by A. J. Aalto
“Gee,” I drawled. “Help yourself to my private writing, there, Harry.”
“Oh, is this yours, my pet?” he said, a portrait of badly-feigned innocence. There was a click as he turned on the desk lamp. It cast a warm, yellow glow on the book and lit Harry’s smirk. He made a show of turning it over and checking the cover. “Only, the manuscript lists one Mona Bangs as the author. Perhaps you could rescue your companion from this miasma of confusion in which I find myself.”
I growled and threw the covers off, swinging my bare legs out of bed and seeking my slippers with my toes across the carpet. “You’re a pain in my ass, Dreppenstedt.”
“Moi?” Harry made a show of clutching his heart is mock injury. He held up the manuscript like a shield and read dramatically, “‘Matt Barrow stroked into her with his hot, throbbing manhood…’ Did he indeed?” He nailed me with a knowing smirk. “Heavens, I must know the identity of your secret muse. Do tell!”
“I will not discuss my work with you, Harry.”
“Some sweaty, fumbling ne’er-do-well who must not be named, one assumes?”
“Harry,” I warned.
“Pish tosh, you mustn’t be shy, ducky,” he said, positively tickled. “Not with your advocate. Why, I want only raging success for you.”
“Since when?” I grumbled, schlepping to the bathroom. “Put that back!”
Harry tossed the manuscript on the foot of the bed and gestured grandly at me like he was one of Bob Barker’s girls from The Price Is Right. “There she goes, the darling of the erotica scene, the literary star, Miss Mona Bangs!”
I paused in the bathroom doorway, slumping. “It’s just a stress-busting hobby. Could we at least keep this quiet from Wesley? Please?”
“Flames and ether, my own beloved, of course my lips are sealed!” His eyes twinkled and he showed me a helpless shrug, touching his temple. “Alas, my poor, soft mind is increasingly vulnerable to your brother’s penetrating Telepathy.”
“Moose-nuggets,” I leveled at him. Harry could block whatever he damn well chose to, but I suspected he couldn’t wait until Wes picked my newest hobby out of one of our minds. “Seriously, keep your lip zipped.”
Harry pursed them theatrically and made a key-locking motion with one pale hand, fluttering his eyelashes at me. He mimed tossing the key over his shoulder.
I met this with a jerking off motion that made him laugh merrily.
“Forgive me, my dove, I swear no one will hear a peep from me.”
“I hear peeps right now.”
“Not a peep!” he swore.
I aimed a finger at him. “You’ll peep. You can’t resist.”
He stood in a rush, drawing himself to full height. “Are you suggesting that I am incapable of guarding confidential information?”
“You’ll do exactly what amuses you,” I said flatly. “You’ll keep a secret until the reward of revealing it reaches acceptable levels for Guy Harrick Dreppenstedt. You are a self-serving creature, dude. You can’t pretend you’re anything else. Not to me.”
Harry surrendered with a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug. “Your scathing assessment wounds me, of course, my pet, but is perhaps fair. Will you pretend that you are so different?”
I didn’t want to examine that too closely, so I went to brush my teeth. I nudged the conversation slightly aside. “Maybe I could try my hand at writing mysteries?”
Harry followed me into the bathroom. “Detective fiction, like Charles Warren Adams?”
“Who?”
“Oh, you must know him by his nom de plume, Charles Felix. Velvet Lawn, and The Notting Hill Mystery?” He leaned a hip against the bathroom counter and smiled. “He was a pip, was old Charlie.”
“You knew him?”
“No one knew him better, I assure you,” Harry said with a private smile. “Not even those blabbermouths in the literary gossip column of the Manchester Times.”
“Harry,” I dropped my toothbrush from my mouth and stared at the place where his reflection would have been if he’d been alive. “Are you Charles Warren Adams?”
“What an absurd notion.” He examined his fingernails intently. “Why, if I were a man of literature, wouldn’t I still be scribbling?”
“Are you still scribbling?”
“Goodness, imagine how many stories I could have written in four hundred years,” he remarked, but he didn’t seem to be wondering at all. I’d never considered that Harry might have been writing, but he enjoyed nothing more than curling in his favorite chair by a roaring fire and tucking into a good novel. It made sense.
