The Best of Talebones

by edited by Patrick Swenson

  On the way to my office, I stopped at the snack table. Fresh peck of peppers were the primary pick. I plucked a portion of the pickled produce, popped them in my pants pocket, preferring to piece on peppers prior to patrol.

  Behind me, the station door opened. I turned.

  Standing just inside the door, hanging her coat on the hook, was the most gorgeous bare-backed woman I’d ever seen. My gaze lingered over the hard muscles of her calves, her tight tuffet and silken yellow hair. The dress she wore was red as Snow’s lips and nowhere near as pure. She turned and my peck fell out of my pocket.

  It was Muffet.

  Gone were the camo pants and jacket. Gone were the bullets and cans of bug spray holstered at each hip. She was 100% pure dame in a ruby red slip of a dress.

  Muffet caught my look and strolled over, saying more with her body than she’d ever said in words.

  “Morning, boss,” she said. “You’re up early.”

  And that’s when I noticed the curl of hair looping right in the middle of her forehead.

  “And you’re up late, Muffet,” I said. “I expect my men to get a good night’s sleep and have clear heads when they report to duty.”

  Muffet nodded and I caught a whiff of something. Not the usual lingering scent of bug spray, but something else — something sweet and spicy.

  “Right, Boss,” she said. “I’ll go change.”

  “Muffet?”

  She looked over her shoulder and her eyes, which were deeper and greener than they’d ever been, stirred me down to my penal codes.

  “Where have you been?”

  She shrugged and her hair slid across smooth shoulders. “With a few friends.”

  “Friends?”

  Muffet’s red lips pulled up at one corner.

  “I’m fine, Boss,” she said. “Thanks for asking.” And then she walked away, swinging sugar, spice and everything nice behind her.

  This was all wrong. Muffet didn’t have friends. For her, life was arrests and arachnid exterminations. She was a dedicated cop. Serious. Good at her job. To see her wrapped up in that dress, her lips redder than a hood, made me wonder if she was wrapped up in something else too, something bad.

  Horner came over, nonplussed. “Nice piece of tale, eh, Peter?”

  I put my peck back in my pocket where it belonged.

  “What’s up with the Princess?” I asked brusquely. Horner followed as I made my way between desks to my glass-walled office.

  “She’s planning a ball to celebrate her and Charming’s anniversary,” he said.

  “Problems with her relatives?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but the restraining orders are still in effect.”

  “We’ll send a few of our boys over just in case. Tell Cindy we’re on the job.” I eased down in my chair and shuffled a pile of paperwork on the desk. I was still on edge. Maybe it was Muffet and the dress, maybe it was the uncomfortable pinch of pickled produce packed in my pocket, or maybe it was just my imagination. I had a hunch something serious was going down.

  “Something serious is going down, Peter,” Horner said. He sat in the other chair. “I heard rumor the sugar supply has been cut.”

  I let that hang between us for a minute while I tried to get a grasp on it. “You’re saying there’s no sugar coming into Las Fables?”

  Horner nodded and I suddenly realized how pale he looked. This was nightmare news for a dessert-friendly cop.

  “Spice too.” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat and continued. “I checked it out. Baa has no bags full, and the seven bags from St. Ives were dumped in the river. Suppliers won’t risk losing their merchandise. They’ve taken their business over the hill and far away. No shipments coming in, no substitute suppliers, no sugar, no spice. Las Fables is dry.”

  This was bad. Without sugar and spice, war would break out. There’d be raids, fires in the street. Innocent gingerbread would be blown to bits. The Muffinman, Pieman and even Paddy Cake’s diner would close their doors. The princess’s ball would be cancelled. And Horner, well, I didn’t know how long he could last without sweets.

  “Horner,” I said, “bring in the psychics.”

  Horner looked at me for a long moment. Neither one of us believed in that hocus-pocus stuff.

  Maybe because it was so early, or maybe it was the lingering unease I’d felt since Muffet had walked in, but my gut told me it would take more than standard procedure to crack this case.

  “Okay, Peter.” His expression told me he thought I’d gone Simon in the head. “You’re the boss.” He left the room.

