The Nighttime is the Right Time

by Bill Crider

  Burns looked around, wishing that he had never seen Napier or Elaine Tanner. It was their fault that he was in this mess, though he knew he had been stupid to follow the woman out of the store. He had no idea how to handle the situation, and he should simply have allowed her to leave.

  He turned back to the woman, intending to apologize and forget the whole incident.

  She swung her purse and hit him in the side of the head. The purse was so heavy Burns thought it might have a compact car inside it.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it, and the little boy kicked him in the shin. "You leave my mom alone!" he yelled.

  Burns bent to look at his shin, and the woman hit him with her purse again, in the back of the head this time. The fur-rimmed cap protected him to some extent, but Burns went down to his knees on the parking lot.

  He heard the horrified voice of a little girl. "That woman's killing Santa!"

  The voice did not deter the woman. She hit Burns again.

  "What's going on here?" Boss Napier said.

  Burns had never thought the Chief's voice could sound so good. He stood up, his right hand pushing the cap out of his eyes.

  "This creep was trying to take my purse," the woman said.

  "He's a bad Santa," her boy said.

  "I was just trying to do what you told me," Burns said.

  "I didn't tell you to go picking on solid citizens like Mrs. Branton," Napier said. He looked around at the crowd of curious onlookers. "Everything's all right here now, folks. Just a little Christmas misunderstanding."

  "That woman tried to kill Santa," the horrified little girl said.

  "Santa's fine. Isn't that right, Santa."

  Burns rubbed the back of his head. "Yeah," he said. He didn't even try to be jolly. "Santa's just fine."

  As the crowd drifted on into the store, many of them pausing to look back over their shoulders, Burns said to Napier, "You know Mrs. Branton?"

  "Right, Mrs. Roy Branton and her fine son Larry." He smiled at the boy, who was watching Burns suspiciously. "This has all been a big misunderstanding, Larry. Santa wasn't trying to take your mother's purse."

  "Yes he was," Mrs. Branton said.

  "No, no," Napier said, much jollier than Burns had ever seen him. "He's working for me. It was just a mistake. Really. It won't happen again."

  Mrs. Branton didn't look convinced. "He looks like a creep to me."

  Napier got even jollier. "Well, he's not. You can take my word for it. Right, Santa?"

  "Right," Burns said, grinding his teeth.

  ~ * ~

  As Napier explained to Burns later in the storeroom while Burns was getting out of the Santa suit, Mrs. Branton was the ex-wife of one of Napier's best officers. She had quite a reputation around town for her fierce temper and for one other thing--her honesty.

  "She's the kind of woman who wouldn't tell a lie even when it would be better than the truth," Napier said. "The kid, Larry, found a ten dollar bill on the street one day, and she made him give it to Harve--Harve's her ex--so Harve could turn it in at the station. We kept it for three weeks, and when no one claimed it, she let Larry have it. She wouldn't steal anything, Burns. She wouldn't even let the kid keep the ten dollars, not at first."

  Burns stripped off the itchy beard. "I don't see how you can be so sure about her. I've read that shoplifting is like a disease. You never know who might have it. And since we're doing "A Christmas Carol," I've been thinking about Dickens. She's probably a Fagin."

  "What's a Fagin?"

  "Who. Who's a Fagin. He's a character in Oliver Twist. He has a bunch of kids who do his thieving for him."

  "You think Larry is doing the lifting?"

  Burns shook his head. "Not really. To be honest, she's the only one I saw today who even looked the least bit suspicious. There's just no way anyone could be stealing stuff from this store."

  "Sure there is," Napier said. "You just haven't given it enough time."

  "Yes I have," Burns said. He threw the red cap on top of the pile he had made of the Santa outfit. "I've found out I don't have a flair for investigative work after all. I quit."

  ~ * ~

  The first performance of "A Christmas Carol" was very well received. Many of the prominent members of the community were in attendance, including Franklin Miller, the president of Hartley Gorman College, who took the time to congratulate Burns on his reading.

