Terribly Twisted Tales

by RABE, JEAN

  Puss raised his paws, all innocence. “There are other small animals besides rodents.”

  “True.” A louder snarl shattered Jack’s concentration. If something did not happen soon, panic would break through his brittle façade. “But I’ve seen you with birds, too. I’ve seen you—” Suddenly, the giant chuckled. “I know one place you would never go, my hydrophobic creation. One place I can prove my power without also risking my life.” The massive animal disappeared in a puff of smoke, and the fountain suddenly contained an ugly, whiskered, black fish.

  “Go!” Puss commanded.

  The rest was pure instinct. Before he could think to run, before he could fully comprehend the danger, Jack had cleared the distance to the fountain and speared the fish on his hook. It struggled desperately, wildly, its shape blurring. Then, Puss sprang forward and, with a single swipe of his paw, tore off the back of the fish’s head. And it went still.

  Abruptly, the air tingled, and a happy shout went up in hundreds of voices. Still clutching the hook and its grizzly contents, Jack looked around at the pale figures flitting near the entryways. Now, they glided toward him.

  Dropping the hook, Jack retreated behind Puss, who set to happily devouring what remained of the fish.

  “Thank you,” the creatures said as they approached.

  “Thank you, Puss. Thank you, young man. Thank you.”

  Jack grabbed Puss’ lashing tail. “What’s happening?”

  Bone crunched between Puss’ jaws, and he swallowed before speaking. “The bought souls have a new master, Duke Jack Corlwin. They are eternally tied to this keep, but they now serve a man who will surely treat them more kindly than their previous master.”

  En masse, the lost souls bowed and curtsied while Jack stared. “Th-thank you,” he told them. “Please see to it our home remains tidy and functioning, and I will do everything in my power to keep your eternity comfortable and happy. You only need to tell me what you desire.”

  The souls scampered off in several directions, chattering happily amongst themselves.

  Puss smiled. “Very nice, Master. You’re a natural-born duke.”

  “Hardly.” Jack picked up his fish hook and put it in his pocket. “With your help, my Capricious Animistic Tempter.” He smiled. “I mean, my cat. I could not have done it without your cleverness.” He bowed appreciatively. “You are as witty as you claimed. How can I repay you?”

  Puss’ grin widened until his fangs showed. “I have everything I need. A secure home, the love of my mistress, and the soul of my master. And so shall it be for my offspring through eternity.”

  Jack swallowed deeply. He did not fear for his soul. Not really. But something else Puss said confused him. “The love of your mistress?”

  “Princess Darcia,” Puss confirmed, and a glimmer entered his yellow eyes. “She loves me.”

  “She loves you?” An image of the young princess filled Jack’s mind’s eye. She was pretty and gracious, far more than he deserved.

  Puss nodded happily. “And, with my help, she’ll learn to love you, too.”

  “She will?” It seemed as though Puss might deliver everything he promised, but Jack could not forget that his cat denied having actual magic. “How?”

  Puss turned and headed after the soul-servants. “Just follow my lead.”

  A CHARMING MURDER

  Mary Louise Eklund

  Mary Louise Eklund lives in Wisconsin with her husband and teenage son. Being a transplanted southerner, she avoids the cold as much as possible and enjoys watching the snow melt away for another year. Her hobbies include walking her retired racing greyhound, napping with her three cats, and photography.

  The goings on in the station seemed anything but normal that day. Then again, that’s what we had been expecting for months—a little excitement. The whole department was in dress uniform doing our collective duty to see that peace was maintained as Prince and Princess Charming celebrated their first anniversary. Didn’t matter what rank or division you were in, everyone had been called up to either keep the crowds under control or the royalty attending the gala safe.

  I, for one, wanted to see Snow White—always thought she was beauty. But, alas, the turn of events kept me from laying eyes on her. I was in charge of the security detail for the VIP dinner and ball.

  I never expected to instead be the lead investigator of the murder of Princess Cinderella Charming.

