I pinched my nose. “If your plan was to make me want to go on a diet, you have succeeded mightily. Couldn’t you have gotten Peanut Chews or something?”

  “Nope,” he said. He popped the lid off the pickle jar, fished his fingers in the green juice, and then placed a pickle slice on his tongue as if it were a sacramental wafer. He retracted his tongue, smiled, and swallowed it whole.

  “You forgot to chew.”

  “You don’t want to do all the work for your stomach. It needs a workout too,” he said. He fished out another pickle and offered it to me. “You want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  He popped it on his tongue and the pickle juice ran down his chin. “Suit yourself. More for me.”

  When we got back to Rufous Street, a gray mist had rolled off the harbor and worked its way between the tiny houses. We parked a few trailers down from Caesar’s tent and made sure we had a good line of sight in both directions.

  I tried to put my seat back, but it wouldn’t budge. “How come I can’t adjust my seat?”

  “We have to give the perps enough leg room,” he said.

  “Seriously?”

  “I kid you not. We’ve let the criminals run the justice system,” he said. He opened a can of tuna, placed a few pickle chips onto the pinkish fish, and dug in with his fork.

  Nauseous, I turned away. “That’s disgusting.”

  “You gotta feed the pythons. It’s not about taste, it’s about protein. You can’t get any growth by subsisting on tea and lobster claws all day long.”

  “I don’t need any more growth,” I said.

  “Cavemen never cared about taste. They cared about strength.”

  “They also didn’t care about showers, shoes, or statesmanship.”

  “Sounds like a liberal dream to me,” he said. “If I was a caveman, I would take whatever I wanted,
no questions. I’d never worry about asking politely or offending somebody.”

  “And that’s different how?”

  “Hey, I’m sensitive to the plight of the little man,” he said.

  “The little man?”

  “Yup, anyone who can’t bench press their body weight doesn’t deserve a voice,” he said, his mouth full of industrial fish.

  “Said the man whose voice is tinged with a pound of mercury.”

  “Bah. More liberal hocus pocus.”

  I steered us back toward more neutral waters. “What are you going to do when Caesar gets here?”

  “I’m gonna ask him why he likes to play with fire.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Yup.”

  All of Mettle’s hot air was fogging up the windshield. I used my sleeve to wipe off my window. “But we have no proof that Caesar was actually involved in Phyllis’s and Dimitri’s deaths. All we know is that he works at the prison.”

  “Yes, but think about it. The warden sent us this particular footage. That means his internal investigation is pointed right at Roman Caesar. Mayweather wanted us to see who was behind that door.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “Or maybe it was a concession.”

  “A what?”

  “Maybe the warden just wanted you to back off the case. Maybe he gave us the video to show us that he’s not hiding anything. Maybe he wants us to leave him alone.”

  Mettle was quiet. He finished his last chunk of tuna, sucked the fish juice out the bottom and tossed the empty can on the back seat. “No. I don’t think the warden would do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Instinct.”

  “That tuna can is going to stink up the car,” I said. “How long are we going to be sitting here?”

  “As long as it takes.”

  “I need to get back to my inn.”

  “Relax. You have no customers.”

  “My butt is numb.”

  “So do a few laps around the car.”

  “It’s cold and foggy.”

  “I’ll put on the heat.”

  “It’s already too steamy.”

  “Will you stop complaining?” Mettle said. “This is downright cozy compared to some of the stakeouts I’ve done. I once sat in this seat for thirty-six hours straight. I was so intent on catching my guy, I didn’t even get up to pee. I just brought a little hose, stuck my business in there, and peed right out the window.”

  “Charming,” I said. And an impressive defiance of gravity.

  He laughed.

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “It’s never too late.”

  He ignored my quip. “I just realized that I’ve been trying to go out on a date with you for months, but it never worked out until somebody else died.”

  “That’s dark,” I said. “I wouldn’t call this a date.”

  “No?”

  “Absolutely not. The car smells like pickles.”

  Mettle twisted to face me. “C’mon, you can almost see the harbor from here. We can turn this into our special make-out spot.”

  “How about we eat some grass instead? You smell like fish.”

  “I’ve got mints in the glove compartment.”

  I looked at the glove compartment. My heart fluttered at the thought of making out with him. Maybe it wasn’t a bad way to pass the time. It was hardly romantic, but what was romance these days? Nobody went to dinner and a show anymore. We were all too broke. We might as well get it on in a steamy cop car.

  I shifted uncomfortably. Then against everything my foster father ever taught me, I went to open the glove compartment, but stopped before my thumb found the latch.

  Behind us, the gravel crunched. I glanced in my mirror.

  A rusty pickup truck had stopped behind us, its headlights slicing horizontally through the gray morning.

  “Is that Caesar?” I whispered.

  “I can’t see out the back window,” Mettle said. “It’s too foggy. But whoever it is, he saw the cruiser. He’s reversing now.”

  “We’re going to lose him.”

