Sprinkle Takes the Cake

by S. R. Buckel

  “Pop these buggers out and let them jump and jive for a minute, I know.”

  There was a cushioned bench and table jutting from the western wall in the kitchen. Sprinkle sidled into this seat and placed his hands, folded, on its worn surface. June may have been ribbing him, but for Sprinkle this was good enough to be heaven; listening to Donavan while the blessed aroma of perfectly-cooked bacon filled him up with the warm and fuzzies.

  A few minutes later she finished the eggs and they tucked into breakfast.

  “So,” Sprinkle said after washing salty eggs down with a chug of orange juice. “What’s the skinny on our test?”

  June made a muffled noise that sounded like a chipmunk trying to say ‘mouthful’.

  Even long after he heard her gulp down some coffee and inhale, Sprinkle did not receive an answer from June. Which in itself was an answer to a clever-boots like him.

  “It was inconclusive as mud on horseshoes, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” June conceded. “Though I’m not sure what that means, exactly. The results of the stain were useless, and the PCM machine only offered a list, and nothing on the list had a higher than fifty-eight percent probability of a match. Further testing, it advised.”

  A long record-setting sigh escaped Sprinkle’s maw. “Well, ain’t that a kick in the teeth.”

  Sixty-eight minutes later, left hand wrapped around June’s right arm, he walked the astringent hall leading to the lab of his old nemesis. Before leaving the apartment they’d dialed Officer Brown at the station for an update. He went over the update in his head.

  They’d held Mrs. Rogers overnight, but had not yet officially charged her with anything.

  It wouldn’t be long before they dug something up and turned the poor widow into the perfect frame-job. Sprinkle had seen it before; detectives didn’t like their cases turning cold.

  At the door to the morgue he said, “You think maybe we should’ve just called him? I think maybe we should’ve just called him. It’s not too late. Let’s go back to—”

  “It never rains but it sprinkles,” an old harsh voice crackled through the air just as the door squeaked open. Continuing in that cigarette-destroyed voice, the man said, “Must be Tuesday. My absurdly nearsighted friend always needs my help on Tuesdays. Ain’t that right, Hank?”

  Sprinkle turned his head and wrinkled his nose.

  “I smell you haven’t taken a shower in a few days, Ishmael,” he said by way of a greeting.

  With June leading the way they entered the morgue. Unlike Sprinkle’s corpse-laden abode, Ishmael’s morgue always reeked, as if on principal. On entering, though, few people would realize the stench came not from the bodies but from the undertaker himself, whose affinity for working in nothing other than his apron was matched only by his aversion to showers.

  “OMG,” a small voice shrieked. “June, come here.”

  Sprinkle could hear the girls hugging each other and uttering their high-pitched pleasantries. It made him beam. The two dolls, June, and Ishmael’s partner Izzy, had hit it off the first time Sprinkle brought June here. They were remarkable that way, dolls, always able to get on so quickly and easily. ‘Always remember, Henry,’ his father had once told him, ‘the dolly’s are just plain smarter than us. So treat them with respect, or they’ll leave you cold and dry, and you won’t never get no lovin from ‘em then.’

  Many years had passed before Sprinkle understood that last part properly.

  The pleasant symphony of female companionship fell silent. “Miss Dye,” Ishmael crooned. “You’re looking perky today. Why don’t you make yourself more comfortable? This is a clothing-optional lab, you know.”

  “Ish,” Izzy snapped.

  Probably the woman would have slapped him; she was feisty, but she was also a dwarf (a fact Sprinkle had deduced two years earlier when, on meeting her, he’d shaken her hand and felt her wrist) and so her reach was not conducive to slapping.

  “What?” Ishmael said. “It was a compliment.”

  Sprinkle strode up to his nemesis, lead by the voice. “You sir, are no gentleman.”

  A pause, punctuated by a derisive snort. “And?”

  “And?” Sprinkle replied, genuinely shocked. “And your discourtesy is deplorable—”

  “It’s okay,” June had taken his hand to lead him away.

  Sprinkle let her. It was never pleasant to be in the vicinity of Ishmael.

