by Nic Saint
“Don’t listen to that idiot, Detective,” said Calvin. “Let’s talk about the case instead. Do you have a lock on a suspect? Any ideas?”
Munroe’s jaw worked as he tried to control his temper.
“I mean, you’ve gotta have some idea, right? We could spitball some theories now, if you want. I’m sure that if the two of us put our heads together we could solve this case right now. My money’s on the parents. What about you?”
“Calvin,” I said warningly. “Detective Munroe is our guest. He’s here to enjoy a nice meal with our family, not to be grilled on a murder case.”
“Thank you, Saffron,” said Chief Whitehouse, putting down a chicken bone and wiping the grease from his lips with his napkin. “I appreciate it.”
“No, I get it,” said Calvin. “This is the detective’s night off. He’s one of those nine-to-five cops that can’t be bothered with a case once they unbuckle their belts.”
“Calvin, that’s enough,” said Grandma. “Be nice.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. Diffley,” said the detective. “I get that a lot. All cops do. A heinous crime has been committed and people like to know we’re doing everything we can to solve it.”
“See?” asked Calvin. “He gets it. He wants to cooperate.”
“I want to assure you that I will solve this crime,” said Munroe, directing a slightly intimidating look at Calvin. “And that I will catch that killer.”
“Logan is an ace detective,” said Chief Whitehouse. “Perfect clearance rate back in New Hampshire. Isn’t that right, Logan?”
“I do my best, Chief,” said the detective with a curt nod.
“Your clearance rate can’t possibly beat mine,” said Calvin. “One hundred percent. That’s my personal clearance rate.”
“That’s impossible,” Munroe immediately shot back. “No one catches them all.”
“I do,” said Calvin, looking impossibly smug. “And I can prove it.”
“Calvin!” Grandma snapped. “Behave!”
“You know, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” said Brice, leaning back and throwing down his napkin. “Maybe you’ve heard this, maybe you haven’t, but I’ve been fielding offers from Hollywood, and I was thinking I’d like to ride with you in that squad car of yours one of these nights. You know, like a ride-along? I think it would benefit us both.”
“No,” said Munroe, also throwing down his napkin.
“I mean, I could teach you about people—I know people. I mean, I’m an artist, and an observer, and I know all about people. In fact I could probably help you nab this killer you’re after. And you could teach me about cops. In case I ever want to play a cop.” He grinned at Munroe as if he’d just given him an offer he couldn’t refuse. Detective Munroe’s gaze swept up until his eyes met Brice’s. He must have looked pretty fierce, for Brice’s grin was instantly wiped from his face and he blanched visibly. “Or not,” he muttered, casting down his eyes.
“Detective!” a voice sounded. Munroe looked up, and found himself staring at a huge magnet that Rodrick was holding right next to his head.
“Rodrick,” I said. “Leave Detective Munroe in peace.”
“What’s this, little man?” asked Munroe, staring at the magnet.
“Dang!” Rodrick cried. “So you’re not made of iron after all! So what are you, Detective? A new kind of alloy? Special plastics composite? What?”
For the first time that evening, Munroe smiled. “I’m flesh and blood, buddy. Just like you.”
“But you’re RoboCop, right? I recognized you the minute you walked in! You’re half man, half machine. Like The Terminator, only way, way cooler!”
“I’m not RoboCop,” said Munroe, tousling Rodrick’s hair. “But if I were, you’d be my wingman.”
“Cool!” Rodrick cried, tucking away his magnet. Then he narrowed his eyes at the detective. “So if you’re not RoboCop, what are you? Cause you look like a superhero.”
“I’m just a cop,” said Munroe. “Just your average police officer.”
Rodrick thought for a moment, trying to figure out if this was cool or not, and finally said, “So you’re like The Equalizer, huh?”
“Yep,” said Munroe, letting his implacable gaze travel from Brice, to Dalton, to Lucien, to Calvin, and finally to me. “I’m The Equalizer.”
And with these words, he got up from the table. “Thank you for a delicious meal, Mrs. Diffley. I enjoyed it tremendously.”
“Oh, you’re not leaving already, are you, Detective?” asked Grandma.
“I’m afraid I am. Don’t want to wear out my welcome,” he said with a tight smile.
Jerome, who must have realized belatedly that there was food to be had, came waddling up, directed his droopy eyes up at the tall cop, seemed to like what he saw, and plunked down on the detective’s feet, emitting a noisy fart in the process.
Munroe stared down at the dog, blinked, and muttered, “For crying out loud…”
Then he nodded at Chief Whitehouse, at Grandma, gently extracted his foot from Jerome’s grip, and walked out.
Chapter 17
“Detective! Wait up!” I cried, and ran after him. I caught up with him just as he stood, doorknob in hand, ready to step out onto the porch. He glanced back at me, none too friendly. “I want to apologize for my brothers,” I said, panting slightly. “And Jerome. I know they can be annoying, but they mean well.”
“I know that,” he said after a pause. “In fact I thought your family was kinda cute. Especially your little brother.”