  I lit a cigarette and took a few puffs. There were plenty of bad eggs in the city. Mother Hubbard’s son, the Fairy Godfather, was the leader of them all. He might even be the brains behind this scheme. But the bad eggs needed spice and sugar too. Why would they cut themselves off? Or maybe they hadn’t. Maybe this case would be as easy to solve as catching the next gingerbreadman who hauled sass down the street.

  Three rodents wearing shades and carrying white canes pattered into my office.

  Horner, a look of disgust on his face, was right behind them. “The psychics.”

  Before I could say anything, the lightest brown one, Hickory, I think, said: “It’s the Farmer’s Wife!”

  “Yes. Lock her up. Lock up the Farmer’s Wife,” the medium-colored mouse, Dickory, said.

  Ever since that unfortunate ginsu-roulette accident, the mice had turned rat-fink.

  “You’re saying the Farmer’s Wife cut the sugar and spice supply to Las Fables?” I asked.

  “Tails, sugar, she’ll cut anything!” two of the mice said.

  I shook my head. That accusation had more holes than a three man tub.

  The last and darkest mouse spoke. “Wasn’t the Wife,” he said quietly.

  “Don’t listen to Dock, Detective,” Hickory said. “Since the clock struck him, he hasn’t been the same.”

  The dark mouse shrugged. “Wife didn’t have anything to do with the sugar supply. I heard different. I heard . . .”

  “He heard the Wife,” Hickory interrupted.

  “I heard . . .” he said.

  “. . . the sound of the carving knife . . .” Dickory said.

  “I heard talking,” Dock finished. “A man and a woman talking about being the only place in town that was sweet and hot.”

  “Would you recognize the voices if you heard them again?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Dock said. “One of them’s right out there.” He turned and pointed his cane at my glass door. Beyond it, I could see Muffet had changed into her camo uniform, bugspray hanging off either hip and a bandolier of bullets the size of Horner’s thumb crossing her chest.

  She was the only one talking.

  “Are you sure?” My stomach fell faster than a crooked man on a wet lane. I’d been betrayed by frails too many times to rule out the idea completely, but Muffet? “Are you absolutely sure?”

  The mouse tipped his head. His pink ears swiveled in Muffet’s direction. “Yeah. Smooth like honey. I’d know those pipes anywhere.”

  “Tell me what you heard her say.”

  “She and a fellow were talking. He said they’d make money faster than spinning straw. She said she wasn’t in it for the money, so much as for the thrill.”

  “Tattletail,” Hickory grumbled.

  Dock just shrugged again.

  My stomach knotted like a cat in a cradle. This didn’t look good for Muffet. “Would you recognize the man’s voice if you heard it again?”

  “I suppose so. Yeah.”

  “Fine.” I nodded to Horner, who looked as shocked as I felt. “Hickory, Dickory, thank you for your time. Dock, I want you to go around town with Horner here, and see if you can pick up the man’s voice.”

  “What are you going to do, Peter?” Horner asked.

  “Talk to Muffet.”

  I waited until Horner and the rodents were gone, then approached Muffet. She was at her desk, going over a book of arachnid mug shots.
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  “Muffet, I need to speak to you.”

  She looked up, her eyes narrowing a bit. “Sure, Boss.”

  I walked down the hall to the examination room. What I had to say to her shouldn’t be seen through glass doors.

  Muffet followed, the cans at her hips clanking with each step. She smelled right again, sharp and pungent with bug repellent. A part of me wondered how I could doubt her loyalties. She was a practical gal and a good cop as long as bugs stayed out of her way. She wasn’t the kind of gal who’d turn bad.

  Of course, that’s what I’d thought about the Old Woman who lived in the shoe before she shot all seven dwarves.

  I stepped into the room. “Shut the door.”

  She did. I walked around the table with nothing but a half-full ashtray on it and tried to think of how to ask her this.

  After a few minutes, I heard her lean against the wall opposite me, and then, to my surprise, I heard the scrape and snap of a lit match. I glanced up. She took a drag off a very long, very thin black cigarette.

  “What?” She blew smoke out in a stream and shrugged. “I know, bad habit.”

