“My point is that Ambassador Pudge is large, fat, and needs special arrangements to fit into a berth on board the Euripides.”
“Why, yes, I suppose he does. That’s why he was placed here. It has an extra-wide door to accommodate our largest passengers. This room also has a dedicated heating and cooling system for our guests who require stricter climate control.” A frown crossed the captain’s face, mirrored by all gathered in front of the door.
“My line of thinking is that this suite has been tampered with to create a hostile environment for its occupant.”
Captain Aubrey received notification that the room was safe to enter and tried to reach past Sir Giles to press the door switch. Sir Giles grasped Aubrey firmly, stopping him from releasing the door. “I suggest we stand at the other end of the hall before having the bridge open the door remotely.”
“Why?” asked Captain Aubrey. “Is it dangerous?”
“I don’t think it will be dangerous.”
“Then why? All these precautions are taking too long. Shouldn’t we just get on with it and see if Ambassador Pudge is in peril?”
Sir Giles motioned Nanette to follow. Captain Aubrey harrumphed and decided he’d be better erring on the side of caution. So they retreated while Captain Aubrey ordered the bridge to release the door.
A great gush of gelatinous goo flooded into the hallway, washing up to their feet like foaming surf. The air was filled with the overwhelming aroma of barbecued pork, so strong it gagged everyone.
“What in the name of heaven is this stuff?” asked Aubrey, holding his nose and shaking goo off a boot.
“It is,” explained Sir Giles, “the remains of the Sussian Ambassador, after he’s been slow roasted to death.”
Captain Aubrey gagged. “The poor swine.”
* * *
SMYTHE HANDLED THE CLEAN-UP DETAIL, having the greasy remains of the Sussian Ambassador sucked up into airtight containers and stowed to return to Sus. Captain Aubrey excused himself to attend to more pressing matters, namely an urge to vomit. Sir Giles and Nanette waited patiently until Smythe appeared to be satisfied that the bulk of the remains were accounted for so that the investigation could continue.
“I can’t believe,” said Smythe to Sir Giles as they entered the suite, “anyone would want to kill Ambassador Pudge. He was a very gentle Sussian who only loved his food.”
Sir Giles took in the grizzly scene. “This murder is all about showing us how resolved, how set in his convictions, our murderer is. Clearly it is a statement reflecting his need for power and control over his victims. To kill a Sussian like he was a pork roast must have given the murderer a thrill that only a sociopath craves.”
All three moved around the bed where Pudge’s carcass laid on its stomach, limbs trussed behind the spine, head held up in what would have been a painful angle with a chain over its snout-like mouth area.
Nanette prodded the body. “Does the crime give you clues into profiling the murderer, Grandfather?”
“Hmm.” The Terran was deep in thought. “Certainly we can deduce many traits from the way the ambassador was murdered.” Sir Giles untied the chain, revealing a large, well-done red apple shoved in Pudge’s mouth. “Interesting.”
“That’s very comical,” said Smythe, “if it wasn’t so disgusting. The murderer must be a very disturbed individual.”
“Disturbed indeed, my boy,” said Sir Giles. “Very clever also.”
“How so, Grandfather?” asked Nanette.
Sir Giles turned to a porter who was carrying the ancient hero’s curious old bag. “Good,” said Sir Giles, taking it with a nod. The porter’s eyes bulged and his hand went to his mouth in horror when he viewed the victim. “You may leave, young man.” The porter backed out of the suite followed by the sounds of his gagging all the way down the hall.
“Now, where were we?” said Sir Giles, finding a pair of tongs, his loupe and a pair of vinyl gloves which he donned before further inspection.
“You were about to tell us,” prompted Smythe, “why the murderer is so clever.”
“Right.” Sir Giles scrutinized the baked apple, prodding it with his tongs before plucking it from Pudge’s mouth. “Our murderer has extensive knowledge in the culinary arts, maybe even at a Master Chef level, one who has a gift for exotic recipes of the South Seas of Terra.” He handed the apple to Nanette who was waiting for it with an evidence bag.
“Our murderer is a chef?” asked Smythe. “Should I round up all the cooks on board?”
