Graverobbers Wanted (No Experience Necessary)

by Jeff Strand

  I stopped turning right before the weasel went pop.

  "Is it broken?" asked Roger.

  "No, it's not broken. Leave me alone."

  "I'd understand if you want to forget the whole thing."

  "Don't talk—you're distracting me."

  "From turning the handle?"

  "Shut up or I'm yanking this thing right out of the mud and coming after you with it."

  "Maybe we should soak it another fifteen minutes."

  "No! Just be quiet! I'm going to turn it!" I continued holding the handle, but eased myself as far away from the box as I could and still reach.

  Then I turned.

  DAH!

  Dah-dah-DAH-dah.Dah-dah,dah-dah ....

  The lousy weasel didn't even know when to pop. I continued turning the handle, and it went through the second verse of "Pop Goes the Weasel," the one that reportedly caused the songwriters to break up over creative differences.

  This time, I didn't hesitate at the pop, and the lid sprung open. A cute little clown burst out, bobbing to and fro on his little spring. Taped to one of the clown's hands was a small wet envelope. I tore it off.

  "Are yougonna cover that thing with mud, just in case?" Roger asked.

  "No, I'm not going to...okay,I'll cover it up to make you feel better." With my foot, I moved a huge glob of mud over the top of the jack-in-the-box. Then, worrying that some kids might come playing aroundhere, I pulled the box out of the mud and heaved it as far into the lake as I could. Nothing blew up and no dead fish rose to the surface, so I figured everything was cool.

  I opened the envelope and removed the folded piece of paper inside. Roger apparently decided there was nothing to fear from it and walked over to join me.

  On the paper, in the same blood-red letters was written: "If you want to see Jennifer again, be at theEverlifeCemetery at midnight."

  "Oh,nowthat's interesting," said Roger.

  "That's impossible," I protested. "I heard—"

  I stopped. I'donlyheard her die. It certainly wouldn't be difficult to fake a death that I never got to see.

  But why?Why would somebody kidnap Roger, threaten to use him as a hostage but let him go, then fake Jennifer's death, only to use her as a hostage...or something like that?

  This whole situation was becoming slightly quaint.

  WE WERE both completely baffled, and so I made the decision for Roger to engage in some real detective work.Meaning that I told him to hide in the woods around the graveyard to see if he could learn the identity of the killer. For some odd reason he was not all that keen on this idea, but using my expert skills at encouraging others to obey my will ("Quit your whining and just do it, for God's sake!"), I managed to convince him. I dropped him off at his apartment with instructions to buy some more bullets for Michael's gun, drive to the cemetery, hide well, and not try to apprehend the killer himself. Not that he ever would.

  I drove home to spend some quality minutes with my family before heading out again. Nobody was there, but I saw the light blinking on the answering machine. This pleased me, because Helen had insisted that the new message I'd recorded would cause people to decide they didn't really want us to return their call:

  "Hi, you've reached the residence of Andrew, Helen, Theresa, and Kyle Mayhem. Because we've lost a number of close friends lately in telephone-related accidents, we're unable to bring ourselves to answer your call at this time. But if you leave your name and number at the tone, we'll get back to you as soon as therapy cures the problem."

  I pressed the button, listened to the message, and immediately got back in my car and drove to the hospital.

  Chapter 9

  I'M NOT right very often, but my constant warning of "If you kids don't pick those toys up off the stairs, somebody's going to trip and break their neck!" turned out to be almost true, except that Helen broke her right leg instead.

  She was not in a particularly good mood by the time I got there. She was also not all that coherent due to the gobs of medication they'd given her, but I was able to ascertain from her ranting that Kyle's Eye-in-an-Egg had been the culprit.

  "I told you not to buy it for him," she snarled. "Didn't I tell you not to buy it for him? Didn't I? We were right there in the store and I said not to buy it, and you went ahead and bought it anyway, you son of a bitch!"

  "Yeah, but you said it was stupid, not a health risk," I said, lacking the intelligence not to argue with a drugged-up, pissed-off, pain-filled woman.

  "I don't care. I've always hated that Eye-in-an-Egg, and now because of it, I get to spend the next few days in the hospital! Like I don't spend enough time here anyway! I don'tseeyou doing all these hours of overtime! Did you get me flowers?"

  "Not yet, but I will right away."

  "Forget it. I'm going to sleep. Go away."

  "I'll make sure that the Eye gets destroyed."

  "See that you do."

  I left the room and collected my children from our surly-looking neighbor. They were both pretty shaken-up, but I assured them that Mommy was going to be all right and cheered them up by promising them rides on her wheelchair. I made some phone calls, trying to find a place for the kids to stay the night, but nobody was available. I'd try again later.