I smiled. “Yeah, Rodrick is the best—at least when he’s not spying on the neighbors.”
We walked out onto the porch and I closed the door behind us.
“He spies on the neighbors?”
“Just this morning Mrs. Gauntlet complained that he was spying on her through the bathroom window. He said he was trying to locate her third nipple—to prove that she’s a witch.”
Munroe grinned. “A witch, huh? He’s got quite an imagination.”
“He seemed to think you are RoboCop.”
“No idea where he got that. Do I look like RoboCop?”
I studied him for a moment. His chiseled features looked like they could have been put together in a lab hidden deep in the bowels of some secret government compound, and his body could have been produced in the same mold that Iron Man uses to forge his suits, but other than that… “You look a little like RoboCop,” I admitted.
He fixed me with a stern look. “Now should I take that as a compliment or an insult?”
“Neither. Just an observation.”
“Thanks, I guess,” he said wryly.
We both lapsed into silence for a moment, gazing out at the street, which was quiet at this time of the evening. Diffley Manor stands at the end of a cul-de-sac, along with a few more sizable and expensive properties, so we don’t get a lot of traffic, which is great for kids, as they can play on the street. Munroe’s squad car stood parked at the curb, the same one I’d been a brief prisoner in that afternoon. Munroe caught my gaze, for he grunted, “I’m sorry about that arrest. I guess you caught me at a bad time.”
“Well, I probably shouldn’t have disregarded your orders, Detective.”
He nodded, his hands shoved into his jeans. “So what’s all this about a perfect clearance rate? Was your brother serious?”
“Calvin is rarely serious,” I said carefully. “He was just pulling your leg.”
“Cause that’s what you do when a cop comes over for dinner. Play whack-a-cop.”
“Yes, well, Calvin has a competitive streak. And for some reason he’s picked you as his target.”
Logan’s clear blue eyes turned to me, capturing mine with an intent look. “Do you have a competitive streak, too, Miss Diffley?”
“No, I believe in cooperation,” I heard myself say.
He grunted his approval. “I can’t offer you cooperation, but I can offer you peaceful coexistence.”
I laughed. �
��Like the Soviet Union?”
A smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “Something like that.”
“So you do your business and I do mine and we don’t arrest each other?”
“I don’t arrest you,” he corrected me. “You don’t have the power to arrest me, remember?”
“I could always perform a citizen’s arrest if you bothered me.”
“I would like to see you try,” he said in that gravelly voice of his.
“All right,” I said. “Peaceful coexistence it is.”
“As long as you keep your brothers away from me.” He paused. “Except Rodrick. I like Rodrick.”
“What about Jerome?”
“Jerome? Oh, you mean the dog.” He eyed me with amusement. “The dog is all right.”
“Fair warning, though. Jerome likes to fart on people.”
“I thought I heard a suspicious sound.”
“But he only farts on people he likes.”
“Ain’t I the lucky one?”
“It’s like a seal of approval.”
“Welcome to the Diffleys.”
“Something like that.”
“Ply them with roast chicken, seal the deal with a butt bark. I get it.”
I laughed, and when he smiled at me, I felt a pronounced weakening at the knees. The man was just too damn handsome. And funnier than I’d thought.
“You still think I had a stick surgically inserted into my butt?” he asked.
“I’m starting to think I may have misjudged you.”
“It happens,” he said. “Don’t beat yourself up about it.”
“Oh, I won’t.”
He started descending the porch, then turned. “You know, I may have made the same mistake.”
“What’s that?”
“Jumped to conclusions about you, Miss Diffley.”
Now it was my turn to smile. “Maybe it’s time you started calling me Saffron, Detective Munroe.”
“Logan,” he said.
“See you around, Logan.”
“I’m pretty sure you will, Saffron.” He held up his hand, then stalked off towards his car. I watched him drive off, and wondered what that strange fluttering feeling in my tummy was. Was it a butt bark coming on? I closed the door. No, I was pretty sure it was something else entirely. Something that had something to do with Detective Munroe. With Logan.
Chapter 18
When I woke up the following morning, once again it was to loud noises. I groaned as I crawled from beneath the covers. If you live with five brothers, you get used to shouts and screams at all hours of the day or night, but since my brothers had all more or less grown up into young men, the decibel level had dropped precipitously. Until now. I stumbled over to my window, which looks out on the porch below. I frowned when I recognized Philana Gauntlet’s blond mane. She looked as if she was on her way to a power lunch, and decided to drop by to cause more fuss.
I shuffled into the hallway, and that’s when I heard the words ‘Rodrick’ and ‘spying.’ Not again. Logan might have singled out my little brother for his affections, but I was going to have to correct him on that.
I descended the stairs, wrapping my Darth Vader cloak around me, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.
“He poked me!” Mrs. Gauntlet was saying. “He poked me with a stick! I woke up with a sharp pain in my leg and when I opened my eyes there he was! This horrible little brat was poking me with a stick!”
