The Porridge Incident

by Herschel Cozine

  The Porridge Incident

  By Herschel Cozine

  Copyright 2011 by Herschel Cozine

  Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Herschel Cozine and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Delinquency Report

  The Birds

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  The Porridge Incident

  By Herschel Cozine

  Nathaniel P. Osgood III, here. As a private eye for the misunderstood people of fairy tales and nursery rhymes, I perform an important service.

  I had just finished with the strange case of the man who wasn’t there. It turns out he was not at a lot of places. No one has seen him lately. In fact, most people haven’t seen him at all. I had solved the case, more or less, using subterfuge and a few white lies. At least my client was satisfied, and that’s the bottom line in this business.

  But I digress. I would like to tell you about the little girl who was falsely charged by three bears of breaking and entering. I’m sure you are familiar with it. It was in all the papers a few years back. Papa Bear was suing her for breaking his son’s easy chair, eating their breakfast and other assorted mischief. She denied it and came to me for help.

  “Mr. Osgood,” she said. “I wasn’t in the forest that day. I was home taking care of my poor old grandmother.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “She was almost eaten by a wolf and…well, no matter.”

  I nodded sympathetically. There seemed to be an epidemic of grandmother abuse at the hands of big bad wolves that year.

  “And to accuse me of breaking furniture and eating their food…” She broke off and made a face. “I don’t even like porridge. It tastes like library paste.”

  I had never tasted porridge—or library paste for that matter—so I took her word for it.

  “Now, Miss Goldilocks,” I said.

  “Call me Greta,” she said. “My name is Greta Goldilocks. It’s Swedish.”

  “All right. Greta. It seems to me that you need a lawyer instead of a private eye. You have an alibi, and I am certain that your grandmother would be able to verify your story that you were with her that day.”

  My comments set off a wail from Greta. She pulled a small, useless bit of cloth from her pocket and wiped her eyes with it. I pushed a box of tissues in her direction and sat back.

  “My poor grandma passed away last week.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “Wolves?”

  “No” Greta said. “She crashed her motorcycle into a tree.” She sniffled and blew her nose. “So, you see, Mister Osgood, I need you to find the real trespasser.” She looked at me with those big brown eyes and smiled wistfully. I’m a sucker for wistful smiles, and a complete slave to big brown eyes. I took the case.

  My first act was to visit the house in question. The Bears were out, as usual, leaving the door unlocked and their breakfast on the table. Some people—or bears—never learn. I overcame my aversion to entering a strange home without being invited. We private eyes have to break the rules from time to time in order to do our job. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  I waited a moment or two for my eyes to adjust to the reduced light. When they did, I saw that I was standing in a small room with three chairs, an end table and a black-and-white TV set. The smallest chair appeared to be broken. I knelt down and inspected it closely. One of the legs was missing. A block of wood had been placed under it to keep it level.

  A quick look around the house revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Mama Bear appeared to be a good housekeeper. Everything was in its place in the kitchen. Even the bowls of porridge were lined up in a neat row. I resisted the urge to taste it and went upstairs to the bedroom.

  I found the beds neatly made. A small room at the top of the stairs was most likely Baby Bear’s room. The wallpaper, the bedspread and the night-light all indicated that the room was meant for a child. Again, nothing out of the ordinary. Certainly I was not going to find anything of help in the house. I went downstairs, took a last look around the living room, and went outside to wait for the Bears’ return.

  While I was waiting I ran the facts through my mind. So far I had very little to go on except Greta’s story. Of course, according to her at least, she wasn’t even here, so I had no information that would be pertinent. Other than the trespasser, the only eyewitnesses to this caper were three unreliable Bears. Now, I hate to stereotype groups. But in this case I will make an exception. Have you ever met a reliable bear? And consider the language barrier. I have a feeling a lot was lost in translation.

  Be that as it may. There was nothing to indicate that Greta had ever been in the house, so I had no reason to doubt her word. Over the years I have become a pretty good judge of character, and I was convinced that Greta was as innocent as a newborn baby. Well, at least not guilty of trespassing.

  As much as I hated the thought, I would have to talk to the Bears. I had only heard second hand what they had to say. But how does one communicate with individuals who are not conversant in your mother tongue?

  It turns out I was unnecessarily concerned. I soon learned, upon their return, that Baby Bear was in the second grade at Mother Goose Elementary School. He spoke English like a native, a serendipitous turn of events. He drooled when he talked, a trait I found disconcerting. But in my line of work you take what you get and make the most of it.

  Now, I know what you are thinking. If Baby Bear could speak English, how can I say that a lot was lost in translation? A valid question. But it seems that Bear protocol is such that only Papa Bear can swear out complaints or testify to events. Which, of course, begs the next question: how did I manage to speak with Baby Bear? That took a little ingenuity on my part. I lied. I misrepresented myself. I used subterfuge. In short, I did exactly what any self-respecting private eye would do.

