The Untreed Detectives

by J. Alan Hartman

  “Mary is a fat pig. No smoking in the house.”

  Horror crept across my face. “I’m sorry, what?” I glared at the Angus replacement as if he could understand me.

  “Mary is a fat pig. No smoking in the house.”

  Mitexi on the other hand was elated. She clapped like he was the star of the play. “Say something else!”

  “There is no way we can give him to Ryan!”

  The echo returned. “Ryan. Ryan. Ryan”

  Well that eased my mind a little, so I gave it my best shot and stared straight at him. “Angus.”

  “Angus. Angus. Angus.”

  Now we were in business. “Peanuts.”

  “Penis. Penis. Penis.”

  “No! Peanuts! Angus likes peanuts!”

  “Angus likes penis.”

  “Maybe he has a lisp. I’m not sure you can prosecute him for that.” Apparently Phillip was still wearing his lawyer hat. “Alright, who wants him?”

  I involuntarily extended an arm and watched as he stepped onto it. His little beak pecked against my face once he settled into the right spot. “Hi.”

  My heart skipped half a beat. “Hi.” I paused and tried again. “Peanuts.” This time I sounded out the word slowly and clearly pronounced each letter.

  “Hi. Peeeennuuuuttsss.”

  “Yes! Yes!” I breathed a sigh of relief.

  Mitexi and Phillip clapped loudly with approval and Angus went on a Hi Peeeennuuuuuttsss frenzy, which was fine by me.

  “I think we have a house visit to make.” I looked up. “How does he ride in the car?”

  “Sat in the back window the whole way here. I’ll carry him down, you guys lock up the place.”

  I transferred the bird back over to Phillip and as he disappeared through the door way I felt a significant decrease in my blood pressure when I heard “Angus. Angus. Hi Peeeennnnuuuutttsss.” in the hallway until they moved onto the elevator.

  Mitexi and I looked at each other in agreement that this might very well work out as we hoped it would. There was no telling what vulgar or incriminating sentences might slip out after the delivery, but at least he was entertaining. As a last resort, there was always the excuse that Angus kept some unsavory company on the Farm which resulted in bad habits and a fresh mouth, but I sure hoped we wouldn’t have to go there.

  *

  We arrived at the Major household just before the sun was getting ready to drop away from this side of the Earth. My wish was that this would be a night Ryan could never forget. I imagined him dressed in pajamas and praying that his bird was coming home and then being able to witness the delight on his face when we rang the doorbell.

  “Ready?” Mitexi spoke calmly but she looked more nervous than I felt.

  “Let’s do it.”

  She knocked the transmission into park and I leaned across the second row of seats to retrieve Angus from a cup holder that he’d taken a liking to while staring out of the window.

  We stepped onto the stoop and I knocked softly.

  A stalky man who I assumed to be Ryan’s father opened the door. Before any words could exit my mouth, he grinned broadly. “Hi I’m Jeff.” He then quietly called for his wife. “Mary, come see who it is.”

  Mitexi and I gasped as Angus unleashed his favorite two sentences of the day. “Mary is a fat pig. No smoking in the house. Mary is a fat pig. No smoking in the house.”

  Finally Mary stepped into view and let me tell you, she was the furthest thing from a fat pig imaginable. Quickly I scurried backward and asked that they follow and close the door.

  “Okay here’s the deal. We all know what is going on. He can say peanuts and Angus and well, obviously a lot of other things. My advice is to keep on saying the words you want him to repeat whenever Ryan is around and work on the less attractive sentences when you three are alone.”

  Just when I was sure they’d throw us off their property, they both started laughing and Mr. Majors reached out to let Angus step down onto his forearm. He spoke softly. “It will be fine, I’m sure. Believe me; the real Angus very rarely spoke with manners either.”

  Suddenly, the front door swung open and Ryan stared in awe. His beautiful green eyes glowed as he cautiously questioned the animal. “Angus?”

