Читать книгу The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK® - Lawrence Watt-Evans - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTHE MUFFIN MAN, by Mike Brines
I walked into the office past the sign on the door that read, “O’Brien Paranormal Investigations.” My partner was just hanging up the phone. I set the bag with the tacos from the place up the block on the desk and started to divvy them up.
“We just got a new client,” Ann said. She was the brains of the outfit. I was the brawn. Together we were trying to make the world a better place, but clients had been scarce and times were lean.
“What is it this time?” I asked. “Voodoo cultists? More vampires? An alien abduction maybe?”
“It could be an abduction.” She reached for a taco.
“What do you mean?”
She paused, the taco halfway to her luscious lips, then sat it back on the greasy wrapper.
“An old lady’s cat is missing.”
“We’re looking for a cat?”
“Well, the bills are piling up. The rent’s due. We have to do something.”
“Yeah, but cashing some old lady’s Social Security check….” I shook my head.
“It’s not like that. Her son called. Mister Fitzsimmons is an executive at the Apache helicopter plant. He’s promised our usual rates.”
“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.”
“No, it’s not that,” I said.
Ann stuck out an accusing finger.
“We know who you have working for you at night, who keeps coming and going through that little doggie door of yours.”
He smiled.
“Oh, yeah, the elves. Har, har, har. Well, just don’t tell Keebler. Har, har, har.”
“They’ve eaten all the dogs and cats in the neighborhood and now they’ve started on the children.”
His friendly grin was replaced with a look of concern. “Maybe we should step into the back and discuss this in private,” he said.
He led us around behind the counter and through a door into the kitchen. There was a big mixer in the corner with a row of paddles and dough hooks hanging above. Along one wall by the door were several bins of ingredients and a shelf with small jars of spices. Along another wall was a pair of doors for a walk-in cooler and a freezer. But strangely, the big oven door was set only inches from the floor and the worktable was equally short-legged as if made for a baker the size of a small child. A stack of miniature pans on a tiny wheeled rack completed the ensemble as if the production line had been designed by the E-Z-Bake Company.
I just stared at the equipment. Finally confronting the proof of my theories was even weirder than watching the self-opening doggie door the night before. But Ann continued her pitch.
“You’ve got to stop using your elves or whatever they are. They’re too dangerous.”
He shook his head.
“I’m sorry, but they’re just too good. I’m making bank on this place. I could never get anyone who could bake as good as they can, and worse, then I’d have to start paying wages.”
“But they’re killing people!”
“Have you thought about going to the police?” He asked.
“They won’t believe something like that.”
He shook his head sadly.
“True. And I’m not going to stop using them. So there’s nothing you can do about it. So, if you’ll excuse me I have work to do.” He turned and pulled a dough hook down from where it was hanging.
“Maybe there is something we can do,” I said, reaching for my shoulder holster.
But the pudgy baker was faster on the draw. He swung the big aluminum hook. There was a flash of pain behind my left ear and everything went dark.
* * * *
It was cold, really cold. And my head felt as if somebody had been using it to split firewood and left the axe sticking in it. I groaned and opened my eyes. Ann was looking down at me. Her face was upside down and had a slightly out of focus, worried look to it.
“Are y-you all r-right? I w-was afraid he m-might have k-killed you.”
I blinked my eyes and my vision cleared. I realized she was holding my head in her lap. While that was not an unwelcome place for it, this wasn’t the time for playing footsie. I sat up.
My head told me it thought that was a bad idea. Looking around I saw we were inside a walk-in freezer. Piles of frozen baked goods lined the shelves. Ann was sitting next to a big white bucket labeled, ‘Eggs, Bulk, Five-gallons.’ Her arms were wrapped around herself and she was shivering.
“After he c-clonked you in the head he took y-your g-gun and l-locked us in here. It’s so c-cold. I’m s-sure he m-means to f-freeze us to death.”
I nodded, then thought better of the idea.
“Yeah, he’ll be back tonight to dispose of the bodies.”
“B-but what are w-we going to d-do?”
“Don’t worry, Sweet-cakes. You’re with me, remember? I didn’t spend all that time working the night shift at that restaurant without learning a thing or two.”
Standing was easier than I anticipated. Maybe my head was finally getting better. Or maybe it was the freezing air. Don’t they always say to put ice on an injury? Whatever.
I tried the door. It was locked, just like she said. Then I turned back to the freezer unit it the back of the room. The fan was blowing an icy breeze.
She stood and gestured at it.
“Can you jam the fan blades?” She asked. “I t-tried but there’s a m-metal grille in front of them. F-frozen muffins aren’t exactly the best tools to try and break through something like that.”
“Why bother?” I reached up alongside the unit and cranked the temperature setting all the way up. The blower shut off immediately. “It’s going to be his hard luck in the morning when all this stuff defrosts but we’re in no danger now.”
“But w-what are we going to do w-when he comes back? He’s got your pistol.”