  I told Baby Bear I was from CNN and we wanted to feature him on an upcoming show about the plight of bears in today’s world. OK, so it wasn’t a brilliant idea, but he fell for it.

  Baby Bear was a mere 250 pound ball of fur—small by ursine standards. What I found interesting about this is that Greta purportedly broke his chair when she sat in it. How was that possible? Greta didn’t weigh more than 95 pounds soaking wet. Add three pounds for clothing and you still fall short by a hefty amount. I posed the question to him.

  “I dunno,” he said with a shrug. “Mebbe she jumped around on it. Besides, it was old.” He drooled and eyed me suspiciously. “What does that have to do with the plight of bears?”

  “She may have done it deliberately,” I lied. “You know, an act of malice against bears. Where was she when you discovered her?”

  “Lying on my bed,” he said.

  “Asleep?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you get a good look at her?”

  He nodded again. “When Papa, Mama and I came into the room she sat up and looked right at us.” He paused and scratc
hed his back against the wall. “Funny thing about that. She didn’t seem to see us. She was, like, in a trance.”

  I made a note of this. It was the first bit of useful information that I had, even though I didn’t have a clue as to what it meant.

  “Describe her,” I said.

  “Well,” he drooled. “She had blonde hair. Brown eyes, I think. Pretty, I guess, by human standards.” He made a face. “Not my type.”

  “How was she dressed?”

  Baby Bear shrugged. “I dunno.” He put a huge paw on his forehead, or at least where a forehead should be, and growled. “Come to think of it, she was wearing nightclothes. That’s strange, isn’t it? In the middle of the day.”

  I was a little surprised by this. Why would someone roaming through the forest be wearing nightclothes? Even in this strange town that doesn’t seem to be normal behavior. Oh, I know all about Wee Willie Winkie. But at least he was running around town at night. I made a note of this revelation.

  “OK,” I said. “What happened then?”

  Baby Bear thought for a minute. “Well,” he said finally, “she got up from the bed slowly, walked right by us and went downstairs and out the door.”

  “Did she run?”

  “No. She walked. Slow and steady. Like I said, she acted like she was in a trance.”

  “Mmmm,” I said. “Interesting. Which way did she go?”

  “That way,” Baby Bear said, pointing toward the forest, away from town.

  I thought about that. It was in the opposite direction of Greta’s house. I realized that this didn’t mean anything by itself, but with the other information, I was certain that the intruder lived in the forest. At least she lived somewhere other than in town.

  “Shoes?” I asked. “Was she wearing shoes?”

  “I don’t think so,” Baby replied. I don’t remember seeing them.”

  “Describe her nightclothes. What color? “

  Baby Bear scowled. “I don’t know one color from another,” he said. “But there was a big ‘A’ on the right shoulder. Short sleeved. Knee length.”

  “Would you be willing to tell this to the police?” I asked.

  Baby Bear shuddered at the suggestion. “No! Only Papa is allowed to talk to the police.”

  “But,” I said. “Papa told the police it was Goldilocks in the house. From what you have told me I don’t know how he could come to that conclusion.”

  Baby Bear scratched his back again, drooled a little and snorted. “Papa only speaks ‘bear.’ The cops misunderstood.” He put a paw to his chin. “Besides, all humans look alike.”

  “You can clear it up for them. Greta is being accused of something she didn’t do.”

  Baby shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

  “Please,” I said. “You have to help.”

  “Nope,” he said.

  OK, OK. Bears have their way of doing things, and we humans have no right to interfere. But I was more than a little upset with B.B. for refusing to help my client because of some bear “code of conduct.” I vowed that the next time I went to Yosemite I would not feed them. Let them find their own granola bars!

  I started to leave, but Baby got in front of me. “What about the plight of bears?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes,” I replied. “Bears are misunderstood. In fact, I don’t think I understand them.” I looked around at the well-kept yard, frame house, and neatly trimmed lawn.

  “But you seem to be doing all right. I know a lot of bears who would be happy to trade places with you.”

  “Will I be on CNN?” he asked.

  I looked at him a long while, then shrugged. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

  Before he could say anything, I left.

  On the way back to my office, I recounted my findings at the Bears’ place. I was certain that much of the problem was due to the language barrier. But I was certain too, that some of it was skullduggery on the part of Papa Bear. Take Junior’s chair, for instance. It was broken long before anyone came into the house. I realized that when I inspected the chair. It was an old break.

  I turned my attention to Baby’s description of the girl. Her strange behavior and her clothing were significant. It was as if she were sleepwalking.