  We all sucked in our breath and without even pausing, that lifesaving bird replied. “Hi. Angus. Angus. Peeeeaaaannnnuuutttts. Hi.” And then he fluttered onto Ryan’s head.

  I leaned down on one knee to meet his face. “I’m sorry we couldn’t bring home the necklace you made him. You see, he made a really good friend on the Farm and he left it for her to remember him by. I hope you understand.”

  “You bet! We can make another one together tomorrow!”

  I stood back up and Mitexi squeezed my hand as Ryan disappeared into the house and his parents extended their gratitude with the most grateful looks I’d ever been on the receiving end of.

  We drove quietly for some time until Mitexi broke the silence. “You do know if word gets out that we went to the Farm, there are going to be an awful lot of piggy banks cracking open.”

  “As long as there’s no snakes involved, because you know, I’m certain I have Ophidiophbia. You can read up on it when we get back to the office.”

  Breathing Under Water

  By Janet Majerus

  My heroine, Jessie Schroeder, has returned to live in her hometown, Riverport, a small town on the Mississippi River, in an effort to resurrect her life and writing career after a devastating divorce. Surrounded by family and old friends, she rediscovers what it is like to live in a “fish bowl” where everybody knows everybody’s business. Some people claim Jessie is my alter ego. I do wish I had her insatiable drive to seek out answers no matter how many people tell her not to get involved, but not if it means I’m going to trip over bodies and uncover acts of malfeasance every time I turn around. As her on again, off again boyfriend, Sheriff Gil Keller says, “Jessie attracts trouble like a magnet attracts iron filings.”

  *

  I was eight years old when I first realized I could breathe under water. Junior Pfeifer and his friends had tied my arms behind my back and thrown me in the deep hole in the creek that ran through the woods behind my house.

  I guess I was supposed to be frightened, but I wasn’t. I held my breath as long as I could, then opened my eyes and my mouth and watched a tiny column of bubbles rise to the surface. I took a deep breath, then another. I was breathing. I found a big boulder to lean up against. It was beautiful and quiet and safe in the water.

  The writing was magical. I could almost feel what it would be like to be sitting on the creek bed watching the watery world float by. I leaned back and frowned. There was a problem. The magic was almost too real. I could see a publisher reluctant to touch it for fear it would induce an epidemic of children drowning.

  I turned back to the beginning. The partial manuscript had been hand written on notebook paper. It obviously had been recopied because there were no cross outs or smudges. The name was at the top—Caroline something, I couldn’t read the rest—looked like M. The class roster listed a Caroline Menton, must be her story. I couldn’t wait to meet Caroline Menton. Maybe this workshop wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  *

  When I had awakened this morning, I was completely disoriented. The light coming through the crack in the drapes was too bright, and the bird raising a ruckus outside the window was a stranger. I had struggled out of bed, yanked the drapes open, and stared out at the line of mountains that dominated the horizon, peaks piercing a brilliant blue sky. To paraphrase Dorothy, I definitely was not in Illinois anymore.

  It had been dark when I’d arrived the previous night. The moonless sky had sparkled with stars and the mountains had been nothing but dark brooding blobs. Until a week earlier, I had never heard of La Cumbre. Then my friend Sharon called, pleading for help. Her mother had broken her hip and she desperately needed someone to take over her commitment to teach a writing workshop in a small artists
’ community in Northern New Mexico. I said yes before considering the ramifications, but it didn’t matter. I was ready to get out of town for a while.

  I had this day open before I met the ten participants in the workshop, all supposedly seriously interested in writing children’s stories, my field. Sharon had warned me several might be ringers, added to meet the required enrollment. Samples of their work had been waiting for me at the front desk when I checked in. I was using this free day to critique them before the start of the workshop, but first I went searching for breakfast and a place to do my work.

  “Morning, Miss Schroeder.” A young man with a short mop of dread locks and tattoos up both arms greeted me as I stopped at the front desk. “Hope you slept well. You got in awful late last night.”