  “What can we do for you two today?” Izzy asked from behind Sprinkle. When she spoke again her tone was slightly different, a smidgen more exasperated—which told Sprinkle that she was speaking to Ishmael now. He’d learned long ago to pay attention to tonal and directional changes in voice; you had to learn when people were speaking to you or to someone else in the room, or you were bound to answer questions meant for other people. She said, “Get back to the body; you’re dripping entrails all over the floor, you hairy ape.”

  By the sound of footsteps—followed by the click of a lighter igniting and the stink of smoke—Sprinkle knew Ishmael had listened to Izzy but had also lit up.

  “We can’t seem to identify this toxin,” June answered.

  A few seconds later the rustle of papers being exchanged and read told the tale: June had handed Izzy the toxicology report on Mr. Roger’s, and the itty-bitty dolly was flipping through it. While June answered her questions, Sprinkle dug a small tin of scented Vaseline out of his pocket and applied a dab to his upper lip. Apple blossoms bloomed, filling his nasal passages and conquering the stink that was Ishmael.

  “Wrongo,” Ishmael said, barging into their conversation.

  Crickets.

  “Good gracious animal, but that was rude!” Sprinkle declared.

  The slappy pattering of naked feet passing by echoed through the tiled space. “Yes, it was,” Ishmael snapped as he slithered past Sprinkle. “Izzy may be a genius little cougar under the covers, but when it comes to toxins, poisons, and other special concoctions, she’s about as clever as a box of short hair. I’m the one you came to see, so why not ask me about this mysterious toxin, huh, sugartits?”

  “Fine,” June said, and the violent sound of ruffled paperwork acted as her exclamation point. Probably she had handed the files to Ishmael with more force than was strictly necessary.

  The man muttered as he read.

  “Can’t you read without flapping off your kisser?” Sprinkle wondered. “You’ve been doing that since Brown.”

  “At least I can read,” Ishmael retorted. Five puffs of the cigarette later he piped up with: “Okay, I know what the toxin is, and I can say with one-hundred percent certainty that the widow Roger’s is the killer.” He pressed the files to Sprinkle’s chest and pattered away.

  Judging by the sound of his steps, Sprinkle decided his nemesis had returned to his corpse. He followed Ishmael. A rollaway cart tried to impede his progress, but he negotiating with it (clattered several instruments of autopsy), and reached the table where Ishmael was working.

  “How can you know?”

  A noise, like thick twigs being violently snapped in half, made Sprinkle flinch. No doubt the sound came from Ishmael, using the rib cutter to break ribs.

  “I know,” Ishmael explained with a grunt and another crack, “because I’m a genius.”

  “Pfft,” Sprinkle replied.

  Another loud snap, which rattled Sprinkle and smacked the smirk from his face.

  “Think what your derision implies,” Ishmael said after a long drag that filled the lab with rank smoke. A wet crackling sound accompanied his words. “If I am less than a genius, and you came to me seeking my expertise, what does that make you? Well, candyman? I’m waiting.”

  Few things on God’s green earth possessed the power to anger Henry J Sprinkle. Ishmael was on the top of that short list. “Please just tell me about the toxin.”

  “It’s called Dendrobatidae,” Ishmael explained while continuing to produce horrid sounds. “It comes from the dart frog.” Puff-puff, smoke blown in Sprinkle
’s face. “This specific species is known for its brightly colored skin—which, sadly, is no help to you. They’re aposematic,” his voice briefly increased in volume as he spoke to the girls. “For the special needs section of the class, aposematic means their specific toxin correlates with their coloring. The one which produced your lovely shade of pink must have possessed an equally brilliant shade of pink skin. They’re native to South America. Rare around these parts. Someone had to have imported your host.”

  Sprinkle clapped once. “Well ain’t that the cat’s meow. All we have to do is trace it to the person who imported it.”

  “Such a disappointment you are.”

  The tone was clearly meant for Sprinkle. “What are you talking about?”

  But Ishmael was too busy grunting and speaking into his recording system, explaining his findings concerning the corpse, to answer.

  “What makes you so sure it was Mrs. Roger’s who did the poisoning?” Sprinkle demanded. “Anyone might’ve done this. Probably it was someone who came up from South America. Maybe Mr. Roger’s had an enemy, a rival in the agriculturist office.”