  I sat up straight. Of course! That was it. She was sleepwalking. I searched my memory, trying to place the girl. The letter on her nightie was probably her initial—the first letter of her name. Bells were ringing in my memory. It was all familiar, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  Back at the office, I looked into some old files. I remembered a case I worked on some years before. It was a strange case—much like all the others I have worked on in this town. It concerned a young lady about Greta’s age and looks. She had become a legend in town—Sleeping Beauty, as she was called. Whatever happened to her, I wondered. I decided to find out.

  It was late afternoon when I arrived at the castle. From what I had heard and read, I fully expected the castle to be sealed off and surrounded by overgrowth. But, except for an unmowed lawn, the castle seemed to be in good repair. It just goes to show you can’t believe everything you read.

  The place was eerily silent. The bridge over the moat was down, and the gate open. There were no guards, human or otherwise, to keep intruders away. I made my way over the bridge, walked up the gravel path to the huge oak door, and tugged on the rope that was hanging on one side of the door. The muffled sound of a bell reached my ears from somewhere deep within the castle.

  Several minutes passed, and I was about to ring again when the door opened slowly. A small woman, older than God, stuck her head through the opening and looked at me inquiringly. I took my hat off and bowed slightly in her direction.

  “Does Aurora still live here?” I inquired.

  The old crone eyed me for a minute, appraising me until I felt like a piece of tainted meat in a delicatessen. Finally, she spoke.

  “She’s asleep,” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes, I know.”

  She continued to appraise me with a disapproving eye. “You sure don’t look like any prince I ever saw.” She made a face, if that was possible considering her natural one.

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Ain’t you the prince that’s supposed to come and kiss her, or do whatever it is you’re supposed to do? Well, you’re ninety-five years early.”

  “I’m not a prince,” I said. “I’m a private detective.”

  “I might of knowed,” she said. “Well, she ain’t receivin’ visitors.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But it is important that I see her.” I explained about the case I was working on. “I promise I’ll be quiet.”

  The old woman laughed humorlessly. “No need for that. She don’t hear anything these days.” She thought for a while. Then she stood aside. “Don’t see what harm it can do. Follow me.”

  She led me through a maze of rooms and twisting hallways to a small room near the back of the castle. The room was completely bare of any furniture except for a canopied bed under the window on the back wall. A small figure lay on the bed.

  “May I?” I asked, stepping toward the bed.

  The old lady hesitated. “Don’t touch her,” she said.

  I walked over to the sleeping figure and looked down at her. She was beautiful. Her golden hair was spread on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, of course, so I had no way of telling what color they were. She was dressed in a short-sleeved nightgown with the letter “A” on the right shoulder. Under the letter there was a small stain. I leaned over and studied it. Porridge!

  I turned back to the old lady. “Did you know that your sleeping beauty is a somnambulist?” I asked.

  “A what?” She eyed me like I had just cussed in church.

  “Somnambulist. Sleepwalker.”

  “Oh,” she replied. “Why didn’t you say so? Yeah. She roams around the castle once in awhile. Doesn’t hurt anything and gives her some exercise.”

  “Well,” I said. “She ‘roamed�
� a little farther the other day. She ended up in a house that was owned by some pretty irate Bears.” I waited for the old lady to digest that bit of information. “She could have been hurt. Lucky for her these Bears are relatively harmless.”

  The old lady blinked. “You mean she’s been gallivanting through the forest?’

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well, I’ll be…” she grunted. “That’s because Alfred left the bridge down again.” She put her hands on her hips and mumbled angrily under her breath. “Did she do anything wrong?”

  “Nothing serious,” I said. “She ate some porridge and slept on someone’s bed. The Bears will claim she broke a chair, but I think Papa is just trying to get a new one out of the deal. I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”

  She nodded. “I’ll lock her in her room if I have to. Can’t have her traipsing through the forest in her nightie. Shameful!”

  “Well,” I said. If what I hear is true, some prince will come along soon and wake her. Don’t lock the door.”

  She snorted. “No self-respecting prince would want her. This dame is just plain lazy.” She glared at the reclining figure. “You should have heard her when she stuck herself with a needle. Why you’d a thought she was going to die! Falls down on the floor and moans and carries on. Then she gets up and goes to bed. She ain’t done a lick of work since.” She scowled at me. “Prince, shmince. Those things only happen in fairy tales.”

  True enough, I thought. I couldn’t argue with that. Besides, it was none of my concern. I said my goodbyes and left.

  I straightened the matter out with the Nurseryland police. They decided the whole affair was a tempest in a teapot, and marked it “Case Closed.” Papa Bear was furious. Greta, of course, was extremely grateful. That is until she got my bill. I haven’t seen her since. Meanwhile, Aurora slept through it all.

  END