  “Muffet, what’s going on?”

  “What do you mean, Boss?”

  “The cigarettes, the dress. Are you in trouble?”

  “Trouble, Boss?”

  “Are you, in any way, involved in the sugar and spice shortage?” I watched her reaction, which was surprise, then glossy calm.

  “No trouble, Boss. I don’t know anything about the sugar shortage. New case?”

  Her green eyes were steady, calm. If she was lying, she was very good at it. I’ve been a cop for a long time — I looked at more than her eyes. She had stopped smoking and was letting the cigarette burn to ashes in her fingers. Something I’d said had hit home.

  “Just heard it from Horner. It’s big. Every supply line has been cut. All of Las Fables will be dry in a day.”

  Muffet pushed off from the wall and pressed the cigarette out in the ash tray. “What do you want me to do, Boss?”

  I want you to stay innocent. I want you to be the one doll in my life who doesn’t betray me, I thought. But all I said was, “Keep your eyes out for trouble. Let me know what you hear. And get over to the Muffinman and Pieman and let them know that we’ll be watching them. I don’t want any raids or riots on top of all this. Tell them we’ll get the supply line rebuilt as soon as possible.”

  “Will do, Boss.” Muffet turned and clanked out of the room.

  The sensible thing would be to pay the Fairy Godfather a visit. He was the power behind Las Fables’ underworld. If he wasn’t behind this, he’d know who was. But first, I had something more important to do.

  The rest of the morning I kept an eye on Muffet. When she went out, I followed her. For the most part, she did as I had asked. She went to the Pieman and Muffinman who looked cross as hot buns. Even from a distance I could see they’d taken one lump or two, and had the black eyes and split lips to show for their scuffle.

  Muffet stopped by Paddy Cake’s diner and reassured ol’ Paddy that we’d lay things straight as soon as we could.

  After that, I beat it back to the station and got busy with paperwork again.

  When Muffet checked in, she gave me her report. The Pieman and Muffinman both agreed not to get into a shake and bake until things cooled down, which was the best we could hope for.

  “Anything else?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “That’s it for the day, Muffet. Thanks.”

  She tapped her beret with one finger and sauntered out of the room. I sat there and read over her report, wondering how I could suspect her when I’d known her for years, seen her go through the training it takes to wear a badge. But a few minutes later, when I glanced up, I saw Muffet leave the station.

  She was wearing the red dress again, and when she turned to smile at one of the boys in blue, I saw the curl in the middle of her forehead.

  I waited, then followed her.

  Muffet led me to the bad side of town, down to the Old Woman’s Shoe Bar. Now that the Old Woman was locked up, Little Boy Blue had turned the run-down boot into a jazz joint.

  Muffet left her coach and sauntered up to the inner sole. She knocked once, glanced over her shoulder and stepped through the open door.

  I sat back against the wall of a crooked house and, shielding the bright flame with my hand, lit a cigarette. There were coaches and cars parked around the shoe. Some I recognized: Wee Willy’s, Big Bad’s, a few others — some I didn’t. Jazz music curled the shoe’s toe and the windows pulsed with purple and orange light.

  Maybe I was barking up the wrong shoetree. All I really had on her was one sight-impaired rodent’s testimony. That in itself wasn’t enough to throw anyone in shell. And neither was going in a bar after work. Muffet had earned a little time off. I was about to leave when a car drove up.

  Long and sleek, the car was black from grill to trunk. Lines of gold arched across wheel wells, fins, windows. Only one character in Las Fables drove a car like that: the Fairy Godfather.

  The chauffeur opened the passenger door.

  Out stepped the Fairy Godfather himself. Not tall, he was twice as wide as any other man in Las Fables, his hair slicked back hard against his skull, his black suit tailored to his rotund figure. Even though he was heavy, he didn’t move like a fat man. His stature emanated power. Power to control or crush anything within his reach.

  Two goons stepped out of the car and flanked the Fairy. I caught a glimpse of his embarrassingly small pink wings sprouting from the back of his suit as he walked into the Shoe.

  It looked like Muffet was in more trouble than she’d let on.