  The only good thing about the latter task was I didn’t have to wear my dress uniform. I hate those high, starched collars. Still, looking back, I think I’d rather have worn a dress uniform for a week than learn what was really underneath the gilded beauty of Cinderella Van Schouwen Charming.

  I had just arrived at the palace that morning with the dress uniform in a garment bag. I was there twelve hours early with my team leaders to scope out the situation and get any updates on just who the visiting bigwigs were and how they were to be handled. In fact, we were just knuckling down with the security heads from some of the dignitaries when all hell broke loose.

  A high protocol official came running, with the head of the royal guard in tow, to tell us there had been a murder. That news sent the foreign security heads scurrying to lock down their respective dignitaries. At first I expected to be led into the workings of the palace, instead we kept going to the ritzier and ritzier parts. I knew when we got to the right place because there were maids and ladies in waiting screaming and crying. The guards were thick as flies on a dead carcass.

  That’s when they told me it was Cinderella. I almost dropped a load.

  The next in line to the throne had been murdered. I was glad it wasn’t on my watch she’d been killed, but sorry it was up to me to solve the case.

  I turned the corner from where the women were wailing, walked through the assembly of dour-but-scared-looking guards, and sucked in an impossibly deep breath.

  It takes a lot to shock me, but I was shocked. It wasn’t for the gore; as far as that goes, it was your basic bludgeoning scene. Instead, it was the tool of the beating, a shoe.

  It was left at the scene of the crime.

  Right there—in what had been the pretty blonde’s forehead—stuck out the legendary glass slipper, now sparkling red with blood. Never before or since have I covered a case where someone had been beaten to death with her own shoe.

  There, in the bowing of her sheer-covered windows, in front of her big oval mirror, the Princess was sprawled in one of her fine light blue gowns. She was stretched out on a pile of finery that must have been various things she’d been trying on.

  Every pretty piece had droplets of blood from the beating.

  And the shoe stuck out from the top of her face as if it were the red capping cherry on a shiny pastel fabric sundae.

  After going over the scene, I returned to the station house and dispatched my team to various tasks. Then I sat back to review what I knew.

  The last person said to have entered the Princess’s suite was Estella, her stepsister. But Estella was not at the castle when the body was discovered and had not been spotted on the grounds.

  So, following basic procedure, I decided to question Estella at her home. According to the address I’d obtained, she didn’t live terribly far from the station house.

  The first thing I noticed was how shabby the place was compared to the bright gilded boudoir of her sister Cinderella. The house and neighborhood had the reek of genteel decay—grand fifty years ago; it now showed its occupants’ loss of affluence.

  I was no stranger to the celebrity gossip. I’d seen the tabloid headlines, heard the news clips, and listened to the radio DJs talk about how horrid the beautiful princess’ stepfamily was. I couldn’t get the sport scores at times, what with all the reports on how ugly the stepsisters and stepmother were at the latest function, what greedy thing the stepmother had done, or some new disclosure on some over-the-top abusive treatment one of the ugly, evil stepsisters had done to our precious, beautiful princess. I’d marked it al
l up to muckraking for ratings. Sure, Cinderella’s life hadn’t been grand, and yes she was a looker and they weren’t.

  Now, as I rode down the shabby, fading street, I had to wonder just how much of the tabloid tales were true, and if this particular stepsister had been relegated to the slums because she’d been so cruel to a beautiful, orphaned girl who rose to royalty.

  The tired, depressed, but proud-looking maid who answered my knock didn’t seem surprised to see a royal detective on her doorstep. She simply opened the door wide and said, “Miss Estelle is expecting you.”

  She softly shut the door behind me and led me down a dark hall. I figured the news had raced to the Princess’ relatives, and now they—Estelle included—were entering a mourning period. They would be sobbing, dressed in black, kerchiefs in hand.

  However, it was when we entered the receiving parlor that I got my second shock of the day. There sat a dignified Estelle in a blood splattered dress, holding white bloody gloves, and otherwise appearing ready to receive me to tea.

  “Good day, Detective.” She held a regal composure. “Yes, I murdered Cinderella. Please sit down and take my full confession.” Leaving the bloody gloves on her lap, she waved delicately toward a chair facing her across the tea table.

