“Your tax money at work.”
Her eyes blazed. “Well, at least somebody is willing to pay us for something. The guy said his mother lost her cat and she’s very despondent. Even if we can’t find it, just having us looking for it will cheer her up. Besides, he’s willing to pay and right now we really need the money.”
“All right.” I reached for a taco. Maybe at this rate next time I could upgrade to a combo plate?
* * * *
That afternoon we drove out to their place. Our client said we could pick up a check from his wife and talk to his mother, who lived with them. The neighborhood was full of large homes on big lots. We parked in front of the house. Our old Buick looked out of place among all the Cadillacs and Beemers, like a homeless veteran at a society ball.
The woman of the house had a check made out for us. It disappeared into Ann’s pocket and we asked if we could talk with the old lady.
“Sorry, you just missed her. She’s gone out to tea as she always does this time of day. She’s at that new bakery in the shopping center on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try there.”
We drove over. It wasn’t far. The sign read, The Muffin Man. There were several tables out in front with little umbrellas over them. A gray haired woman in a flower print dress at least forty years out of style was sitting at one of them nibbling a teacake. A couple of younger women sat at neighboring tables. Using my amazing detective skills I quickly eliminated them as suspects and walked up to the older woman’s table.
“Excuse us. Are you Missus Fitzsimmons?”
“Why, yes, young man. Do sit down, you and your lady friend. Have some tea.”
She waved at the counterman inside. After he bustled over she told him to bring us tea and some more cakes. The fellow was pudgy, middle-aged with a graying moustache and short dark hair. Dressed in baker’s whites, he had on a spotless apron.
“What sort of tea?” He asked.
“Do you like Earl Gray?” She asked us. “I just adore it.”
“Just regular tea,” Ann replied. “English Breakfast or some such. It doesn’t matter. We’re not here to socialize. We’re here to help find your cat.”
“To help look for your cat,” I amended. The silly thing was probably just on a wild weekend with a local tomcat and would return on its own soon enough But just in case it was road kill I didn’t want to raise any unfortunate expectations.
The old lady took a sip of her tea.
“Yes, my son did say he was going to hire someone to help find dear little Muffin. I didn’t think he could find a detective who’d take such a case. Not these days with all the missing persons. You must be so terribly busy.”
“Yes, very,” I replied. “Tell us about the cat. Uh, where was it last seen?”
She went into a longwinded story all about her dear little Muffin’s cuteness and adorability that meandered worse than a mountain road. But we were getting paid to listen and besides she was feeding us, too.
The counterman brought out the tea and a plate of little cakes. They were literally, little cakes. They looked exactly like tiny versions of the round layer cakes you see at bakeries or that Grandma used to make, with tiny icing flowers on top and everything. I’d never seen anything like them. I tried a bite.
“These are really good!”
Ann shushed me for interrupting the old lady but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, they make the best baked goods here. Why the muffins are to die for! Here, try a bite of this crumb cake.”
She offered it to Ann who declined.
“Try it,” I said. “They’re really good. One bite isn’t going to ruin your figure.”
She reluctantly took a nibble.
“That is good.”
She finished the cake about the same time the old lady finished Muffin’s life story. The cat had been missing now almost a week. We were questioning her about the disappearance when another woman at a nearby table interrupted.
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear you were looking for a cat. I don’t want to alarm you but I’ve found a couple of dead cats on my doorstep several mornings when I’ve gone to take out the trash.”
The old woman put a hand to her mouth.
“Horrors,” she said. “Was one of them a lovely little calico with dark paws?”
The other woman thought a moment.
“No, two gray ones and a ginger cat, or pieces of them, anyway.”
“Pieces?” I asked.
“It looked like a dog had got to them, maybe.”
“And where is this doorstep of yours?” Ann asked.
The other woman gestured at the neighboring shop.
“I own the tanning salon there. I found the cats out in back of my shop when I was going to the dumpster. I think it’s that nasty pizza place over there.” She pointed across the shopping center. “I bet they have rats. Big rats.”
“How horrible!” Mrs. Fitzsimmons dabbed at an eye with a lacy handkerchief.
Ann patted her other hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what happened to…uh.”
“Mittens,” I suggested.
“Muffin,” Mrs. Fitzsimmons corrected.
“Thanks, I think I will.” I picked a miniature blueberry one off the plate. It was delicious.
Mrs. Fitzsimmons pushed the plate toward me. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she said. “I think I’ll go home and have a lie down.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Ann said. “We’ll keep you posted on every stage of our investigation.”
“I’m sure those nasty pizza guys are behind it all,” the other woman said. “I’ll bet they ground him up and put him into the sausage.”
“Sure thing,” I said.
“So what’s our next step?” Ann asked.
“You go check out the neighborhood. Go door to door and ask out about those missing cats and maybe if anybody’s dogs have been sick.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to use my amazing detective powers and investigate those pizza guys. I’ll meet you back here later.”