  I stamped out my cigarette and considered my options. Barging into the Shoe wouldn’t get me the information I needed, but I couldn’t leave Muffet in there alone either. Fairy and his goons were dangerous characters.

  Calling for back-up was my best course of action, but by the time the boys got here, the deal might already be done.

  It looked like I’d have to take care of it myself. I walked up to the Shoe and stepped in.

  The joint was jumping. Back at the heel, brass, horns and ragtime piano pounded out down and dirty jazz. The cat with the fiddle smiled that crescent moon smile of his and faded to his stripes.

  Little Boy himself was on the horn, and he wasn’t blowing the blues. His whole body was given to the music, shoulders thrown back, stretching the white t-shirt across his chest, black boots tapping out a beat that vibrated all the way from the floor to his combed-back hair.

  I scanned the crowd for Muffet. There, behind Peep’s sheep that were gambling near the toe, was Muffet-in-red. Sat down beside her, looking like Humpty-Dumpty in Armani black, was the Fairy Godfather.

  I put tables between me and the two across the room and kept the wall of the Shoe at my back. The Shoe was at least a triple wide—there was plenty of smoke to fog up the space between us. I wasn’t too worried Muffet would see me.

  It wasn’t Muffet who spotted me though. It was that whistle-blower, Pied Piper.

  Piper yelled, “Cop!” Someone screamed, “Raid.” The jazz band broke up, and hauled brass out the back door. I was blinded by stampeding sheep and broadsided by pretty maids in a row.

  Hubbard, the old mother in front of me, clutched at her heart and fainted. I leaped forward to catch her, and completely blew my cover.

  I looked up and caught a brief image of Muffet standing, hands at her hips, looking lost without her bug repellent, that damn red dress showing everything that little girl was made of. I would have said something, but had my hands full keeping the Old Mother alive.

  Mother Hubbard wheezed and gasped and finally coughed weakly. By the time I had a chance to look up again, the shoe was empty. The Fairy Godfather, Muffet, the Piper, gone. Little Boy Blue was the only person who hadn’t followed Piper out the door. He nodded like this sort of thing happened all the time and calmly handed me a glass of water for Hubbard.

  I too
k the glass and helped Old Mother sit in the chair Blue had righted for her.

  “Thank you, I’m fine, I’m fine,” she said in a voice that was rough from too many years smoking. She accepted the water. “Those spells take me so suddenly.” She shook her head. “Don’t ever get old,” she said with a wistful smile. “If you hadn’t have been here, Boy Blue . . .” She paused. “Well, no one would have looked after me, I’m sure.”

  “It’s no trouble at all, Mother Hubbard,” Blue said.

  “You’re a good boy, so different from that son of mine.”

  While Blue and Mother Hubbard exchanged pleasantries, I took another good look at the empty Shoe. There was nothing left except scattered cards, spilled glasses and a trail of bread crumbs leading to the door.

  Muffet, the Fairy Godfather, and whatever had been going on at their table, was lost. I wondered if the sweet Old Mother knew her son the Fairy was involved in dark dealings. She’d probably be as shocked as I had been that someone she trusted wasn’t what they seemed to be.

  Boy Blue and I helped her stand and shuffle to the door. Over her head, Boy asked, “Is there some reason you came in tonight, Detective?”

  “You run a clean joint, Blue,” I said, “but not all of your customers follow the rules. Be sure to tell me if there’s any trouble.”

  Blue gave me one of those grins that worked on the gals, and occasionally, Horner. “No problem, Detective. Here.” He handed me a flyer, which I put in my other pocket.

  “Come back sometime and see our new act,” he said.

  Old Mother Hubbard shuffled out the door to a waiting coach. Before I could say anything, Boy headed back into the arch, whistling a low, slow tune about monkeys chasing weasels.

  Back at the station, Horner was at his desk, looking like he hadn’t had sweets for a year.

  “In my office,” I said. Once there, I turned to him. “So, what have you got?”

  Horner slumped down in the extra chair and shook his head. He looked exhausted. The sugar shortage was already taking its toll.

  “Not much, Peter. We were all over town, and Dock didn’t hear the voice of the man.”