  “Thank you. I did,” I said, hoping to stave off further conversation until I had my ration of caffeine.

  “Several of the other instructors are already at breakfast.” He pointed down the hall to his right. “Omelets with green, red, or Christmas, bacon, and corn and black bean salsa this morning.”

  “Excuse me. What did you say?”

  “Sorry about that,” he said and laughed. “This must be your first time to New Mexico.”

  “You guessed right,” I said. “Now what’s for breakfast?”

  “Omelets with green chile, red chile, or a mixture. Green and red, Christmas, get it?”

  I forced a smile and made my way toward the breakfast room.

  A heavy-set man with gray hair was holding court at one of the tables. I recognized him from his photograph. He was Clyde Sanders, the director of the La Cumbre Art Institute, the sponsor of the workshops.

  “Miss Schroeder, I presume.” He stood and held out his hand. “Welcome.”

  In the flurry of introductions that followed, I quickly lost track of names and areas of interest. I couldn’t help but notice a slender woman sitting alone in the corner who was not included in the introductions. She had a fragile look about her. In a 19th century novel, she might even have been described as consumptive.

  Before I could speculate further, Clyde had me by the arm, propelling me toward a buffet table with a white-coated young man standing at one end.

  “Bobby here’ll take your order,” he said.

  I gently pried his fingers off my arm. “Can’t face food until I have my coffee.” I smiled at Bobby. “I’ll be back.”

  When I turned around with my coffee, the unnamed woman was gone.

  *

  I had promised Gil I would call him after I got settled in. He was out with his deputy, Clarence, so I left a message that I’d call back later. Part of the reason I had accepted Sharon’s request was the need to put some distance between Gil and me for a while. He was getting too proprietary—translation, bossy for my taste.

  And what did he say when we said good bye? Not, I’ll miss you. Not, I love you. No, nothing like that. No, he said, “For God’s sake, Jessie, stay out of trouble. Maybe I should call ahead and warn them you’re coming.”

  His assumption that everywhere I went, trouble followed was getting tiresome.

  I put Gil out of my mind, gathered the manuscripts, and retreated to a patio at the rear of the Lodge. I had turned down an invitation to join some of the others for sightseeing. I needed several undisturbed hours to do the critiques.

  The first two were not bad, in fact with some rewriting they would make pretty good short stories. Then came one of the ringers—zombies who ran a chain of fast food restaurants. Everyone who ordered the five dollar special automatically became a zombie, kind of like getting the prize in Cracker Jacks. I made my comments as neutral as possible, but I suspected it was going to be a long two weeks with Rex Ryder aka Harold Crickshaw. He had included a note that he was using a pen name so his relatives wouldn’t know how much money he earned. I suspected I’d have to keep a muzzle on Rex aka Harold.

  The next six were partially literate, but uninspiring. It had been then that I had picked up the final manuscript. I checked my watch. It was noon. I debated saving it till after lunch, but a quick look at the title and first paragraph had me hooked. “Breathing Under Water.” Lunch could wait.

  *

  Nine people filed into the room. I had pulled several tables together, so we could sit as a group. Nothing I hated more than standing in front of a room and lecturing. I introduced myself then went around the group and asked them to introduce themselves with a few words about their writing experience. Most had none, two had been writing and submitting, and one had had pieces published in a local magazine. Everyone was there except the woman who had written “Breathing Under Water.”

  “Does anyone know Caroline Menton?” I asked the group.

  All I got in return for my question was several shrugs and muttered “don’t know her.” Finally one woman held up her hand. “I don’t know a Caroline, but there’s a bunch of Mentons who live up in the Canyon. She could be one of them.”

  I could hear contempt in her voice.

  If she didn’t show up, I decided to find Clyde and see if I could track her down through his records. Her story was too intriguing not to pursue it and her.

  “Okay, people, it’s time to work,” I said and proceeded to outline what I expected to cover over the two-week workshop. By the time I finished, they all had the deer in the headlight expression on their faces, all except Rex aka Harold who, in addition to diligently taking notes, had a tape recorder memorializing my every word. When I asked for questions, his was the only hand that was raised.

