“Heya Red,” he said, his voice deep and smooth as silk. “My, my, you look good enough to eat.”
My smirk became a smile in spite of myself. “If anyone would know, you would.”
B.B. chuckled softly. “It ain’t fit for man nor beast out here today, Red. Where ya headed?”
I held up my basket. “Gertrude’s.”
B.B.’s eyes widened. “That rattling old sack of bones is still alive? She must be in her late hundreds by now.”
“Yeah, the Grim Reaper’s moved into her guest room,” I said. “He doesn’t want to be too far away.”
This time B.B. laughed out loud. “I thought you didn’t get along with granny.”
“I don’t,” I replied. “She’s a real pain in the ass. But I’m in the will. And if I want to stay in the will, I’ve got to come running every time she gets so much as a hangnail. I wish she’d just kick off, for heaven’s sake.”
B.B.’s expression grew thoughtful. He stared at me so long that I became uncomfortable.
“What?” I demanded finally.
B.B. took a few steps toward me and took me by the shoulders. I looked up at him and felt the old familiar heat between us.
“Things didn’t work out for us the way I wanted them to,” B.B. said with surprising softness, “but I still feel the way I always did about you, Red. And you know I’d do anything for you. You know that.”
I cleared my throat. “I know.”
“So why don’t you let me do you a favor?” B.B. said, his hot breath warming my cold cheeks.
“What kind of favor?”
B.B. looked over to the left at a thatch of crocuses. “I think your grandmother would like some flowers too,” he said. “Why don’t you spend a little time here picking some while I go take care of a few things?”
Comprehension dawned and my face lit up. “You’re so right,” I said with false enthusiasm. “Grandma does love crocuses, after all. Well, don’t let me keep you from your errands, Mr. Wolf.”
B.B. flashed one last dangerous smile and then disappeared in a flash. I wandered slowly over to the flower patch and squatted down next to them. As I deliberately picked them one at a time, I muttered under my breath, “I’ll put these on your grave, you senile old bag.”
I arrived at the house a short while later. Nothing looked out of place, but my excitement grew more and more as I approached the front door. I knocked.
“Come in!” came a strange, quavering voice from inside. I swung the door wide and stepped inside. I pulled off my traveling cloak and hung it by the door, and then made my way hesitantly to the bedroom.
“Grandmother?” I called out.
“In here, darling,” came that same yodeling voice again.
I walked in the room and couldn’t believe my eyes. There was B.B. in my grandmother’s bed, wearing one of my grandmother’s nightgowns and cap, and what looked like her spare reading glasses. I burst out laughing.
“Oh, you sick freak!” I said finally.
“Come closer, dear,” B.B. said, grinning. “Granny can’t hear so well these days.”
I put my hands behind my back and approached the bed coyly.
“My goodness, grandmother,” I said in mock astonishment. “What big eyes you have.”
“All the better to see you with,” B.B. said in his cracking grandmother voice.
“And what big arms you have,” I said.
“All the better to hug you with,” B.B. replied.
I began unbuttoning my dress. “And are there any other physical attributes I might remark upon?”
B.B. threw back the covers and gestured for me to join him. “That, my dear,” he growled, “you’ll just have to discover for yourself.”
I lay dozing next to B.B. as the afternoon shadows crawled across the bedroom floor. I sighed contentedly as I looked up at his face.
“I don’t know how I can ever thank you,” I said softly.
“It was my pleasure,” B.B. said. “In every sense.”
I rolled on my back and happened to glance out the window, just in time to see one of the loggers who had been cutting down trees in the area approaching the house.
“Oh God!” I cried, and B.B. was awake in an instant.
“What? What is it?”
“A logger!” I said frantically, just as we heard the latch to the front door open.
“Mrs. Hood?” the logger called. “Just checking in, making sure you’re okay.”
“He can’t catch us!” I hissed. “He’ll figure out we were in on it together!”
“Then hide!” B.B. hissed back. “Let me handle him!”