  "Excellent, Burns, excellent," Miller said, shaking Burns' hand. "This has been just wonderful for college and community relations."

  His remarks didn't make Burns feel any better. Elaine had been ignoring him ever since the episode at Cameron's, though Burns had tried to put the best face possible on things when he explained to her why he had given up the job. He could tell that she was disappointed in him, however, and there was no telling what Napier might have said to her about why Burns was off the job.

  Burns looked over the departing audience and saw several other people he knew. There was Marion Everson, editor of Pecan City's almost-daily newspaper; Gene Vale, president of the Chamber of Commerce; and several HGC faculty members, including Mal Tomlin and Earl Fox.

  Even Jay Cameron was there. It was eight-thirty, and the store owner would just have time to get to his place of business before closing time for one last check of the premises. The shoplifters still had not been caught. Cameron, however, had not been sorry to see Burns resign as Santa. It was as if he was more willing to suffer his losses than to have Burns make another scene. Burns didn't blame him for feeling that way.

  Then Burns had a thought. He walked over to where Napier was graciously accepting the congratulations of an admiring Elaine Tanner and several others for his sensitive interpretation of Tiny Tim.

  Burns waited until Napier looked his way and indicated that he would like a word with the Chief. Napier shook a few more hands, laughed, and made his way to Burns, looking back to smile at Elaine over his shoulder.

  Burns tried not to grind his teeth. "I think I've cracked the case," he said when Napier reached him.

  "What case?" Napier said.

  "You know what case."

  "Oh, that case. I thought you quit."

  "I did, but I've been thinking about it."

  "Thinking about it. You cracked it by thinking about it? Like Sherlock Holmes?"

  Burns smiled. "More like C. Auguste Dupin."

  Napier thought about that. "Who?" he said.

  "Never mind," Burns said. "Just meet me at Cameron's at nine o'clock."

  "Tonight?" Napier said, looking at his watch.

  "Right. In fact, why don't we go in your car?"

  "You're not going to make more trouble are you?"

  "Who, me?" Burns said. "Of course not."

  "You better not," Napier said. "If you do, I'll sic Mrs. Branton on you."

  "Ha ha," Burns said. But he wasn't being jolly.

  ~ * ~

  Burns and Napier sat in the squad car. Not wanting to alert anyone to their presence, Napier refused to leave the motor on and run the heater. He even rolled his window down a half inch and made Burns do the same so the windows wouldn't fog over. Burns was freezing. He rubbed his hands together and stuck them between his thighs to warm them.

  Napier hummed the theme from Hawaii Five-0, tapping on the steering wheel to keep time.

  "I wish you wouldn't hum that song," Burns said. "It bothers me."

  "Those Five-0 guys are my heroes," Napier said, thinking of warm surf and swaying palm trees. "You better be right about this, Burns. You know that?"

  "I'm right. How much did you say the store lost the day I was there?"

  "Four thousand. Little more. You stretch that out over three or four weeks, it mounts up."

  The last customers left the store. Mrs. Branton and Larry. This time Mrs. Branton was carrying a bulging shopping bag. A salesclerk locked the door behind her.

  "There she is," Burns said. "She sure does have a heavy purse."

  "But she's not a thief," Napi
er said.

  "I know that now," Burns said.

  They waited in the car while balances were checked against the stock, Cameron no doubt moaning over his latest losses. The clerks began to trickle out.

  Finally Cameron himself came out. The store was dark now, and Cameron carefully checked the door before he started across the parking lot to his car. He was wearing a bulky topcoat over his expensive suit.

  "Now?" Napier said.

  "Now or never," Burns said, opening his door and getting out.

  They met Cameron just as he reached his car.

  "Good evening, Chief. Dr. Burns," Cameron said. "I enjoyed your performance this evening."

  Napier thanked him.

  "And what brings you my way?" Cameron said.

  "Well," Napier said, "Burns has this crazy idea that he knows who's been stealing from your store."

  "He does?" Cameron said. "That's good news."

  "Not so good," Napier said. "He thinks it's you."

