A Game of Dons

by Nic Saint

  He winked at Dead Dude. “Thanks, buddy. You just might put me over the top here.”

  Dead Dude didn’t respond. Instead, he kept on looking dead. Then, just when Fred finally decided to do the right thing and call 911, something hard and unyielding hit him on the back of the head. As he went down and the world turned dark, his last thought was: please let me go viral.

  Chapter 16

  Reece was staring at the ground. Alice joined him. “What are you looking at?”

  “Clues,” he muttered.

  “What clues?”

  “Exactly.” He shook his head sadly. “How do they do it, these detective fellas? They look around and immediately are awash with clues. Cigarette butts, footprints, funky fibers, exotic fabrics, weird-shaped bullet holes, discarded poison… You name it, they find it.”

  “You’ve been reading too many Hercule Poirot novels.”

  “Actually, I haven’t. I just watch the TV show. Producer said it was important for me to get the part.”

  “I thought you already got the part.”

  “I got it, but now I have to ‘get’ it.”

  “Gotcha,” she said, and patted his broad back. “Keep on looking, Mr. Detective Man. You never know when some exotic fiber might jump out at you from the undergrowth.” She ambled over to Fee, who stood checking her phone. “And? Find anything interesting?”

  “A second picture has just popped up,” said Fee. “Look at this.” She held up her phone and Alice looked at that.

  “It’s Vic, all right,” she determined. “Only this time he’s standing up.”

  “He’s made to look like a scarecrow,” said Fee, “hence the standing up part.”

  “Oh, right.” She’d missed that little detail. Fee had enhanced the picture and both she and Alice frowned as they took it in.

  “It’s been reposted from an Instagram called Ned & Fred Feed.”

  “I know those guys! They’re the ones who post all those funny pictures of what life on a farm is like, remember?”

  “Of course,” said Fee. “Fred and Ned Decker. Two brothers. Two farms. Fred is the straight guy and Ned the funny one.”

  Both brothers had been posting funny little videos: dancing in rubber boots in the pigpen, taking selfies with all the different barnyard animals, looking for faces in cans of milk. They were a real hoot. “So Fred and Ned took this picture first?” Alice asked.

  “They did—and then it was reposted by this other account, the one that posted the first picture of Vic, buried up to his neck in sand.”

  “I’ll bet this account belongs to whoever is moving this body around.”

  “But what’s the point?” asked Fee. “Why move the body of a mobster around town? And what’s next? Are they going to put Vic in front of Bell’s Bakery? Or with his head stuffed in my dad’s oven? I don’t get it, Alice.”

  “I’ll bet this is the last picture. The Deckers will have called the police by now.”

  “We better get over there and on top of this thing. If the Deckers called in the cavalry, it won’t be long before they find Virgil’s badge and there will be hell to pay.”

  “Not unless my dad gets there first and removes Virgil’s badge,” said Alice.

  “Rick! Reece! Virgil! Let’s go!” shouted Fee. Then, turning to Alice, she added, “Do you really think he’d tamper with a crime scene? That doesn’t sound like your dad.”

  “If Virgil gets in hot water Dad will never forgive himself. Virgil is like a son to him—at least that’s what he told me once.”

  “So… Virgil is like the brother you never had?”

  Alice grinned. “I know, right?”

  “What’s going on?” asked Rick, who came jogging up from the backyard next door.

  “There’s been another sighting of the body,” said Fee.

  “Oh, whoopee,” said Reece, inappropriately yet understandable. “Where?”

  “Fred and Ned Decker. Just outside of town.”

  They all got into the bakery van, which Fee had on loan. The rickety old thing might be ready for the scrapheap, but until then it provided its services with a happy death rattle.

  Fee stomped on the accelerator and the van lurched into motion, emitting a cloud of acrid black smoke.

  “You really should get on board with this whole saving the environment thing, Fee,” said Alice.

  “Yeah, if the Greenpeace people see this van, they’re going to name and shame you as the worst offender in the history of bakery van driving,” Rick agreed.