“There’s no time!” I said. Then my eyes grew big. “Swallow me!”
“Hello?” the logger called, closer still.
“What?” B.B. asked, shocked.
“Swallow me! When he’s gone, I can come back out! Quick!”
B.B. opened his maw as wide as he could and the next thing I knew, I was in his stomach. It was warm and squelchy, and things were moving and squirming all around me. I held my breath and listened as intently as I could.
“And just what do you think you’re doing?” the logger asked. I could picture him thumbing the blade of his axe.
“Oh, hi!” B.B. called with overt enthusiasm. “I . . . I didn’t hear you come in. I’m, uh, just . . . um, housesitting.”
“Housesitting,” the woodcutter repeated flatly.
“Yep, just housesitting for the old gal. Least I could do, you know. She . . . knew my dad.”
“I see,” the logger said. “And is there a reason that you’re dressed in her clothes and sleeping in her bed?”
“Oh that,” B.B. said. “That’s . . . that’s easy to explain. It . . . makes me feel . . . pretty. Y’know. Pretty?”
“Really,” the logger said. His voice was much closer and I heard the sound of covers being yanked off hard. I’m sure B.B.’s belly was horribly distended.
“Big breakfast?” the logger asked.
“Oh yes,” B.B. said. “Most important meal of the day. Had a lovely bagel with cream cheese, some oatmeal, a nice order of really crisp bacon—”
“Well let’s have a look, shall we?” the logger said, and suddenly daylight flooded over me. B.B. howled in agony as I came tumbling out of his innards, alive, covered in his entrails. I looked to my right and saw my grandmother next to me, covered as well, and son of a bitch, still alive.
Yes, that’s right. I had sex with B.B. while my grandmother was still alive in his belly.
“Next time stick with corn flakes,” the logger said as he grabbed B.B. by the scruff of his neck and dragged him, writhing and bleeding, out the front door.
I got to my feet and, sputtering and slipping in the mess, attempted to chase them down. By the time I got out the front door, the logger had finished heaving two large stones into B.B.’s open wound.
“No!” I cried. “No! Leave him alone! Let me explain!”
The logger paid no attention to me. He stood B.B. upright and kicked him in his hindquarters. “Now march!” he shouted.
B.B. took a pair of ungainly steps, but the weight of the stones was too much. He lurched forward and collapsed, dead.
I stood in the doorway, my eyes as wide as saucers, my hands covering my mouth in horror. I remained that way as grandmother joined me and took in the sight of B.B. impassively.
“Well,” grandmother said, “it was a grand adventure, but it looks like you’re stuck with me for a while longer.” She shuffled back into the house, wheezing laughter.
“Ah, balls,” I muttered.
3.
A SPEEDY CONCLUSION
The ten people gathered around the large oak dining room table sat in silence, occasionally stealing furtive looks at one another, waiting for whatever was coming. A distant thunderstorm approached from the darkened mountains in the east, and thin raindrops had begun spattering the high windows and hissing into the dancing flames in the fireplace.
Through the
double doors at the far end of the room entered a middle-aged gentleman in a dark overcoat and hat. He strode purposefully toward the other end of the room, and all heads turned to watch him.
“Good evening,” he said, taking position at the head of the table. “I am Chief Inspector Mason. Thank you all for coming tonight.”
Mason put his hands behind his back and took a long, assessing look at the assorted faces staring back at him.
“As you may be aware, I am currently investigating the circumstances surrounding Lord Filby’s death. I can reveal here, tonight, that without question, Lord Filby was murdered.”
There was a collective gasp around the table.
“Indeed,” Mason said, nodding. “Furthermore, after reviewing all the available evidence, I have concluded that the murderer . . . is someone in this room.”
Lightning forked across the sky and a low rumble of thunder vibrated through the house, but in the dining room, there was absolute silence. Accusatory eyes met across the table.
“But who did the deed?” Mason asked dramatically. He moved behind the nearest chair, upon which was seated an older gentleman with thinning white hair and a monocle.