  Mettle threw open the door and jumped out and ran after the truck. “Stop where you are!”

  But the pickup didn’t obey. It made a hard U-turn, peeled out, and peppered Mettle’s face with gravel.

  “Stop!”

  The truck’s taillights disappeared into the fog. Mettle ran back, spat the grit from his mouth, and jumped into the driver’s seat.

  “Was that him?”

  “We’ll find out,” Mettle said. He turned the ignition, floored the gas, and made a violent U-turn. We chased the lingering vision of the red lights through the fog, bumping over the ruts and gravel, but there was no sign of the truck.

  By the time we got to the connection between Rufous Road and the highway, it was too late. We might as well have been chasing a phantom.

  “He’s vanished,” I said. “Like a ghost in the fog.”

  Mettle pounded the steering wheel. “Devil bang it!”

  “Maybe it wasn’t Caesar.”

  “No, it was definitely Caesar,” Mettle said. “It’s not the first time he’s run away from me.”

  28

  Go figure. The moment I considered letting my guard down, we missed the opportunity to get a fresh lead in the case.

  I blame the ghost of my virginity.

  Mettle, of course, didn’t see it that way. He never blamed himself, nor his faulty judgment, only the circumstances.

  “Lousy fog,” he kept saying the whole drive back to the inn. “There’s no way Caesar’s going to return to that tent if he thinks we’re watching him.”

  “So send another officer to pick him up for questioning.”

  “I can’t. I’m suspended, remember?”

  By now, he had said it so many times, I’d remember it in the grave. Archaeologists of the future would find the words carved into the dirt. Here lies Rosie Casket. Her almost-boyfriend Matt Mettle was suspended, remember?

  Mettle was so distracted by losing Caesar that he drove right past my driveway. I was so distracted in almost giving myself up to him, that I didn’t notice it either, not until I saw the bright red lightning rod for the lighthouse. It took me a moment to gather my bearings.

  “Ummm, hold on, Matt. I think I live back there.”

  “Caesar’s a real scumbag. Can you imagine him as a minister?”

  “Matt, you missed the house.”

  He looked around for a moment, then slammed on the brakes. He reversed as fast as the cruiser would go, the engine whirring. At my driveway, he yanked the wheel around and swung the cruiser onto the gravel, butt-first.

  I still felt strange enough about being so close to making out with him that I thought it might not hurt to spend a few more minutes together. I thought maybe we should talk about how we were feeling in that moment. I thought maybe we should be open with each other.

  Besides, I didn’t want to be left alone to do any more cleaning.

  I climbed out the car. “Do you want to come in for a few minutes?”

  “No, I gotta take care of something,” he said coldly.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I’ll let you know if anything comes of it.”

  Before I could protest, he leaned across the passenger seat. For a split second, I thought he was attempting to steal a goodbye kiss and I went to lean into his lips, but then he yanked the door shut in my face and peeled out the driveway.

  I felt like I was standing waist-deep on the shore and a wave had come up and smacked me in the belly. How could I possibly have entertained the idea of hooking up with him? Fish and pickles? A numb butt?

  What was wrong with me?

  I watched the cruiser disappear behind the trees. Maybe the stress of the past few days had reached a crescendo and all I wanted was an escape, even if it meant compromising our friendship.

  Maybe I needed an escape, even if the pleasure had no promises.

  At leas
t all the stress and anxiety was helping to keep the weight off. I was hungry, but didn’t bother eating, and sank into the armchair with a fat book from Phyllis’s shelf: the Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  Usually, I had to be in a particularly attentive mood to enjoy reading Shakespeare, as he was definitely not a writer one could sit down with and read for pure entertainment. My students had always asked me if people really talked like that back in Shakespeare’s time. My response was always to put it back on them.

  “What’s your favorite film?”

  Inevitably, they would choose some silly horror movie. For some reason, teens were infatuated with horror.

  “Dead Christmas.”

  “Okay, and do people these days talk like they do in Dead Christmas?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do they really? Try this. The next time you’re actually having a conversation with a friend—and I mean a real conversation, not texting—try recording it. Then transcribe what you’ve recorded and compare your conversation with the conversations in Dead Christmas. If they’re anything remotely similar, I will buy you a sandwich.”

  “I’d rather get bonus points.”

  I sighed and kicked my feet over the arm of the chair as if I were treading water. The one thing I didn’t miss about teaching was all the grade-grubbing. What my students had often failed to realize was that a good writer made fake dialogue feel real. That’s why we could so easily imagine all those Elizabethans speaking in iambic pentameter.

  I flipped through the pages to Macbeth and skimmed down to the parts with the witches. In act one, scene three, the first witch engaged in a bit of braggadocio as she described the power she wielded over the fate of a sailor:

  I myself have all the other,

  And the very ports they blow;

  All the quarters that they know

  I’ th’ shipman’s card.

  I’ll drain him dry as hay.

  Sleep shall neither night nor day

  Hang upon his penthouse lid.

  He shall live a man forbid.