I was going to shrug but figured my head would not approve. Instead I asked, “What have you got in that purse of yours?”
I pulled out a handkerchief and laid my key ring and a handful of pocket change in it. Out of the female flotsam she had available I added some more change and a nail clipper. Then I tied the whole mess up inside the handkerchief.
“What are you making?” She asked.
I hefted it in one hand, dangling it menacingly.
“I guess you’d call it a white-jack. I figured I’d return the favor for that dough hook. He ought to be back around midnight.” I glanced at my watch. “That’s maybe six hours from now.”
“What’ll we do until then?” She asked with a little grin, snuggling close.
I put my arms around her.
“Just try to keep warm, I guess.”
* * * *
He was a little early but we were ready anyway. There was a rattle at the door as he removed the padlock, and then it swung open. My pistol in one hand, he peered inside looking for a pair of corpse-sickles. I hit him behind the right ear with my white-jack. It burst, scattering keys and coins. But the blow staggered him. I followed it up with an uppercut that knocked him back into the next room. We pushed out the door after him.
He was laid out on the floor of the kitchen. I picked up my pistol.
“Feed me,” a strange buzzing voice said.
“Eh?” I looked up just as Ann screamed. Standing in the doorway to the storeroom was a little person about two feet tall. The head was disproportionately large for the body, like that of a baby and it had big, liquid eyes. It was almost cute.
“Feed me,” it repeated in that same strange voice. Then it opened its mouth.
The mouth was the width of its head and its jaw opened so wide you could almost see down its throat. It had three sets of teeth, each one inside the next, big teeth that narrowed down to points like those of a shark.
“Feed me,” it repeated. Then it started moving toward us, little arms outstretched. That’s when I noticed the claws.
It ran its tongue across its grotesque lips; the tongue dangled several inches outside its mouth. It was like watching a snake waving over a picket fence.
My gun barked twice and it snapped its jaws shut, then chewed for a moment.
“No metal,” it said. “Want Meeeeeet.”
From the doorway to the storeroom came two more.
“Want Meeeeeet,” they echoed.
“Run,” I told her. I put another bullet into the closest one. It snapped its jaw, then spat the bullet onto the floor.
“Meeeeeet.”
Three more shambled through the door from the storeroom.
“Meeeeeet.”
“Meeeeeet.”
“Meeeeeet.”
The first one was almost upon us. Ann grabbed a box off the spice shelf.
“No, you run,” she said. “I’ll cover our retreat.”
She pulled open the little pour spout on the box and shook it out at the little monster.
The creature gave a yelp and jumped back like she’d been using boiling water.
“What’s that?”
“Salt,” she replied. “It’s an old folklore remedy against evil spirits. Now run!”
I turned and ran back into the front of the bakery past the display cases laden with sweets. But the front door was locked. The keys were probably back in the Muffin Man’s pockets.
I grabbed a chair from the stack where he’d brought in the outside tables when he closed for the day. I put it through the plate glass window. Behind me Ann ran out of the kitchen. She flung the depleted box of salt behind her as she ran. She didn’t even slow down, taking the window like a Olympic hurdler. I caught up to her in the parking lot. She still had her car keys and we laid rubber all the way to the road. I didn’t think that old Buick had it in it.
This time we went to the police.
We parked cross-wise in front and ran through the doors to the desk sergeant. He seemed distracted, with a phone in one ear.
“Yeah, hacked to pieces, he says. Get some detectives out there, pronto.” Then he yelled across to someone back behind the partition, “Hey, who’s on call tonight from CSI? Tell ’em to get out to that bakery down on Dury Lane. There’s been a murder.”
He hung up the phone and noticed us for the first time.
“Yeah, what can I do for you?”
“Uh, we couldn’t help but overhear. Who’s been murdered? It wasn’t the baker, was it?”
“Yeah, the baker. Somebody hacked him all up. A patrol car just found him after somebody called in a complaint about kids hot-rodding in the parking lot. The front window was broken and when they went inside they found his body, or from what they said, maybe half of it, blood all over the place and little bitty foot prints. It’ll probably be all over the papers tomorrow morning if you want the details. But what can I help you with?”
Before I could answer Ann asked, “Which way is the restroom?”
He pointed and she stagger off that direction, tugging at my arm. I followed.
“Why didn’t you tell him about those creatures?” I asked. “Now they’re going to keep terrorizing the neighborhood.”
“No, now the Muffin Man is dead the creatures are no longer under his spell and they’ve dispersed back into the spirit world by now. And anyhow, you know the police wouldn’t believe us. We’d just end up being interrogated for the next two days about a murder we didn’t commit.”
“Yeah, they’d never believe he was eaten by his own elves: Keebler’s revenge.”
“I keep telling you, they’re not elves.”
“Then what are they?”
“Let me put it this way so you’ll know who I mean. Do you know why all his baked goods were so scrumptious?” She looked up at me with a mischievous grin.
“Why?”
“They’re magically delicious.”