  The maid poured tea as if this were any social call, handing me a cup and offering sugar cubes as soon as I stumbled into the seat.

  “No sugar or cream.”

  I fumbled for my notepad with one hand and held the tea with the other, the china pleasantly warm against my skin.

  Estelle took her cup and sipped it like a cultured lady. Then she looked at me over the rim. “I’m sorry to cause you such a shock, the murder and all, and me looking a mess like this. But I knew it wouldn’t take long for someone to come for me. So I thought it best to just sit and wait.”

  I nodded, and after another sip she continued.

  “I’ll come along peacefully and face whatever consequences are to be mine. The only thing I ask is that first you hear my story, all of it, my reasons for doing what I did today.”

  “Of course.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  “Sitting here thinking of it, I’m not sure if it was an act of passion or just an impulsive carrying out of something I’ve been thinking of for years now.” Estelle carefully set the cup down on the table and shrugged delicately. “I think that’s for you and the courts to decide now, isn’t it? The only thing I can do is to honestly tell my side of things, which I feel compelled to do.”

  “That seems fair enough.” I gulped my tea. It was weak, and at that moment I really needed something stronger, like maybe a few jiggers of rum.

  “You see, detective, Cinderella was a spoiled brat back when Momma started seeing Claus Van Schouwen—Cindy’s father. Cordie and I told Momma this but she didn’t see it. All she saw was Cindy being all nice as can be, because at the time Cindy thought we had money. Claus Van Schouwen didn’t have much.” Estelle paused, looking apologetic and glancing around the sparsely furnished parlor with its threadbare furniture and worn-thin rugs. “You see, back then we could at least keep up appearances, which is why, I suppose, Cindy thought we had money. Nowadays things have become apparent, the house sagging and all. And it’s not just this house. Look around the neighborhood. Things have been sliding since the Charmings gained power.”

  She raised her chin a bit in defiance, knowing she spoke treasonous words; no one was to ever speak of how the Charmings hadn’t been royalty only a generation ago. “At that time, detective, Momma was under Cindy’s spell, and she was deeply in love with meek and kindly Claus. She couldn’t see what we saw, and thought Cordelia and I were just jealous. She thought we didn’t want her to remarry. We really didn’t mind her marrying Claus—she deserved happiness. We just knew that Cindy was out for money and was using her father to get all she could.” Estelle looked away for a moment, staring out the French doors to the weed-choked garden with its crumbling, moldy statues.

  It was some time before I spoke. I knew we needed to get on with this before other officers arrived. Besides, the plain but proud woman spoke with such honesty that I wanted to hear the rest of her story before some lawyer shut her up or put a spin on it.

  “What kind of things did you and Cordelia see?” I spoke softly, knowing that the woman was struggling to keep her composure, lost in thoughts of days long past.

  Snapping her head around, her eyes flared with anger. “I’ll tell you what we saw! We saw her stealing from us. We saw her hurting the cats, kicking her father for not buying her something, scratching the neighbor’s coach because it was prettier than hers. Not only did we see, we felt her pinches, her shoves, and her spit on our faces! She even locked us in a closet once. We always told the truth about how the fair face covered a foul soul.” Estelle stared hard, challenging me to deny her claims. She was almost panting from rage.

  Not sure if she was looking to fight, preparing for a flight, or just terrified, I agreed with her. I’ve learned to soothe the witness and get the full story. “I can see how that would be frustrating to not have your own mother realize what was going on.”

  Estelle was comforted by my words and shifted on the settee, carefully putting the bloodied gloves on the cushion beside her.