“Don’t be silly, Smythe,” rebuked Sir Giles. “All I said was our murderer is skilled in cooking, not that he is a cook in the employ of our great ship. I’m sure many of the ambassadors on board are connoisseurs of fine dining and I bet many have been trained to prepare such delicacies, such as what we are seeing here.” He pointed at Pudge. “Although, I venture that not many chefs could prepare a Sussian in this way. Look here . . . ” Sir Giles thrust his tongs into the haunches of Pudge’s rump and the flesh pulled away from the bone with ease. “The ambassador is cooked to perfection. Only someone with great adeptness in the culinary arts could roast a twelve hundred kilo Sussian.”
Sir Giles took a small chunk of the pulled flesh and rubbed it between his fingers, then sniffed it inquisitively. “In fact, the murderer timed our arrival on the scene at the peak of doneness, which means Ambassador Pudge has been roasting for eleven hours and fifteen minutes, by my calculation, give or take less than a few minutes deviation.”
“That was just before we arrived on board the Euripides yesterday,” said Nanette. “The murderer knew we were coming!”
“Without a doubt,” remarked Sir Giles. “Also we can assume the murderer has left us some clues as to our next victim.” Sir Giles pulled a small pen flashlight from his bag and clicked it on. He twirled it around the room, sending beams of light out like he was vectoring some strange geometrical problem. All his angles led him back to Pudge’s mouth. Sir Giles peered deep into the Sussian’s mouth. “Aha!”
“You found something?” asked Nanette and Smythe as one.
“Indeed I have,” he answered. “My dear, would you kindly hand me the long-nosed tweezers from my bag.”
She rummaged a moment and then handed the tweezers to him. Sir Giles plucked something from Pudge’s throat and held it up for all to see. “Our clue, I presume.”
“It’s a note,” said Smythe.
Sir Giles inspected it carefully under his loupe to the two’s obvious excitement.
“What does it say, Grandfather?”
“Patience my dear,” he said, continuing the close inspection. “Nothing will be gained by destroying evidence through carelessness.”
She nodded. Sir Giles was satisfied he couldn’t find any further information from the exterior of the note. So he carefully moved it to better lighting and placed the note into Nanette’s palm. With his tweezers he unfolded the stiff, greasy paper, revealing words handwritten on the note. Then he read aloud the clue about painting your toes and dotting your eyes.
Sir Giles tapped his temple contemplating the clue. “It seems I should know where I’ve heard these lyrics.”
Nanette pulled a digi-pad out from her pocket and typed the words in. “They appear to be from a song called Mama’s Broken Heart by Miranda Lambert, a Country and Western song from the twentieth century.”
Sir Giles nodded rubbing his eyes as if he were in pain.
“Are you all right, Sir Giles?” asked Smythe leaning forward with an expression of concern.
“Just a slight headache.” He wobbled on his feet. Nanette propped him up still holding her digi-pad. “Thanks, my dear. I don’t know what has gotten into me.”
Smythe took over for Nanette, propping up the older man. “You need to rest.”
“Rest!?” Sir Giles became angry, regaining his balance. “That’s all I’ve done for the last fifty years. Now is not the time for rest. Not while there is a murderer to catch!”
Nanette looked worr
ied. She nodded to Smythe to stand ready to help her grandfather again. “Maybe you just need to sit down and reflect on the case.”
“I agree,” said Smythe. “There are good seats on the observation deck if one needs to just look out in peace at the systems of our galaxy.”
Sir Giles nodded reluctantly, feeling suddenly very old.
* * *
SIR GILES SAT IN A DECK LOUNGE CHAIR—deep in thought—looking out of the observation viewport. The stars were twinkling, creating a serene peacefulness to help ease a troubled mind. Finally Sir Giles gave up his cogitation on the clues and closed his eyes.
Then he spoke to himself, “Nose, toes, lips, legs, appears to equal crying. Makeup fixing is another clue. Relationship break ups seem relevant. The next lines feel like filler. A red herring possibly. But the last two words are pertinent somehow. Broken heart.” He sighed heavily and closed his eyes.
“Are you talking to yourself?” Nanette was walking up to him with a cool drink for each of them. She sat down in the lounge chair next to him and handed a colorful drink into his welcoming hands.