“Yes,” I agreed, “And under how many fake names, Guy Harrick, Esquire?”
“Oh, dozens, I’m sure, if I had the inclination and the spare time to devote to it,” he said.
“Harry, you have nothing but spare time.”
He pretended to find a flaw in his perfectly manicured fingernails and went into the drawer for a nail file. “Certainly, with my life being so chock full of wild adventures, I’d have plenty of fodder for stories.”
“Are you implying that my life isn’t novel-worthy? Weird and mysterious stuff always happens to me.”
“Oh?” Harry smiled down at his nails and buffed.
“Like last week, when Mr. Buzz went missing from my night table. Spoiler alert: the spriggans had it.”
“One wonders how the Case of the Missing Massager concludes.”
“I threw it out.” I wrinkled my nose and spat toothpaste foam. “They were riding that thing like a mechanical bull.”
“Surely, there’s a genre niche for just such a story, ducky. Perhaps it's in Miss Bangs’ oeuvre?”
I swirled my toothbrush under the tap to rinse. “I sense you’re still mocking me, but I’m choosing to ignore it.”
“Perhaps you are plucky enough to make it as a scribe after all.”
I listed on my fingers. “Hey, I have the ideas. I have the gumption…”
“If only your grammar were less atrocious.” He whisked the nail file back into the drawer and slapped it shut. “Would you do me the honor of seeing me to rest, my Own?”
I murmured at him and he placed a chaste kiss on the tip of my nose. “Hungry, my Harry?” I asked.
A little smile played on his pale lips. “Oh, ravenous.”
After I’d given Harry a solid feed and tucked him into his casket all cozy and warm with his angora socks and heated blanket, I braced myself for the loss of him. I waited until the gut-wrenching emptiness of his daily demise waned before knocking on Wesley’s casket politely to see if he was still restless.
Wes wasn’t wearing his bejeweled eye-patch. He cracked a sleepy eyelid at me. The threat of the rising sun was weighing heavily on him and would pressure him to rest in VK-Delta soon.
“Hey, Kid Dracula, I’m writing filthy erotica under the name Mona Bangs,” I confessed. “Don’t tell mom, OK?”
His upper lip curled off a canine and he moaned. “You’re telling me this so Harry can’t blow your cover.”
I smoothed the front of his t-shirt fondly, then took a firmer grip on it, the leather of my glove creaking. “If you tell anyone about the erotica, I’ll ditch the New and Improved Marnie, and you’ll be forced to deal with Original Recipe Marnie for the rest of your life.”
“Holy hell,” he squawked. “Nobody needs that.”
“Have a good rest, Wes.” I felt a rush of sisterly affection for him. “When you get up, we talk to Carrie about going to Mom’s for Thanksgiving dinner Sunday.”
He nodded. “Uh, your phone rang last night, late. It was that cop, Schenk? You left your phone in your coat. Hope you don’t mind that I answered it.”
“I very much fucking mind,” I objected. “What if that had been a booty call?”
“I’d have puked.”
Point: Wes. “Is he all right?”
Wes’ Telepathy meant he knew a lot more on that subject than he felt comfortable relaying, and his gaze said so. “He just wanted me to let you know that Liv
Malashock needs to see you? From some Federal United something-something?”
I’d never heard of any Federal United something-something, so I couldn’t help him fill in the blanks, but the name Malashock rang a bell. Nicole Malashock was a local sergeant, Schenk’s direct superior, and she had at one time owed me a favor. I’d lost track of whether or not that favor was repaid, but I wasn’t about to call in the IOU anytime soon, so I let it go. I thanked Wes for taking the message and lowered the casket lid to grant him security and darkness for his rest. I did a quick sweep around the room, looking carefully at dark crevices in the brick, making sure there were no necrophile beetles or carrion spiders to deal with. The debt vultures, Ajax and Homer, would still be trying to trace the revenants from Colorado.
Satisfied that my wards were secure, I grabbed my phone to ping Schenk and get the “something-something” bit of the conversation that Wes was lacking.
He answered on the second ring with a curt, “Yo, Cinderblock.”
Oh, shit, I hope I didn't wake him up. “Oh, uh, yo yourself, Longshanks,” I said. “Busy?”