  Another snort dispelled that theory.

  “You’re like a whipped dog, Hank,” Ishmael mocked. The slop of internal organs being dropped into a dish lent unpleasant visions to Sprinkle’s imagination. Ishmael continued: “It wasn’t some big international conspiracy, and this isn’t a suspense novel. Occam’s Razor, candyman. The simplest answer here is that the wife did it. Only a wife or a spurned girlfriend could conjure this level of personal hatred.” Another plunk. “It was the wife. Trust me.”

  Sprinkle was trembling with what passed for rage in him. “You really steam my biscuits.”

  “Whoa, no need to call out the big guns there, Tex.”

  “You always assume the worst of people, and I want to know why?”

  Heavy wet footsteps filled the morgue. Within seconds Sprinkle was forced to cover his nose against the cigarette smoke and rancid stink of entrails. “I’m a pessimist” Ishmael explained, “because that way I am right about people ninety-nine percent of the time.”

  “You take one look at someone and assume she is guilty,” Sprinkle steamed. “What do you think when you look at me?”

  A tense moment as the chill air of the morgue failed to cool the heat building between the two men. Then Ishmael answered: “A carpet.” The laughter that followed was worse than the answer. “Someone I can walk all over, because you stand up for everyone but yourself. You live like a Buddhist monk, you look like a q-tip, and you talk like a flapper. You’re just too easy a target to resist.” And the laughter resumed.

  “Come on, Henry,” June grabbed his arm but he resisted. “We have our answer. Let’s just leave.”

  “Not yet.” Leaning close to her, he whispered, “Lead me near enough to jab his chest.”

  His dutiful assistant obliged, and Sprinkle jabbed Ishmael in the chest, interrupting the laughter. “I talk the way I talk because that’s the way my father talked, and everyone loved him. I dress the way I dress because—”

  “Spare me.”

  He heard his nemesis walking away.

  June began to lead him out of the lab, saying goodbye to her friend Izzy on the way (who apologized for her rude partner).

  At the door Sprinkle stopped. “You better watch yourself, Ishmael; one of these days your rudeness is going to push someone over the edge, and they’ll end up fitting you for a pine overcoat.” He tugged on June’s arm, the signal to quickly lead him out to the car.

  They reached the Maxwell building twenty minutes later.

  As soon as June opened the door to his apartment, Sprinkle was struck by a potent sense of wrongness.

  “Wait,” he thrust his hand out, catching June in the stomach.

  “Wait for what?”

  He took a deep whiff of the air. “You smell that smell? Smells like Dendrobatidae, if I’m not mistaken. Someone has poisoned my apartment. June dear, grab my gloves and Lysol from beneath the sink. Quickly now, and be careful.” He waited, following the sounds of his assistant as she crossed his mid-sized apartment and rummaged through his cleaners. “Do you see any pink residue, dear?”

  A gust of wind came rushing through the rooms from an east-facing window Sprinkle always left open; it brought with it the distinctive aroma of toxic frog, slightly putrid, a bit fruity.

  “Oh my stars and garters,” Sprinkle cursed, covering his mouth. “June, fetch a mask, quickly now! Don’t inhale the poison.” He waited for a response. In the ten months they had been working together, June had developed the appropriate habit of vocally responding to his every question and suggestion, just to let him know she was there and paying attention.

  “June?” he queried when she did not respond.

  Then came a gagging sound, followed by a loud thud.

  “Applesauce!” he flailed forward, into the apartment. Without a single misstep, expertly avoiding his furniture, Sprinkle reached June’s body. The big toe on his right foot touched her first. “Oh criminy,” he crouched down, using the back of the couch for leverage. With his left hand he reached out, fingers searching for her neck. They found her chest first, continued on without lingering. “My apologies, dear,” he muttered. Ah, the neck, at last. He palpated the smooth flesh until he found the vein, and then he pressed down firmly.

  Sprinkle sighed with relief when the vein pushed back, pulsing with life.

  “Okay, my dear, hang on while I make ameche.”