  Cameron seemed to pale under the glow of the lamps that lighted the parking lot. "Me?" he said.

  "You," Burns said. "Chief Napier said it couldn't be your employees. You were too careful for that. And I sat there all day and never saw anyone take a thing. I thought I did, but I didn't. And neither did any of your professionals. So if no one was taking anything, that left only one person, one person who visited every department and had every opportunity to take whatever he wanted. You."

  "I don't see how you could think such a thing," Cameron said, tucking his coat around him.

  "Why don't you show us what's under the coat?" Napier said. "If there's nothing, then Burns was just wrong. Again."

  "Of course he's wrong. I never heard of anything so outrageous. Why would I steal from my own store?"

  "Money," Burns said. "The store's in trouble, but if you stole from yourself, you could collect twice. Once from the insurance company and once from the fence you sold the merchandise to. It makes sense to me."

  "Me too," Napier said. "Open the coat." He reached out as if to pull open the front of the topcoat, and Cameron jerked away. A small bag dropped on the asphalt of the parking lot.

  Burns grabbed it before Cameron could bend down. He opened it and looked inside. "Watches," he said. "Did you remember to pay for these, Mr. Cameron?"

  Napier didn't appear interested in the watches. "Got anything else under that coat, Cameron?" he said.

  Cameron looked at Burns, then at Napier. His face set itself for a second, then collapsed. He opened the coat to reveal several other sacks of merchandise tucked here and there.

  Napier shook his head. "Looks like you were right, Burns. I hate to admit it, but maybe you do have a flair for this kind of thing, after all."

  Burns smiled. "Book him, Tim-o," he said.

  It Happened at Grandmother's House

  A werewolf detective? Hey, why not? This is actually the first of two stories about the same characters, as the ending of this one makes clear. After you read it, you’ll know the true story of Little Red Riding Hood.

  1.

  I never asked to be a werewolf. Oh, sure, it has its compensations, but not nearly enough of them.

  Take adolescence, for example. You think zits and raging hormones are a problem? Throw in the fact that you turn into a wolf every time there’s a full moon, and you have a guy who’s really in trouble when it comes to getting dates.

  Some of you women are thinking, “Hey, no big deal. I’ve dated guys like that.” No, you haven’t. I’m not responsible for what the more or less normal teenage guy does when the moon is full, which I’m sure is bad enough. But for me it was a lot worse. Trying to convince someone that you just have a bit of excessive chest hair isn’t the best way to establish a romantic relationship.

  Yes, it’s not easy being a teenage werewolf, and if you’ve ever seen that movie with Michael Landon, you know what I mean. Then there’s that other movie, Teen Wolf. Sure, everyone loves Michael J. Fox because he’s such a great basketball player, but sports never worked out that well for me. You think it’s hard to dribble or throw a pass with your hands? Just try it with paws sometime.

  But this isn’t about a movie. It’s about real life, or what passes for it in my case, and about something that happened to me when I was in high school.

  It all started with a girl named Marie Grayson. I was very interested in girls at the time, in spite of the difficulties caused by my unusual proclivities, and this one had red hair. I was always a sucker for redheads, at least when I wasn’t Changed. Then I was a sucker for schnauzers, but that’s another story. There was one once, . . . . Never mind.

  Back to the redhead. Marie. She also had that perfect complexion that sometimes goes along with red hair. Rhonda Fleming had it. Not to mention Maureen O’Hara. And she had long legs and green eyes and soft breasts -- at least I imagined they were soft. I certainly never got close enough to judge for myself.

  I did get close enough to talk to her, though, and that was good enough for me. I never really expected any more. Just an occasional smile and a pat on the head -- that’s all I asked.

  And that’s all I got, until the time, possibly inspired by having drunk one too many root beers, I talked a little bit too much and told her the truth about myself.

  She laughed, of course. Wouldn’t you?

  “A werewolf?” she said. “You?”