  “Yes, yes, it was very frustrating. Things kept on, with smaller but telling incidents, as Claus and my mother became betrothed. It got much worse on the day before Momma’s wedding. Someone—later Cindy lorded it over me that it was her—spilled wine all over Cordelia’s and my new mint green dresses that were made for us to wear to the wedding. They were horrible, dark red stains.” Glancing at the stains now on her peach dress, she raised an eyebrow. “Not the rusty brown stains these are becoming, but deep red on pastel mint. They were ruined, those beautiful dresses. Ruined! We didn’t have many nice dresses to wear as it was, and time was short. So Momma used her talents and redid two of our older dresses that very night before her wedding. It was the sweetest thing—she was sacrificing her beauty sleep for us. Some said Mom looked ill at the wedding, others said ugly, as they call Cordelia and me in those papers. I knew why she didn’t look her best—she was exhausted, exhausted from an act of love for Cordelia and me.” She paused and wiped her eyes with a kerchief from up her sleeve.

  As she turned toward the garden window to blot the tears, the blood splatter on the edge of the kerchief almost looked like part of a decorative edging. She was an attractive woman. It was a plain, simple beauty, best not embellished or adorned. She had a wholesome face, looking like the ideal rosy-cheeked milkmaid, not at all like the murderess she confessed to be.

  One thing I’ve learned about murders of passion is that you never know what tiger may rest in wait—even in the most demure. As I made notes, she turned back, sighing deeply before continuing.

  “After the marriage, the abuse was much worse—especially after Cindy learned what we did to keep up appearances and that we really weren’t rich. That there was only one servant, Susie, and we shared the work with her. Cindy was appalled that we did the cleaning, the mending, the cooking, tending the animals, everything that it took to run the house and make it appear as if nothing were amiss. Claus took to it gracefully, saying that grooming the horse, milking the cows, and feeding the chickens made him feel he was a young boy on the farm. However, Cindy skimped, doing her chores halfheartedly, or having to be nagged to death to do even the smallest thing. It was clear that Claus was upset with his daughter and even blamed himself for coddling her too much. You see, her mother died in childbirth, and Claus treasured the girl, spoiling her rotten. But the evil at her center, that was all hers and not Claus’ fault.”

  Estelle leaned forward, again sipping at her tea and then making a face before adding more to the cup. “Mine is cold. Do you need a warm up, Detective?”

  “No thank you. Please, Miss Van Schouwen, do go on.” I nodded toward the clock. “Time is getting away. I want to have all this down before others interrupt us.”

  Sh
e smiled apologetically. “I see. I’m sorry. Not having killed someone before, I lack experience with how, precisely, to handle it all. I’ll do my best to finish quickly.” Taking a deep breath, and facing me squarely, like a pupil in school, she said, “Claus adopted Cordelia and me. However, I think now I shall be going back to my father’s name of Vasilyev. I think that best given the events of today.” She smoothed her dress. “Anyway, after he adopted us, Cindy became even more hostile. During one argument between Cindy and her father, he suffered the apoplectic fit that eventually killed him. The poor man lay upstairs in the master bed, tended by us. We were the ones weeping and praying for his healing. Cindy danced about down here with the mice and birds loose in the house while planning how she’d spend her inheritance. It was a perverse way to celebrate, counting her inheritance before he was dead.”

  Estelle shook her head in disgust. “Reality came as a surprise to her when his will was read! He left everything to my mother, saying he trusted her good sense in using it to take care of us girls and to see we were wed properly.” She nodded triumphantly. “He was not blind to what he’d raised. Mother took the responsibility seriously, setting aside the money for our dowries and clothes. Claus’ chores were divided among us. Momma always wanted the house to appear sparkling.”

  Estelle finished her tea. “Tensions built as the year went by, and then came the invitations for the prince’s ball. Momma got us all three nice gowns and slippers for the social season. Contrary to Cindy’s stories, we were all invited, and we never attempted to prevent her from going. We wanted nothing more than to marry her off to some schmuck and get her out of our house. It was Cindy who refused to go to the ball, saying her new gown wasn’t fine enough, the coach not nice enough, her hair not done well enough, and so on. She locked herself in her room, ranting that she’d rather die an old maid than be seen looking like a working woman. Momma was forced to leave her behind. I remember in the carriage Cordelia and I saying that if Cindy wasn’t going to get out, we’d need to land someone and get out ourselves. Momma rolled her eyes, and we could tell she didn’t want to be left alone tending Cindy for the rest of her years.”