  “Don’t blame me,” said Fee. “I’ve told my dad a million times to buy a new van.”

  “Your dad is a stingy old baker,” said Alice.

  “Not stingy. He just doesn’t want to spend money on anything that’s not his Florida retirement fund.”

  “He’s still dreaming of moving to Florida, huh?” said Reece.

  “Oh, yes. Now more than ever. But Mom won’t let him.” She darted a quick look in the rearview mirror and Rick wisely didn’t respond.

  The only reason Fee’s dad wasn’t in Florida already, enjoying one of the many retirement communities down there, was that Bianca had forbidden him to even contemplate such a move until Fee and Rick were married with one, preferably two babies hot in the cradle. She didn’t want to be an absent grandmother, so Peter Bell stayed put.

  “So did you find a clue, Reece?” asked Rick now.

  Reece shook his head sadly. “Not a single one. Not even a cigarette butt, and cigarette butts are very important clues. They feature big on those Hercule Poirot shows.”

  “Shows? I thought you’d at least have the decency to read the books.”

  Reece threw up his hands. “Who has time? Do you know how many books this Agatha Christie woman wrote? About a thousand.”

  “More like sixty-six,” said Rick. “Of which thirty-three are Hercule Poirot novels.”

  “Well, I’m watching the shows. They’ve got everything I need right there. Even then it’s going to take me a week to watch them all.”

  “I thought you said you never watched the competition?” asked Rick pointedly.

  “I’m secure enough in my acting,” said Reece. “Once you get comfortable in your own skin, you can watch other actors all you want, and their performance won’t phase you.”

  Rick shook his head and muttered something that was probably derogatory. Alice exchanged a look with her friend. Rick and Reece had been getting on so well lately, but now they seemed to be experiencing a setback in their relationship. Men, she thought. Always competing with other men. Probably something to do with male hormones.

  She glanced at Virgil, who’d been quiet throughout the exchange. Then again, the poor guy’s life was on the line, or at least his career. “Are you all right, Virgil?” she asked.

  “How can I be all right if I’m about to be arrested as an accessory to murder—and by my own colleagues, no less!” He shook his head. “This is the worst day of my life…”

  “Could be worse,” said Reece cheerfully. “Your mom could find out what you did.”

  “Oh, God, nooooooo!” cried Virgil, and buried his face in his hands.

  “Reece!” Alice hissed.

  “What?”

  “Not cool!”

  She felt for the cop. Until very recently Virgil had been engaged to be married—to an actual princess, no less. Unfortunately Her Royal Highness Tabitha Hodd had broken off the engagement. In fact Virgil’s mother, too, had been engaged, in her case to a guardian from Tabitha’s country Allard, but that betrothal had unfortunately been short-lived as well.

  The van hurtled along the road at a pleasant rate of speed, and before long they were on the outskirts of town, where no houses could be seen apart from the occasional farmhouse. Here lush green fields and meadows were the norm, and Alice enjoyed going for walks out here from time to time. She remembered having once taking horse riding lessons at Galloping Acres, along with Fee. She’d been a natural—Fee not so much. In fact a horse had once thro
wn Fee off its back, possibly not happy with its charge.

  When they arrived at Farmer Fred’s, Fee uttered a curse. “Dang it. We’re too late.”

  And indeed they were: police cars were haphazardly parked on the small lane leading up to the farmhouse, and an ambulance stood blinking nearby.

  They got out of the van and hurried over.

  “This isn’t good,” said Virgil, clearly distraught. “I might as well give myself up.”

  “You’ll do no such thing,” said Alice. “You’re going to stay right here and we’re going to find out what’s going on and hopefully get that badge back for you.”

  “Okay,” said Virgil somberly, and returned to the van.

  They arrived in what looked like a half-plowed field, the tractor still standing on the furrows. Paramedics were attending to the dead man. There was no sign of Chief Whitehouse, though, only of several of his officers, who were jotting down copious notes.