  After calling the police on his house phone, Sprinkle rang Ishmael. As usual Izzy picked up.

  “Be a darling and ask Ishmael if there is an antidote to dart frog poisoning.” He waited, hearing Izzy ask the question over the line. Garbled words that sounded suspiciously insult-like slithered their way to his end. When Izzy came back on, she was apologetic.

  “I’m sorry, but Ishmael isn’t in the mood to talk with you right now.”

  “Tell him my June has been poisoned and I need to know if there is an antidote, right now, please,” he added the last part hastily. A poisoning was no excuse to forget your manners; at least that was what Papa had always said.

  “Well,” Ishmael’s voice pulsed through the phone line like a migraine. “I hear your assistant went and got herself poisoned. Looks like I’ve got the smart one.”

  “Dag-nabbit!” Sprinkle cursed. “Just tell me about the antidote.”

  “Keep your panties on,” Ishmael crooned. “First tell me what color the poison is that infected your careless little honey.”

  “What?”

  A long bothersome sigh. “I told you,” Ishmael said, “the poison dart frogs are aposematic. Each one’s poison is specific to that specific frog, pink, green, neon yellow, et cetera. So, what color is the toxin your assistant inhaled?”

  “You know very well I can’t answer that!”

  “Then we’ll have to assume the poisoner used the same dart frog she—”

  “Or he.”

  “—used on that Roger’s stiff. So, pink it is. For that you will need to administer a dose of adrenaline with two cc’s of penicillin.”

  “For truth?”

  What sounded absurdly like a long relaxing yawn issued from Ishmael’s end of the line. “The toxin from dendrobatids acts as a muscle relaxant, so you need to wake those muscles up. That, or you could try the venom from a Leimadophis epinephelus.”

  “What in tarnation is that?” Sprinkle’s heart was a jackhammer in his chest—a jackhammer with performance issues.

  “A snake from South America that has developed immunity to the dart frog toxins,” Ishmael explained in a bored tone. “They’re a regulated species up here, so, good luck.” The click of the receiver was the final nail in the coffin.

  “Jeez oh man!” Sprinkle slammed the receiver down, almost missing the cradle in his fury.

  Normally he wouldn’t use such a foul expletive, but Ishmael had a way of getting under Sprinkle’s skin like nobody else. What kind of a man wouldn�
�t be even remotely concerned over a young lady’s health? The idea that Ishmael—even he—might not be moved by a dolly’s plight was a foreign concept to the man brought up by two saints earning their haloes.

  For a time that seemed to stretch into hours but probably wasn’t longer than a few minutes, Sprinkle sat and cradled June in his arms. Every thirty seconds he checked her pulse, just to be certain-curtains.

  EMT’s showed up with the police. One of them, a kindly dame with the voice of a goddess, offered to take Sprinkle to the hospital with June.

  On the way there he told them about the poison and the antidote. Though Athena and her partner were at first reluctant to heed a blind man’s advice with blind faith, they eventually decided—after realizing their attempts were vain—to administer the adrenaline and antibiotic.

  Thirteen hours later June woke.

  Groggy sounds suggested she was stirring. He sat up from the comfortable chair beside her bed, reached out to where he’d set the pitcher, and poured a cup of room-temperature water for his assistant.

  June sipped. When she spoke her voice was a squeaky whisper, a mouse trying to squeeze through chicken wire. “So, I guess you should be smiling, huh, boss?”

  “Goodness me, why ever would I be smiling, dear?”

  “You were right about Mrs. Roger’s,” June said, her voice still raspy. “She’s innocent.”

  Sprinkle had indeed felt a glimmer of relief at this revelation, tempered of course, by his concern over June’s wellbeing while experiencing the relief-glimmer.

  “I suppose I’ll smile again just as soon as we find the poisoner who did the poisoning.”

  June took another sip. “Right, perspective. All we’ve done, I suppose, is eliminate one person as a suspect. Unfortunately there are billions of other people out there.”

  “Well,” Sprinkle said, stretching the word into two syllables in the playful spirit of grammarians everywhere, “I’m pretty sure we can rule out the Brits. And the Eskimos. Maybe even those Aboriginal folk, they seem awful nice.”