  “Yes, Rex or do you prefer Harold?” I asked.

  “Rex will do. I figure I need to be getting used to it, since that’s the name I will be publishing under. Now, how much money can I expect from The New Yorker when they buy my story?”

  I suppressed a groan. Should have known this was coming. “Unfortunately, they don’t publish children’s stories,” I said. “Now let’s get started.”

  At the end of the session, after everyone left, I sat alone at the table, the partial manuscript of “Breathing Under Water” in front of me. I read through it again, slowly this time, lost in the story until I became conscious of someone standing in the doorway, watching me.

  “Excuse me, Miss Schroeder, may I come in?”

  I looked up. It was the woman who had been sitting alone in the corner of breakfast room.

  “Of course. Come in. You’re Caroline Menton, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

  “I missed you today.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” she repeated.

  “Your story is wonderful.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” again.

  She hesitated just inside the door. I got up and walked toward her, but before I reached her, a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back, turning her sideways. The whole side of her face was black and blue and her eye swollen shut.

  I stepped around her and did my own grabbing, digging my fingernails into the man’s arm. “Let her go,” I said through gritted teeth. “What have you done to her?”

  “Jesus, lady, you’re hurting me. Didn’t do nuthin. She ran into a door. She’s clumsy that way. I’m Jimmy Menton, her brother. We just came here to talk to you.”

  “Well, quit man handling her and talk.” I tried to conceal the instant dislike I felt for this man. Maybe it was because Caroline had an aura about her that seemed to shout, “Protect me.” The bruises proved that accurate. I stepped back, let them both into the room, and waited.

  Jimmy’s stained baseball cap was pulled low over strands of hair that were so lank and greasy, I kept expecting something to crawl out of them, and his overalls were stained and torn. Caroline, on the other hand, wore crisp and clean overalls and a long-sleeve denim shirt. I wondered how many more bruises the long sleeves covered.

  I finally decided to start the conversation and directed my words to Caroline. “I was sorry you missed the session today and I’m sorry you have been hurt. Have you seen a doctor?”

&nbs
p; “Weren’t no need for a little bump.” Jimmy answered for her.

  I ignored him. “Your sample manuscript is really quite extraordinary. I think you may have a major talent. I’m hoping to read the rest of your story. Is it finished?”

  “No, ma’am. Not yet.” She addressed to her words to the floor.

  “I can give you time during the workshop to work on it, if you like,” I said.

  “Missy here, ain’t coming to no workshop,” Jimmy cut in. “That’s what we come to tell you. She pulled a fast one signing up for this thing, using the egg money to pay for it. Taking money that belongs to the family for personal things ain’t allowed. Already talked to Clyde and he’s givin the money back. Can’t have her wastin time sitting around scribbling fairy tales when there’s work to be done.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said and Jimmy pushed her out the door in front of him.

  “Please finish the story,” I called after her. “I’ll take care of it.” I watched as they went down the hall. Just before they disappeared around the corner Caroline turned back. The look on her face brought tears to my eyes.

  *

  “I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Gil said. “You don’t even know the woman.”

  “How can you say that? She obviously been physically abused and besides she writes like an angel. She’s amazing.”

  “Jessie, get serious. You don’t know anything about her circumstances and you’ve only read eight pages. She could have copied them.”

  Gil and I had finally made contact and it was rapidly turning into an argument. “I don’t question how you profile a criminal,” I said, “so don’t you tell me how to identify original writing. Besides, the look on her face nearly broke my heart as that creepy brother hauled her away like she was some sort of chattel.”

  “Sorry, Jessie, it just seems that you may be jumping to conclusions. Remember, you’re new in town. You know nothing about this family’s history. Probably not a good idea to get involved.”

  I bit back my retort and instead changed the subject. “So, how’s Riverport? Any good gossip?”