  “Too late,” muttered Fee. “They got here before your dad. Virgil’s in trouble now.”

  But when they drew closer Alice saw that the figure receiving medical attention was moving. And then she saw that it was Farmer Fred himself, and not the dead man.

  “Holy crap, you’re not dead,” she said before she could stop herself.

  “And a good thing, too!” the weather-beaten farmer said.

  “What happened to you?” asked Fee.

  “I got knocked out, didn’t I?”

  “Knocked out by who?”

  “If I knew that I wouldn’t be lying here, would I?” said the farmer, and spat on the ground. “I’d be on my tractor, running the bastard down!”

  Alice looked around for the body of the dead mobster. “So where’s the body?”

  “What body?” asked Fred.

  “You posted a picture of a dead body. Where is it?”

  Fred smiled. “Oh, you saw that, did you?”

  “Where’s the body, Fred?”

  The smile vanished. “They took it.”

  “Took it? Who took it?” asked Rick, ever the detail-oriented reporter.

  “How should I know? Probably the same bastard who knocked me out.”

  Reece had found the location where the body had been propped up and was taking ample photographic evidence on his phone. The others joined him. The construction used to string up the dead man was still there, the ropes now on the ground, but the dead man was gone.

  Reece picked up one of the ropes. “Cut,” he said knowingly. He studied the rope a little closer. “Possibly with a sharp knife. Or scissors.”

  “I could have told you that, Reece,” said Rick, sounding annoyed all of a sudden. He planted his hands on his hips. “What are these people playing at, for crying out loud?!”

  Officer Wilson and Detective Rhythm walked up. “Come to see the sights, have you?” asked Wilson. A handsome young officer, he was one of the force’s most diligent members.

  “Only there is no sight to be seen,” Detective Rhythm supplied. “By the way, have you guys seen Virgil, by any chance? Ever since he walked out of the precinct this morning he seems to have vanished from the face of the earth.”

  “Nope,” said Alice quickly. “We haven’t seen Virgil, have we, guys?”

  The others all murmured their assent and Louise gave them a strange look.

  “Why are you all acting weird all of a sudden?” she asked.

  “Acting weird? We’re not acting weird,” said Alice.

  “Yeah, you are.” She narrowed her eyes. “If you know something about this attack on Farmer Fred, you would tell us, right?”

  “Of course!” cried Fee, a little too loudly.

  Louise shook her head. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.” She walked off.

  “Don’t mind her,” said Officer Wilson. “Ever since the Chief teamed her up with Virgil she’s become strangely protective of the guy.” He rolled his eyes. “As if Virgil Scattering needs protecting. The guy is a legend! If there’s anyone who can take care of himself, it’s Detective Scattering. Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re absolutely right,” said Alice, but without much conviction.

  Chapter 17

  “I’m not so sure about this, Jer.” Johnny Carew was driving the van, while his associate Jerry Vale was seated in the passenger seat, as per their usual arrangement.

  “I’m not so sure either,” grunted Jerry, staring at his phone as if it had personally offended him. On the dash, a copy of Chaos Theory: A Practical Application lay.

  Jerry, a rat-faced individual built like a stick insect, was shaking his head at the picture of the dead guy strung up like a scarecrow. “I thought I told you to put corncobs dangling from the guy’s neck. Didn’t I tell you to go for a corncob theme?”

  “You got the pictures? Lemme see?” said Johnny, glancing over.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, you moron!” cried Jerry when the van swerved dangerously in the direction of the guardrail.

  “Yes, Jerry,” said Johnny meekly. Even though he was twice the size of his associate, and could probably squash Jerry like a bug with those coal shovels for hands, there was no doubt that Jerry was the brains in this little outfit of theirs, and Johnny the brawn.

  The two of them had been working in tandem for as long as they could remember, first as muscle for Chazz Falcone, the well-known New York City real estate tycoon, then flying solo for a while, earning themselves a couple of run-ins with the law, at which point they’d renewed their association with Chazz, and even stranger adventures had awaited.