I had come to learn that “busy” was an important question with my law enforcement buddies. Sheriff Hood would always answer his phone, just in case he was needed in an emergency, but sometimes didn’t have time to chitchat. Same with SSA Chapel. De Cabrera wouldn’t necessarily answer, but he’d shoot a quick text back to say he would get back to me when he could, which he’d shorten to BBS. And Batten… well, Batten never answered, now that he was dead.
“Not busy yet,” Schenk said. “Get my message?”
“I got half a message and didn’t understand a word of it,” I admitted.
That earned me a chuckle. I heard him tapping a pencil. “I was contacted by the Federal Union of Supernatural Zoning.”
“Did you just make that up?” I asked. “It’s a crap name.”
There was a beat of silence on the other end of the phone. “I did not invent the FUSZ.”
“Officer Schenk, you are the fuzz.” I allowed myself a private, cheesy grin. “What do these people want with me?”
“Case involving possible passive feeding by a revenant’s shade?” I heard him flip some paperwork, and his pencil went tap tap tap some more. “A phantom feed?”
I made a thoughtful, affirmative noise. “Phantasm, but, yeah, that's a thing.”
“I was also contacted by the Provincial Utilities for Cryptogeology.”
“Wait. Wait, wait, wait. There’s a Canadian council with the acronym P.U.C. and nobody could add a K to it?”
Schenk cleared his throat. “Liv Malashock is heading the task force for the FUSZ and the PUC sent Mickey Nyquist.”
“So, Liv and Mickey from the PUC n’ FUSZ.”
Schenk cough-choked on his drink and I heard the spray hit his phone. There was a fabric noise as he wiped it clean. “Don’t do that.”
“You’re yankin’ my chain, here,” I insisted. “This isn’t real. A zoning board and a geology club want my help?”
“Neither Malashock or Nyquist have any measurable sense of humor,” Longshanks told me.
“You’re the comic relief?”
“Nyuk nyuk nyuk,” he replied dryly. “Look, our cases overlap, so I’ll be working with them. I’m heading out to meet them at the Oh Yeah! Café a little later this morning. Want to join us?”
Oh, glorious day, an invitation to work a real case. Cases, plural! “What’s the PUC got Nyquist on?”
“Tracking and protecting this winter’s breeding nests of something called a Blind Shale Boggle along the escarpment and near the shoreline of Lake Ontario.”
My shape-shift vision of a boggle came back to me, and I fished in my parka for my mini-Moleskine to jot down a note, in case it was important. “Is Malashock’s phantasm action in the north end of St. Catharines, too?” That was the area where Kill-Notch had lost his grandfather, Colonel Jack Batten, in a botched invasion on the Sarokhanian nest.
“How’d you know that?” I didn't need the Blue Sense to pick up on his suspicions.
My scalp prickled with goose flesh that had nothing to do with my hairdo or the prospect of being on the unfriendly end of Schenk's questioning. “Near the lake, and Nyquist’s boggle hunt?”
Papers shuffled. “Seems like. You're going to tell me how you guessed before I make you, right?”
“What case are you working on, Longshanks?” I sensed reluctance on his end and prodded, “I can’t offer much help if you send me in blind. You don’t have to tell me state secrets, here, just a general idea.”
“We got a tip on a cheese smuggling ring. My charming boss knows I love cheese and thought it was fitting to assign me the case. She was very clear about not eating any of the evidence, so don't get any ideas.”
“To be fair to her, it is kind of hysterical,” I said. “Sergeant Malashock did that?”
He went mmhmm.
“Any relation to Liv?”
“Sisters.”
“One’s local law, one’s federal?”
He went mmhmm again. His pencil tapping increased.
“Is your cheese smuggling happening anywhere near the lake, Schenk?”
“I have reason to believe the goods are moving down the Welland Canal via boat, but we don't have any evidence that a ship makes drop-offs along the Seaway. We have some tips on where it finally ends up, though.”
I frowned at my phone. I had no idea if Sarokhanian’s brood would have anything to do with smuggling in general or cheese in particular, but it was possible. What seemed a lot more likely was someone in that house feeding as a shade in wraith state or phantasm form, draining neighbors of strength and vitality, which usually caused a wide range of long-term health problems that were often misdiagnosed as chronic fatigue, anemia, depression, anxiety, or, in extreme cases, heart failure. For a bunch of neighbors to fall ill with the same symptoms was usually a telltale sign of a phantasm feeding in the vicinity. It was illegal, and was cause for a warrant to stake.