I went down to the county health department and paid a visit to an old friend, Conrad Yates. I’d known him since my days as a local tavern and restaurant manager. He took me back to his office.
“Hey, Ed, how’s it been? You planning to reopen that saloon of yours?”
“No, I just need a little information about a pizza place.” I told him which one.
He leaned back in his chair.
“Their inspection rating is public knowledge, nothing secret about that. They passed with a 98%. It’s a really clean joint: family run. They’ve got three other locations around town. I recommend them if you’re looking to carter a party. They make a great meatball sub.”
“So they’re not dirty? They don’t have a rodent problem?”
“No, who said that? I inspected them myself just about a month ago.”
I thanked him and headed back to the bakery. But I was early. Ann was still out somewhere pounding the pavement. So I went inside for a talk with the clerk.
He was wiping down the soda machine. Once he saw me he laid down his rag.
“Something I can get for you, sir?”
I examined his wares. He had two big glass bakery cases, one refrigerated. They were packed full of the most amazing assortment of sweets imaginable. He had miniature cakes and pies only six inches across and huge brownies that promised “Death by Chocolate.” There were muffins of twelve different flavors including a ham and cheese breakfast muffin, as well as miniature éclairs, Danish, and dozens of different types of cookies.
“What are those?” I asked, pointing to some tan-colored cookies shaped like leaves and labeled, “Lembas.”
“Elfin shortbread cookies,” he said. “Here, try one.”
It was the best shortbread I’d ever had.
“This stuff is great. Who’s your baker?”
He smiled and leaned
toward me conspiratorially.
“Don’t tell anyone but…”
My ears pricked up.
“…I have a crew of elves that come in at night and do it all. If Keebler ever finds out, they’ll sue me. Haw, Haw, Haw.”
I laughed at his crummy joke and bought a bag of those amazing shortbread cookies. It wasn’t long before Ann showed up. I bought her a Diet Coke and we shared the rest of the cookies.
“So what did you find?” I asked.
“You mean besides discovering I’d prefer doing research back home with my feet up and my nose in an occult book? Just about everyone in the neighborhood has lost a cat or a dog and all in the last six months. Something is definitely going on here.”
“That means whatever is attacking the pets strikes almost every night, then.”
She nodded.
“Well, come on, then. We’ve got some shopping to do before dark.”
* * * *
Long after dark we were back at the Fitzsimmons place in their living room with the lights off and the curtains open. Outside in the middle of the lawn we’d staked out a little yap dog we’d picked up at the pound. Our bait wandered about in a circle constrained by the length of rope we’d tied to his collar.
Ann crossed her legs in the easy chair she was sitting in. “I’m still worried about that poor dog.”
“Don’t be,” I said. “If anything happens we can be out the front door in a flash. That’s why we’re watching like this.”
“It’s certainly boring.”
“All true detective work is.”
“I bet you got that from one of those detective novels you keep in your desk drawer in the office. What is that? Continuing education?”
“You’re just jealous of my elite detecting skills.”
She sniffed. “If that’s what you call eating donuts and reading the exploits of Mike Hammer.”
“You just wait. I’ve already got this whole case figured out.”
“Okay Sherlock, then what happened to the dog?”
“Dog? Mrs. Fitzsimmons is missing a cat, or did you miss that part?”
She gestured at the window.
“Yeah, and now we’re missing a dog.”
I looked at where she was pointing. The stake was still there and the rope was still attached to it and to the dog collar. But there was no dog wearing the collar.
We jumped up and ran outside. The dog had vanished.
“So much for your elite detecting skills,” she mocked.
“No, this just proves what I thought all along. There’s no way a coyote or another animal could have taken that dog, not right under our noses. Even a human being couldn’t have snuck up, untied the dog without it making a sound, then retied the collar and made off with the dog in the few seconds we were arguing. No, there’s something supernatural behind this.”
Ann looked at me, the corners of her mouth turned down scornfully.
“Last I checked I was the one with the occult library. But I’ll play. So what exactly is responsible for the missing pets?”
“It’s elves. They work at night in that bakery making all those pastries and cookies. Then on their break they grab a quick snack in the local neighborhood. That’s what happened to Missus Fitzsimmons’s cat.”
She stared at me like I’d grown a second head.
“That’s your big theory? Carnivorous elves? When did you switch from detective novels to fantasy?”
“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first.”
“I didn’t think of it because it’s stupid. There’s no such thing as elves, especially carnivorous ones.”
“Yeah, well, we didn’t think there was such things as vampires or skin walkers or nefil-watsits…”
“Nephilim,” she corrected.
“Yeah, Nephilim, before we got into this business either, so there might really be carnivorous elves.”
She shook her head, saying, “No, but it is carnivorous, whatever it is. That poor dog. I don’t know how I let you talk me into this.”
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“To that bakery.”
She shook her head but followed me out to the car.