“Just running through the clues.” He slid a finger along the glass rim to hold back the paper umbrella. The first sip was divine. “Isn’t it a little early for drinks?”
“It’s drink-thirty somewhere in the galaxy. I thought a cocktail might help lift your spirits.”
“It couldn’t hurt; tracking killers is not a pleasant business. Cocktails and good company are always welcome. By the way, I’ve deduced a number of leads as to who the culprit is.”
“Any progress with narrowing down the list to a top suspect?”
“Umm.” He smacked his lips. “Not yet. I need more data. These vague factoids from the distant past are infuriating me. This psycho-killer is a very clever individual or a simpleton. The clues obscure the murderer’s motives, making it hard to fathom the real reason for murdering the ambassador.”
“I’m confident you’ll figure it out, Grandfather.” She placed her hand on his reassuringly.
Sir Giles winked and nodded. “You’re a real comfort, Granddaughter. Although you might be disappointed in my abilities.”
“Never. And don’t you go and think that way. You’re Sir Giles Thackery, sleuth extraordinaire. The Galactic Guild’s best detective.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “My mind must still be feeling the effect of long sleep hibernation.”
“That will pass.” She was determined to encourage him. “Give it a little time. You’ll feel like your old self soon.”
“I hope so.” He took another sip. Liking the taste, he raised his eyebrows and offered his glass for a cheers. “To solving the mystery quickly.”
“I’ll drink to that!”
Their drinks chinked together.
An unusual treading sound broke the peace of the lounge. A slap/slipping/clack sound. When they turned to see the source of the noise, they watched a Podiatron ambling toward them, her three legs swiveling as she walked forward. One leg planted itself with its many decorated toes glistening with precious gems containing light emitters inlaid in each gem. When one gangly appendage finished flickering, another leg would swivel from the pivoting waist to plant another of its three legs forward. In this way the creature advanced with an unusual grace and speed.
Nanette’s protective instincts kicked in. With amazing dexterity, she put her drink down and blocked the Podiatron from her obvious destination to have a word with Sir Giles. Nanette’s hand neared her las-pistol, at the ready if need be. Sir Giles rose from his lounge chair.
“May I have a few words with you Sir Giles?” asked the Podiatron.
“Certainly—um—Madame Ambassador.” He moved to Nanette’s side and hugged her shoulders. “This is my granddaughter, Nanette.”
“We met briefly at the mixer.” The Podiatron twiddled her toes. A colorful sign of agitation.
Sir Giles noticed the creature’s agitated mood. “How may I be of service? I’m sorry I don’t remember your name. Have we been formally introduced?” He gave the Podiatron his warmest smile.
The Podiatron seemed to relax just a bit and the grimace that must have been its equivalent to a smile was surreal. Its mouth was a gaping gash across the lower portion of its head. The mouth forced a smile in return. “No, of course not. My apologies, Sir Giles. I’m Ambassador Toesle.” A shriveled arm twisted from its upper torso extending a wimpy hand.
“Pleased to meet you.” Sir Giles gently shook the appendage with his forefinger and thumb. “What a lovely name,” he lied. “Very descriptive. May I comment on how lovely your feet look today?”
This seemed to please Toesle. She swiveled two of her legs forward and slightly sat down on her hind leg. She flexed her two front feet to expose all thirty toes on the exhibited feet. The light emitters twinkled impressively. “Do you really think so?”
“Absolutely. They’re a masterpiece of artistic exposition.”
She swiveled her hind leg forward replacing it with one from the front. “And these?” She wiggled the new toes.
“Magnificent. Stunning.” He encouraged Nanette to comment.
“Beautiful.” Nanette was unable to hide the droll tone, which fortunately was not picked up by the sparkling ambassador.
“Do you have a favorite?” asked Toesle. Her eyes were spread wide, attentive to what would be a response to a beloved question.
Sir Giles bent down and inspected the toes intently. “Umm.” He motioned for the hind leg to be presented again. Toesle complied and the hind leg shift to the front. After reflecting on the entire repertoire of toes, he gave his response. “Simply, there’s not a doubt in my mind as to which is my favorite.”