  By the time we ate a fast food dinner and got home, it was nearly seven. I wanted to go check on Roger, but I didn't want to risk blowing his cover, or listen to him gripe. Since I really didn't have much time before I wanted to be atBalder's Dash, I decided to simply lie on the couch and try to think things through.

  Theresa and Kyle popped in the animatedvideoZany the ChipperChipmunk . This video always brought out deep feelings of guilt because I wanted so badly to see Zany die. It didn't have to be a gruesome death, just a painful one.

  I tried to put the various pieces of the puzzle together, but because I suck as a detective I fell asleep instead. I woke up as Zany was teaching kids the importance of flossing. My leg was being used as the weaponry fort for Kyle's CaptainHocker action figure (with Super-Spitting Action!).

  "Grab some stuff to keep you occupied," I said. "Daddy's going to play cards."

  BALDER'S DASH was meant to be a hangout for college students, but most college students thought it was pretty lame and went elsewhere. As we walked in the door, a movie was playing on a wide-screen TV where some greenish-gray alien was trying to devour some mega-breasted actress while at the same time making sure to jostle her around for maximum bounce. I didn't want my children to witness any more jiggle than absolutely necessary, so we hurried into the back room.

  Several people were in there, sitting around a table with about six billion cards spread out in cryptic patterns. Both Carl and Farley were present, and Farley waved as he saw us enter.

  "Hey, did you come for your own throat treatment?"

  "No, actually I came to learn the game," I said. There was a small couch not being used, so I gave Theresa and Kyle each a kiss and bribed them with Skittles to sit on it and play nicely.

  "You came to learn the game?" asked Farley. "I hope you realize this isn'tYahtzee . You're not going to pick up the rules for the first five or six weeks."

  "That's fine," I said, pulling up a free chair next to Farley. "By the way, I apologize if I'm just barging in. You guys don't mind if I watch, do you?"

  "No, no, we need all the players we can get," Farley assured me. Carl gave me a polite nod, but for the most part kept his eyes glued to the table, obviously planning out some intricate strategy. Introductions were made all around, and then they resumed their game.

  I watched carefully for about fifteen minutes without saying anything. This was another case where being Sherlock Holmes might have come in handy, because maybe he would have had some faint comprehension of the rules to this game. One guy, Harold, was sort of the narrator, telling the other players where they were and what demonic beasts were trying to kill them or transform them into minions of evil. That part I got. But whatever they were doing with those cards sounded like complete gibber
ish.

  I was lost.Baffled.Out of my element in society.

  Carl set a card down, making the pattern of cards even more hopelessly complex than it already was. "I'll use my Boots of Divine Intervention with an additional three karma points and an additional two stealth points to cross the threshold." He bit his lip nervously as he waited for Harold to roll one of about twenty multi-colored, multi-sided dice. This guy took the gamewaaaaaay too seriously.

  "Fourteen," Harold announced. "What's your Hero rating?"

  "Twenty-nine."

  "You didn't make it. You fall into the lava storm and lose..." Harold rolled another die, "...seven points from your Health rating."

  Carl whitened. "I'll have to use my Cloak of Reconstruction to keep from falling into the Sleep of the Damned!"

  "You can't use your cloak," another player pointed out. "It's still cursed for one more turn from my Wand of Dissatisfaction."

  "But you're only holding it for six Curse points," said Carl. "So I'm going to use my +3 Reversal Armor to destroy the curse and then I can use my cloak."

  "All right," said Harold. "You're currently floating in the lava.Your turn, Farley."

  "I'll run down there and get Carl's head for my trophy case. It's time to move up to humans."

  "Seriously, Farley, what do you do?"

  "How many different points does this game have?" I asked.

  "Sixteen points in each of the fields," Farley replied.

  "How many fields?"

  "There's the Field of Mind, the Field of Body, the Field of Might, the Field of Sorcery, the Field of Destiny, and the Field of Eternity."

  "Gotcha.Somehow I missed the Field of Eternity."

  "Now, I have a question for you," said Farley. "You're not here to learn the game, and you're not a real reporter. So who are you?"

  The other gamers fell silent. Farley's squeaky voice and diminutive stature made him somewhat less than intimidating, but this was still not exactly a development I welcomed.

  "What are you talking about?" I asked.

  "I can tell by the way you're watching us. You're not watching to see how we play the game—you're trying to study us as individuals. What are you, some kind of FBI agent?"

  I was secretly a bit flattered that he might have thought I was FBI material, but I didn't let it go to my head. "Okay, here's the real story. You're right—I'm not here to learn about the game. If I had an extra few hundred I.Q. points I could probably figure out how the hell the rules work, but the truth is that I'm a private investigator."

  Carl stared at me, seriously annoyed. "You're disrupting our game because you're a private investigator?"

  "That's right."

  Farley's face lit up with fascination. "That is so cool! Which one of us are you investigating? It's Rachel, right? I always knew she was up to something shady."