“What time will you be at the Oh Yeah!, Longshanks?”
“Seven-thirty.”
I checked my watch. “I'll be there with bells on,” I promised and hung up.
I turned to find Mr. Merritt waiting in the hallway, looking more grim than usual, holding his cane in a way that suggested he didn’t need it for support. “Madam, a note was tucked in the back door under this morning’s newspapers. It’s addressed to you.”
I took it from him, unfolding it, noting some dewy dampness at the corner which had smeared the first and only line. It read, “Go home, Snickerdoodle,” and was signed “HP.”
HP. Hunkypants. Batten. My heart gave a long, longing squeeze and I let out my breath in a sad exhale. “I am home, you dillhole,” I muttered.
Mr. Merritt offered a concerned, if slightly puzzled, look. “Breakfast, Madam?”
“No, thanks.” I rallied and tried to perk up. “Madam will grab something at the diner.” I folded the note and shoved it in my back pocket. “Okay if I take the hearse, Jeeves?”
“Apologies, Madam, but Lord Dreppenstedt insisted that I drive if you needed to go out today,” he said. His hand tightened on the cane.
I turned to the front door and fingered aside the sheer curtain on the storm door. Outside, a steady fall drizzle was knocking down last night’s fog, and made the leaf-strewn road dark and slick with pools. I didn’t like being made to feel like a child, driven around by my grandpa, but if someone else was behind the wheel, I could make notes, try to get my thoughts in order, or at least figure out some of the questions that needed answers.
I turned decisively and headed towards the coat closet. “To the Oh Yeah! Cafe, Combat Butler!” I cried, “Madam has officers to disappoint, and I would hate to keep them waiting.”
Six
I was in the passenger seat, doodling in my lime green mini-Moleskine, ardently refusing to remember Mark Batten drawing fangs on all my frogs around the cabin, when an early morning news report on the car radio
caught my ear. I glanced at Mr. Merritt, whose attention was fixed on the road ahead as he drove, and turned the volume up.
“I missed what he said. Did you hear?” I asked.
Mr. Merritt frowned over at me. “About the sinkhole, Madam? Yes. It’s closed down one of my favorite pubs in Niagara-on-the-Lake. Did Lord Dreppenstedt not mention? It happened yesterday.”
“What’s the pub called?”
“Oh!” His smile lit his face and traced deep smile lines in all the best places. “A charming little hole in the wall, the Blind Tiger. It has a rich history in the area.”
Something tickled with familiarity about the name. “That’s the one with the War of 1812-era ghost solider, right?”
“No, that’s the Ranger's Inn,” he corrected. “The Tiger predates the Ranger by a dozen years or so, when the town was still called Newark. The Ranger was a stop-over for British soldiers, but the Tiger was originally called the Whistlepig, and was a haunt for thieves and brigands.” Mr. Merritt beamed with some secret memory, and the Blue Sense told me the little pub held a place of whimsy and romance in his heart. “During prohibition, they changed the name, and it was, for a time, quite the hotbed for rum runners moving alcohol from Canada to the United States.” He sighed, just a bit wistfully.
I pulled up a street view of the pub and a reliable news site so I could see a picture of the sinkhole. The pub had “a long, nefarious history,” according to the brief article. The current owner also ran the attached cheese shop, Wicked Whiskers. The sign was a woodcut of a jaunty mouse twirling a dastardly mustache and leaning an elbow against a sprung mousetrap, a chunk of pilfered Swiss in his free hand. There was a mischievous smirk on his little mouse lips that made me instantly suspicious.
“I know what that is,” I said, wagging my finger at the phone display. “Look at that smug bastard, practically thumbing his nose at the law. See that?”
Mr. Merritt chuckled. “Madam, that store has been selling fine cheeses for decades in that location. It’s just a jolly mouse.”
“Fuck E. Cheese here is practically an open admission of guilt, Mr. Merritt. This just goes to show that people like you need people like me,” I said firmly, tapping my belly meaningfully. “Crime fighters with gut feelings about disreputable stuff like rodents with smirks. Cheese-weasels are serious business.”