Toesle could hardly contain herself. “Which one? The Andorian blood gem? No? Maybe the Gossamer Gold of Gooloo?” She shook with excitement.
“They are all my favorites. I could never choose just one. This collection must be admired as a set. Viewing them individually would be a sin.”
Toesle erupted in uproarious laughter. “You’re just saying that.” Her arm reached out and flicked Sir Giles on the chest. “Flattery will get you somewhere.” She raised her eyebrow seductively. “You know just what to say to endear yourself to me.”
Sir Giles puffed with pride. “Of course I do, Madame. How else could I behave in the presence of such a lovely creature as yourself?”
Toesle turned to Nanette. “You better watch this one. He’s a smooth talker.”
“Now, Madame Ambassador Toesle, how may I be of help? Certainly you didn’t just come here to present your stellar toes to an aging Terri?”
Toesle looked about to see if anyone was watching. Satisfied that no one was spying, she whispered, “I might be able to shed a little light on your case.”
“That’s super,” said Sir Giles. “Go ahead. I’m all ears.”
“Here? No, no. That won’t do. I feel so exposed here. Someone might be surveilling us from afar. We must meet somewhere where I feel safer.” She thought a moment. “The beauty salon. I can have my people sweep the establishment for bugs.”
“Fine,” responded Sir Giles, “if that is what it takes. I’m willing. As long as my granddaughter agrees with the security.”
“Of course,” said Toesle. “I would never interfere with the help of a SLASP agent.” Toesle took notice of the time. “Would six bells before noon do?”
Sir Giles translated that to eleven o’clock. He turned to Nanette for approval. She nodded. “It’s a date.”
“Great,” she said. “We can—all three of us—get a pedicure. My beautician can do wonders with Terran toes too.”
* * *
THE HANGER DECK of the Euripides was packed with delegates from all parts of the Galactic Guild, all mourning the loss of one of their own. Poor Ambassador Pudge would’ve been moved by all of his faithful colleagues who came to see him off that morning. The ship’s crew, in formal dress blues, stood at attention, lining his final departure path. Sir Giles and Nanette solemnly
stood by, deep in their own thoughts and prayers at the sad gathering. Captain Aubrey stood on a portable pulpit before the Sussian transport ship which was awaiting its fallen dignitary.
Sir Giles leaned toward Nanette. “Where’s our Mister Smythe? I expected he’d be here for the proceedings. Everyone except a skeleton crew is attending.”
“He wanted to be a pallbearer. He insisted on the privilege.”
“Good man.” Sir Giles looked down the procession in hopes of seeing the young purser. “Don’t you agree, my dear? He has honor, that one. I can tell.”
Screech! Thump! Thump! came the sound from the PA system as Captain Aubrey tapped the microphone. “Is this thing on?” The crowd covered their hearing orifices to protect themselves from the feedback. Seeing everyone’s discomfort he harrumphed. “Okay. Let’s get this show on the road.” He cued for the procession to begin. The bay dimmed and a landing strip of lights snapped on to illuminate the path for the procession.
“Ship’s crew,” he ordered. “Eyes to the honored. Ho!” The men and women at attention stomped their feet and turned their heads towards the end of their line and saluted.
Captain Aubrey began his speech. “Today we say farewell to Ambassador Oinklin Pudge. A Sussian of many talents. Although I didn’t know him personally, I did know him professionally . . . ”
From the far darkened hatchway at the end of the lighted path a form laid out on a substantial silver cart covered in the Sussian flag moved into view. The shape of the body was covered but it was unmistakably porcine in nature. Its barbecued smell permeated the hanger deck until it was offensive. The crowd began lamenting. Weeping increased as the cart puttered along under its hefty weight. Then the anti-grav failed and the cart settled loudly upon its conventional wheels, straining to a squeaking halt. Smythe was putting his back into pushing it. His face straining, wheezing for breath every few steps he advanced. The cart stuck on a seam in the floor and Sir Giles thought Smythe was about to have a hernia getting it back on track.
“Our young Smythe looks as if he could use a hand,” whispered Sir Giles to Nanette. Nanette nodded. They excused themselves as they moved through the crowd.
Murder on Euripides Page 4