  "No, I'm here because your friend Michael Ashcraft has turned up missing. His wife hired me to find out where he is."

  "Mike's missing?" asked Carl."For how long?"

  "Wasn't Michael Ashcraft that guy who stayed here for about ten minutes then called us all a bunch of geeks and stormed out?" asked Harold.

  "He's been gone since last night," I told Carl. "The police won't help because he hasn't been missing for twenty-four hours, but his wife believes there may be some element of foul play."

  "Wasn't he on vacation?" Carl asked.

  "It fell through," I said.

  Farley pushed back his chair and jumped to his feet. "I know who it was!" he announced, and then pointed at Carl. "It was you! You had the motive, means, and opportunity! You've always hated Michael because his mother liked him better than your mother liked you! It was you! Admit it!"

  "Sit down, you little nerd," Carl muttered.

  Farley's eyes widened as he pretended to have another shocking realization. "But wait! It could also have been...me! That's right! How silly of me not to think of it in the first place! I'm the one who followed Michael home last night, burst into his living room, beat him to death with a snow globe, chopped up his body with a set ofGinsu knives,then stuffed the evidence down the garbage disposal, following it with a slice of lemon to disguise the smell. That's it! I've done your work for you, Andrew Mayhem...ifthatis your name!"

  "Yeah, that's my name. Look, I didn't come here to interrupt your game, but do you and Carl mind if I ask you guys some questions?"

  Carl looked pained at the idea of leaving the game, but Farley nodded enthusiastically."Sure, anything to help a private eye. By the way, how much do you guys make?"

  "Millions," I said. "Movie stars get the fame, but we get the cash.How about I talk to you first, then Carl after we're done?"

  "Fine by me," said Farley. He gestured toward the side of the room where Theresa and Kyle were playing. "Step into my office."

  Theresa was sitting on a beanbag, so I sat down on the couch then hoisted Kyle up on my lap. Farley sat down next to us. "Have you ever shot anyone?" he asked.

  Kyle looked up at me. "Have you, Daddy?"

  "No, I've never shot anyone. That's all TV stuff. Most of a private investigator's work is really boring." I think I'd read that somewhere.

  "Yeah, but do you take pictures of people cheating on their wives and husbands and bosses and that kind of thing?"

  "I'm trying to get out of that field," I said. "Sometimes the emotions involved are just too intense. So tell me about Michael."

  "You mean,does he have any enemies?"

  "That would be a good place to start, yeah."

  "I don't know if he has any enemies or not. I hardly ever see him outside of work. His wife's a babe, though, don't you think?"

  "Kyle, why don't you go over and play with Theresa?" I suggested.

  "I want to hear about the babe."

  "Kyle, go play with Theresa."

  Kyle reluctantly slid off my lap and went over to torment his sister. "Do you see Jennifer much?" I asked.

  "You mean,do I see much of Jennifer?" Farley chuckled. The sleazy attitude seemed out of place coming from this little twerp."Nah. She comes around sometimes and complains that Mike should be spending more time at home instead of at work, but that's about it. Most of us just ignore her. Especially Rachel, she can't stand her."

  "I got that impression. Now, let me ask you kind of a strange question. If Michael had a safety deposit box, what would you say might be in it?"

  "Is that the kind of question they train you to ask in private investigator academy?"

  "Just work with me. What might be inside?"

  "I have no idea.Maybe nude pictures of his wife."

  "Do you know if he had any money stored away?"

  "Nope.The only time money came into conversation was when he said we were spending too much on the videos. So do you have to take a test to become a private eye or can anyone do it?"

  "A written test, and a psychological screening," I replied."At least inFlorida ." That sounded good.

  "Do you get to carry a gun?"

  "Yes, but I usually don't."

  "Why not?"

  "I don't need one. Like I said, it's usually boring. Did Michael and Jennifer ever fight when they were around you guys?"

  "You think she did something to him?"

  "It's just a question."

  Farley hesitated. "Can this be off the record?"

  "Absolutely."

  "I think she's cheating on him. Mike is paranoid beyond belief, but this is one thing he may have been right about."

  "Did he accuse her?"

  "No, nothing blatant, at least not that I know about.But you could tell he didn't like having any of us around her. And when they were together, you could tell something was up."

  "How could you tell?" I asked.

  "I don't know—you're the one who's familiar with psychological testing. All I can say is that if you're going to keep asking around, that may be something to bring up."

  "Thanks," I said. "That'll be helpful."

  "So do the cops resent you for int
ruding upon their turf?"

  "No."

  "Do you think I could tag along with you one day, on a stakeout or something? I won't get in the way."

  "Don't you already have a career in special effects?"

  "I don't want to changecareers, I just want to see what it's like to be a gumshoe. What kind of car do you drive?"

  "A ratty old gray one."