  We were sitting in my car, a nowhere-new 1970 Ford Fairlane, at the Root Beer Stand: “All drinks served in frosted mugs!” She was leaning against the passenger door so hard I thought she might fall out. It might have been my imagination, but I thought she was leaning even harder since my unguarded confession.

  I took a sip of my third root beer from the no-longer frosty mug and nodded sadly. “That’s right. A werewolf. The genuine article. It’s my grandfather’s fault.”

  “Your grandfather?”

  “Right. He was the one who went to Tibet and got bitten. I guess he had no idea a bite like that could affect his genetic structure. Anyway, that’s how it happened.”

  Her green eyes sparkled in the light from all the bulbs lining the Root Beer Stand’s awning. She was drinking pink lemonade.

  “So your father’s a werewolf, too.”

  “No,” I said. “My mother.”

  “Oh, good grief.”

  “I know it’s hard to believe,” I said. “But it’s true.” I took another sip of root beer. “She’d kill me if she knew I’d told.”

  “Kill you?”

  “Well, I don’t mean that literally. At least I don’t think I do. You never can tell what might happen during the Change.”

  “Tell me about that,” she said.

  “Well, once she Changed a day early. It can happen. And of course she hadn’t taken the usual precautions -- “

  ”I don’t mean about what your mother might do to you. I mean about the Change. That’s what I want to hear about.”

  “Oh.”

  “You don’t have to say it like that. I care about you and what might happen when your mother Changes too soon, but what I’d really like to know is what it’s like.”

  So I told her. It’s pretty unpleasant, and I won’t go into it here, except to say that it hurts. A lot. Every part of you hurts, even your hair.

  “So I’ve decided never to have children,” I finished. “It wouldn’t be fair. I wouldn’t want them to go through all the stuff I’ve had to.”

  She looked at me and said, “You really believe it, don’t you. You really believe that you’re a werewolf.”

  “Why not? You think it’s some kind of joke? It’s not. I could prove it to you, but I’m won’t. I’d never let anyone see me Change.”

  “I don’t think I’d enjoy it, anyway.”

  “I don’t enjoy it, that’s for sure.”

  She finished off her lemonade and handed the empty mug to me. I set it on the tray that the car hop had attached to my lowered window.

  Marie gave me a speculative look. “So if you�
��re really a werewolf -- “

  ”I am.”

  “ -- if you’re really a werewolf, you’re kind of like a dog, I guess.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t have to look that way. I didn’t mean anything bad. I just assumed that you’d have some kind of special senses. Like being able to find your way back home if you were accidentally moved across country.”

  Obviously she’d been watching too many Disney movies. On the other hand, she might have a point.

  “I probably could,” I said.

  “And I’ll bet you have a great sense of smell.”

  “White Shoulders,” I said.

  “Thank you.”

  “I was talking about perfume.”

  “Oh. I’m not wearing perfume.”

  “I didn’t mean you. I meant the girl in the car next to us. On your side.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “There’s an empty space next to us.”

  “But there’s a car next to the space.”

  “OK. I see it, and there’s someone in it, all right. But how do I find out if you’re right about the perfume?”

  I shrugged. “You could ask her.”

  So she did. When she got back in the car, she was looking at me with something that might have been respect, but it might also have been suspicion.

  “This isn’t some kind of set-up is it?” she said.

  “Why would I want to set you up?”

  “I don’t know. Guys do stuff like that. And this werewolf business just seems . . . weird.”

  “You should see it from where I am.”

  She didn’t say anything, just sat and leaned against the door and thought about something. I put my empty mug on the tray. The car hop came and picked up the tray and her measly tip.

  “There’s someone I’d like for you to meet,” Marie said after a while.

  “Meet? Why?”

  “I think she’d find you interesting. And maybe there’s something you could help her with.”

  “Her?”

  “My grandmother,” she said.

  2.

  There are all kinds of neighborhoods in Houston. When you drive north over the Pierce Elevated and look to the right, you see the concrete canyons of downtown. Towering office buildings glitter so close to the highway that it seems you could almost touch them if you stuck your arm out the window.