  “So what’s next?” asked Johnny, raising his voice over the sound of five dogs yapping. Multitasking was part of the equation when working for Chazz, and since Johnny was Chazz’s official dog handler, Chazz’s five Pomeranians had come along for the ride.

  “No idea. Haven’t gotten new instructions yet,” said Jerry annoyedly. He didn’t like that they left them hanging like this all the time. And what he liked even less was that they weren’t their own boss in this, the weirdest assignment they’d ever been involved in.

  “Maybe they’ll figure enough is enough?” Johnny suggested.

  “I doubt it. I got a feeling this has only just begun.”

  “I’m not so sure about this, Jer,” said Johnny, visibly perturbed.

  “So you told me. About a million times! And I’m not so sure either, but what are we gonna do? If the boss tells us to jump, we jump. That’s the deal.”

  “At least he’s promised to double our usual fee.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Jerry. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He glanced through the little window that offered a view into the van’s freezer area where they carried their precious cargo. “Looks like the stiff is holding up well,” he said.

  “That’s because he’s frozen solid. And doesn’t know how much trouble we’re going to on his account.”

  “I don’t know, Johnny, but I kinda doubt he had a say in this.”

  “Mobsters,” Johnny said, shaking his head. “You gotta love em.”

  Bancroft Bell wiped the floor of his shop, carefully removing every last hair and sweeping it into the dustbin. If there was one thing he’d learned as a hairstylist it was this: even though customers came into Revolution Cool to have their hair cut, for some strange reason they freaked out when they actually saw evidence of other people’s haircuts on the floor. The solution was to sweep thoroughly and to sweep regularly, preferably every couple of minutes. He would have loved it if Demetria hired those US Open ball boys, who pick up the balls that hit the net. They wouldn’t have to chase balls in his shop, but they’d chase hair: a lock of hair drops to the floor? Sweep. Another lock of hair? Sweep!

  Of course this was nonsense, but it said something about the diligence and the fastidiousness that had made Revolution Cool the number one hair salon in Happy Bays, and possibly even Long Island and beyond. Bancroft Bell and the salon’s owner, Demetria Whitehouse, treated their customers well, and believed in
their profession. Bancroft loved cutting hair, and styling it to perfection, and Demetria loved running her own company. In exchange, their customers rewarded them with their fierce loyalty and booming business.

  It came as something of a surprise, therefore, when a customer walked into the salon Bancroft had never seen before. Not the fact that she was unfamiliar to him, but the quality of hair was such that he immediately envied the hairdresser who’d enjoyed her patronage until now. Her hair was absolutely gorgeous. Wispy, fair and glowing with vibrant health. He almost went weak at the knees at the sight of those marvelous locks, especially as the woman swished them and they caught the light of the sun as it pierced the vitrine.

  “Hello, there,” he said, putting a purr in his voice. “How can I help you?”

  “Hi. I have an appointment?”

  Oh, dear. He blanched. “M-miss Grabarski?”

  She smiled widely. “That’s me.”

  He grinned at her feebly. “I l-love your Instagram. In fact I check it all the time.”

  She looked different from her feed, though. Not much, but there was a difference. He chalked it up to Photoshop and filters, for the woman now standing before him was even more stunningly beautiful than the Gertrude Grabarski he knew from her Instagram.

  “Y-your hair,” he said, trying to control his nerves at meeting a real celebrity in his salon.

  “Yes? What about it?”

  “It’s… amazing.”

  She laughed a tinkling laugh.

  Yep, she was different. The Instagram Gertrude never laughed, and most definitely not out loud. In fact he’d never seen the Instagram Gertrude crack a smile, and he’d already figured she was following the Victoria Beckham school of thought on smiling: never do it.

  “Thanks for the compliment.” She glanced at the window display. A car had just driven up. It was a BMW convertible. An older model. Gertrude turned to him. “Could you be a dear and close up the salon while you’re working on my hair? I do so enjoy my privacy.”