“Was it Lord Filby’s older brother Reginald?” Mason asked. “The man who was always consumed by jealousy when it came to Lord Filby’s success in life?”
“Now see here!” Reginald sputtered, but Mason had already moved to the next chair. A beautiful redheaded woman with a long black cigarette holder held between her graceful fingers watched him warily.
“Could it have been Lady Filby, Lord Filby’s lovely young wife, grown weary of her husband’s controlling ways, which were impeding her . . . socializing?”
He moved to the next chair, with an older woman in a shabby topcoat.
“Or perhaps it was Mary Lofton, the upstairs maid, who knew how much money Lord Filby had access to and was frustrated with her meager wages, year over year.”
To the next chair, with a dashing young man calmly sipping port from a small glass. “Or was it—?”
Before he could finish, a young blonde woman across the table raised her hand. Inspector Mason looked at her, momentarily thrown. His head tilted in curiosity.
“You are Elizabeth, Lord Filby’s daughter,” he said, regaining his thread.
She nodded.
“Yes, well, I’ve arranged something of an order here. I’ll be around to you shortly.”
“All right,” she said, lowering her hand. “I just thought I could save you some time by admitting that I did it.”
Mason and everyone else at the table stared at her.
“I beg your pardon?” Mason asked.
“I did it,” Elizabeth repeated. “I murdered Lord Filby.”
“What?” hissed Lady Filby.
“Why would you do such a terrible thing?” asked a gentleman to Elizabeth’s right.
Elizabeth shrugged. “He was a miserable bastard. I hated him. So I killed him.”
“But however did you get away with it?” Reginald asked.
“It was simple, really,” Elizabeth said. “He went to bed early that night, so I—”
“Excuse me!” Inspector Mason cut across her, and everyone turned once again to face him. He looked positively stricken.
“Young lady, I had a rather lengthy and spirited presentation prepared for tonight,” he said to Elizabeth. “And now you’ve gone and ruined it.”
“Presentation?” Elizabeth asked, mystified.
“Yes!” Mason said. “I was going to go round the table, introducing everyone and throwing out motives, and then I was going to eliminate suspects one by one until only two remained, and then make a grand pronouncement about who done it. And then explain how and so forth.”
“I say, dear man,” a heavyset gentleman across the table said, “are you out of sorts because this young woman’s confession spoiled your bit of theater?”
Mason looked down at his intertwined hands. “It’s just that I never have opportunities like this,” he muttered. “I thought it might be a bit of fun.”
“Fun?” the heavyset man said in disbelief. “Good Lord, a man has been murdered!”
“Yes, and now you have a confession!” said Reginald, pointing at Elizabeth. “Surely that is what you truly wanted!”
“I suppose,” Mason muttered. “But you see I practiced quite hard for this. Took acting lessons, memorized my lines. Waited for a night when a thunderstorm was predicted. It was quite a lot of effort, really.”
The room filled with silence again, save for the rain now hammering at the windows.
“Look,” Mason said after a few moments, “since we know now who the murderer is, could I just go through my bit anyway? We’re all here. What harm could it do?”
Everyone looked around at one another.
“Oh, go on then,” Reginald said. Mason regained his former energy.
“Right!” he said, standing once again behind the good-looking young man. “Could it have been Marcus, the stable boy who secretly pined for Lady Filby?”
Marcus smiled at Lady Filby and winked. She turned a bright shade of pink.
Mason moved behind an even younger man. “Or perhaps Lord Filby’s nephew Hawthorn, whose sexuality offended the old man’s delicate sensibilities?”
Hawthorn looked shocked for a moment, but then shrugged and smiled. The inspector rounded the end of the table to the other side, and came to stand behind a tall, thin man with a pencil-thin mustache.
“Could it have been Lord Filby’s longtime valet, Fletcher, who had to endure the old man’s verbal abuse for decades?”
Mason passed by Elizabeth with a glare and moved to the next chair down.