We drove over and parked under a security light. It was after midnight so everything in the center was closed, most of the lights were off except for security lights. I led her up to the front door of the bakery. Inside you could see the red light from the big Coke machine. The cash register was open, the empty drawer propped up so that you could see there was no money inside. I knocked on the door. There was no answer.
I pulled out my key ring and began banging on the glass with it. It made a terrible racket but got no different result.
She tugged at my arm. “There’s nobody here. Let’s go. This doesn’t prove anything.”
“On the contrary, it proves everything. There’s nobody here. But it’s a bakery. Bakers always work at night so their stuff is at its freshest in the morning. I asked that guy who made his stuff and he said elves. There’s nobody to answer the door because the elves are in the back making his cookies. Don’t you remember that story about the elves and the shoemaker?”
“Now you’re quoting the Brothers Grimm as your occult source? I keep telling you there’s no such thing as carnivorous elves, fairies maybe, but not elves.”
“Okay, so they’re fairies, then. Whatever. Come on. Let’s check out the back where she said she found those dead cats.”
I led her around the back of the shopping center. Out back it was even darker and creepier than the front side. Each back door was solid metal stenciled with the name of the store. We found the one to the tanning salon easily. There were bloody debris on the concrete pad behind. I pointed at it.
“See! I told you we’d find something.”
“Oh, my God.”
Ann took a step back and covered her mouth with one hand. I looked to see what the other hand was pointing at. The bloody debris I’d noticed but not really seen came into focus.
It was a human arm.
The arm was child sized and had been bitten or torn off at the elbow. Apparently the neighborhood had run short of pets so they’d switched to something else.
The other white meat.
“I think I’m going to be sick,” she said, turning away. I put my hands on her shoulders and propelled her back towards the dumpster along the far perimeter wall.
“You’ll be all right. Just think of something else, something happy: brown paper packages tied up with string, dewdrops on roses, whiskers on kittens…”
Maybe that last one wasn’t the best thing to mention. She groaned and staggered behind the dumpster where she was noisily sick.
“Uh, sorry,” I said.
I turned away and looked back toward the building. We hadn’t reached the back door to the bakery but I could see it clearly from here. But there was something strange about it.
“Ann, take a look at this.”
She lurched out from behind the dumpster, ashen faced.
“What do you want me to look at this time?” She accused.
“There. In the back door to the bakery. Do you see what that is?”
“It‘s a little doggie door. So what?”
“So, the health department regulations don’t allow live animals in any food preparation areas. They can’t have a dog or cat.”
“So what’s it for?”
“I’ll bet if we got closer we could see a sign that says ‘employees only’ on it.”
She waved a hand. “Oh, stop it about the elves, will you? What’s next? Wanted posters down at the post office with the caption: ‘Do you know the Muffin Man?’”
“Sush!” I pulled her back behind the dumpster, but watching where I put my feet. “Look,” I said, pointing toward the door.
In the distance the doggie door flap lifted up, waved a bit and then dropped. Then it did it again.
The door repeated its action ten more times, flipping up,
wobbling a moment and then dropping back into place. But we saw nothing move through the door.
“What’s happening?” She asked.
“Break time is over. That was the night crew going back to work. Did you see how many there were?” I asked.
“Twelve?”
“Plus the baker makes what? And don’t tell me thirteen.”
She thought a moment. “A coven?”
“No, silly. A baker’s dozen.”
She sighed. “Okay, so what do we do about it?”
“That arm came from somebody. We go to the cops and report a murder.”
“And what do we tell them? That carnivorous elves working the night shift did it? If that’s the plan you’d better call it in because if you do it in person they’ll keep you overnight until you sober up.”
“Okay, we’ll just turn in an anonymous tip about where to find the arm and that somebody at the bakery is responsible.”
She shook her head. The color was returning to her cheeks.
“And what are the police supposed to do about it? Those creatures aren’t elves. But they’re probably demonic, harassing spirits, maybe. The police aren’t equipped to deal with something like that, even if they were willing to believe they were responsible. And the muffin man probably has an ironclad alibi.”
“Well, maybe we call a tip in to Immigration and have them aid the place.”
“What? And hope your invisible elves don’t have their green cards handy? Ed, it’s up to the two of us. We’re the only ones who can stop these things. Let’s come back in the morning when the sun’s out. We’ll confront their boss. He’s the one with the power. He’s the one who’s responsible. He summoned them. Maybe once he understands what they’re doing on their lunch break he can bring them back under control.”
* * * *
The next day we were back. The Muffin Man was his jovial self behind the counter.
“Good morning, what can I get you folks today? More elven waybread?”
The crumb cake seemed to be calling my name but I ignored it, addressing him instead.
“We’ve got to talk,” I said. “In private.”
“What do you mean? Is there a problem with something you bought? Satisfaction is guaranteed so I’ll replace it or refund your money.”
The Haunts & Horrors Megapack: 31 Modern & Classic Stories Page 11