“What about Josef, the architect who built this very manor for Lord Filby but was never paid a shilling for his work and had grown weary of the slow-moving courts?”
On to the next chair, where sat a lovely dark-haired woman.
“Or might it have been Raven, the old man’s mistress, tired of waiting on his promises of leaving his wife and family for her?”
Across the table, Lady Filby’s eyes widened. “Lovely to finally meet you,” Raven whispered awkwardly.
The inspector reached the final chair. “Or could it be Lord Filby’s darling sister Lady Sterling-Poundsworth, who resented being left to care for their ailing father while Filby lived a life of decadence and luxury?”
He had reached the head of the table once again, and there was a manic glint in his eyes. He placed both hands wide on the polished surface, leaned forward, and looked slowly from one face to another.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he proclaimed at last, “tonight we will discover . . . who killed Lord Filby!”
4.
ANY LAST WORDS
Jack sat uncomfortably in the therapist’s office. The doctor, an older woman with dark cat’s eye glasses and a severe bun atop her head, stared at him, waiting for him to say something, but Jack had nothing to say. To escape her expectant gaze, he smoothed out the legs of his khakis, taking extra time to secure a small piece of white fuzz that had attached itself to him and toss it away.
The doctor adjusted her glasses and exhaled deeply through her nostrils. Neither action helped defuse the mounting sense of discomfort and awkwardness in the room.
“Jack,” the doctor said at last, “you were required to come to this session.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jack said, now staring at a bust of Sigmund Freud on her credenza. “I know.”
The doctor exhaled deeply once again. “You’re not required to talk, of course. Not if you don’t want to. But I really think it might be helpful for you.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Jack repeated. “Sure.”
The doctor uncrossed her legs and then recrossed them the other way, shifting her weight in her wingback chair. Her blank notebook remained in her lap.
“Do you drink?” she asked him suddenly.
He looked at her in surprise. “No,” he replied. “Why?”
She scribbled a
note in her notebook. “Just wanted to have something to write down.”
Jack grinned. “I don’t smoke or do drugs either,” he said. “If you need more stuff to fill the page.”
She grinned back and made two more quick notes.
“But you do absorb the ghosts of the recently deceased into your own body?” she asked, the pen still hovering over the paper.
The question caught Jack completely off guard.
“Well,” he said, after the initial shock wore off. “Yeah.”
“Would you like to talk about that?” she asked, flipping to the next page in her notebook.
“Um . . . sure,” Jack replied.
“Good,” the doctor said. “When did this first happen?”
Jack took a deep breath. “Well . . .”
He was in the back of his family’s station wagon. It was a bright, sunlit day as they pulled into the cemetery, and Jack was uncomfortably warm in his suit and tie.
His father parked and said a few words of comfort to his mother, who sniffed into a handkerchief and nodded. They all got out of the car, and the three of them headed toward the small hill where everyone else had gathered.
Jack was sad that his uncle Guy was gone, but not as sad as his mother was. She and Guy had been twins, and close their entire lives. As Jack made his way along, he noticed his mother lagging behind. He stopped, went back to her, and took her hand.
“It’s okay, Mom,” he said softly. “C’mon.”
His mother nodded again and allowed Jack to lead her to the gravesite.
The funeral had a massive turnout, which was not at all surprising to Jack. Uncle Guy had always been the life of the party, and had many friends, though no family of his own. As he stood between his mother and father and looked around at the faces of people he vaguely recognized, Jack noticed even the priest presiding over the funeral looked more somber than usual. Then he remembered that Guy had been an altar boy in his youth, and the priest probably knew him well.
As the funeral progressed, Jack felt increasingly nauseated and dizzy. He chalked it up to the sun that continued to bear down on them as the priest read words of comfort, but then he felt a distinct tingling sensation on the bottom of his feet. It crawled up his ankles to his knees, and then up his spine until it reached his head. He had a sudden burst inside his brain, like a firework, and he was no longer in control of himself.
Hell's Nerds and Other Tales Page 6