“I was just trying to find out if she’s a witch!” Rodrick yelled to Grandma. “You have to poke the freckles. If they bleed, she’s a witch. It’s all in my book!”
“Rodrick, how many times have I told you to leave Mrs. Gauntlet alone?” Grandma asked, clearly not as enthusiastic at Rodrick’s diligence at discovering witches as he was.
But Rodrick wasn’t deterred. “She has a wart!” he said, pointing an accusing finger at our neighbor. “A big, hairy wart!”
“I do not!” cried Philana, horrified.
“It has three black hairs and it’s on the back of her leg,” Rodrick insisted. And before anyone could stop him, he’d darted up to Mrs. Gauntlet and had hiked up her skirt. “See!” he screeched triumphantly. “A big, nasty, hairy wart. She’s a witch!”
“Rodrick!” Grandma snapped, and grabbed the little tyke by the ear and wrenched him away from Philana, who was trying to say something, but no words came out. Her face was flushed, and she was smoothing down her skirt.
“Go to your room!” Grandma said.
“But she’s a witch! She is! She flies around on her broom at night and kidnaps little boys like me!”
“To your room. And don’t come out until I tell you to!”
“She’s going to kidnap me next! She’s going to take revenge!”
Rodrick stomped by me, on his way upstairs, and I gave him a commiserating look. He was just trying to save his life from the bad witch. Though if I were in Philana’s shoes, I’d probably want to get rid of him, too.
“It’s not a wart,” Philana said primly. “It’s just a small beauty spot. And I’m having it surgically removed. A little laser therapy and it’s gone.” She directed a desperate look at Grandma. “I’m not a witch, Margaret. I’m not.”
“I know you’re not a witch,” Grandma said soothingly. “It’s just Rodrick.” She sighed. “I really don’t know what to do with that boy. I really don’t. His brothers were also a handful, but never like Rodrick.”
“Maybe a little therapy would help?” Philana suggested. “I know a great therapist who specializes in difficult kids. I’m sure she’d be able to get him into line.”
This seemed to be a bridge too far for Grandma, for her lips tightened. “That won’t be necessary. I’ve raised four boys and a girl. I think I can raise one more.”
A mutinous look had come over Philana’s face. “If I catch him one more time, I’m calling the cops. And you know what that means, Margaret.”
Even I knew what that meant. Child services would get involved. Not exactly a great prospect.
“You won’t catch him again,” said Grandma, her tone cold. “So there will be no need to call the police.”
“One more time,” Philana said, as she walked away. “I’ve had it with the little brute. I’m warning you. Next time I’m calling the cops on him.”
Grandma watched our neighbor stalk off huffily, and then turned to me. “What am I going to do with that little brother of yours?”
“He means well,” I said. “He just wants to protect his family.”
“From witches,” said Grandma, throwing up her hands. “He wants to protect us from witches.” Then she darted a not-too-friendly glance at Philana. “Maybe he’s right. Maybe that woman really is a witch.”
“You don’t mean that,” I said.
She seemed to snap out of it. “No, of course not,” she admitted. “It’s not very nice to wake up and find a little boy poking your leg with a stick.” She frowned. “I wonder how he got in.”
“He probably climbed the drainpipe and got in through the bedroom window. He’s very clever.”
“He is—and he’s also very dead,” she said decidedly, and stalked up the stairs to have another word with Rodrick. This wasn’t going to prove his best day.
I yawned and followed Grandma at a slower pace. And as I passed Rodrick’s room, I heard him scream, “But she has a black cat! Only witches have black cats!”
Lucien’s tousled head appeared, his hair standing on end. “What’s going on?” he asked, staring at me through half-lidded eyes.
“Rodrick,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, losing interest. “Um, Saffron? Do you see a difference?” He yanked up his pajama shirt and I found myself staring at his hairless chest.
“Eww! Don’t flash me like that.”
“My nips. Don’t they look swollen to you?”
“I’m sure I don’t want to know,” I said pointedly.
He stared down at his chicken chest. “I think they’re growing.”
“Good for you,” I said, and slunk into my room. Time for a shower.
Forty-five minutes later, shower done and breakfast gobbled down, Calvin and I were on our way to our first port of call for the day… at least after we’d dropped Rodrick off at his school, since he’d missed the school bus. Again.
“So how’s the witch hunt going, buddy?” asked Calvin.
“It’s going great!” Rodrick cried, Grandma’s speech already digested and cast aside. “I’m going to expose Mrs. Rinsky. She’s a witch. I just know it!”
“Wait, you’re going to expose Mrs. Rinsky?” I asked, turning to him in alarm.
“She keeps muttering to herself, a clear sign she’s a witch,” said Rodrick. “So I’m going to expose her to the whole class.”
“Rodrick, I forbid you to do such a thing,” I said, trying to lace my voice with enough severity to make an impact.
He stared at me, then grinned. “You’re funny, Saffron. I almost believed you.”
“I’m serious!”
“Ha ha!”
“No, but I am. If you expose Mrs. Rinsky, I will… I will…”
He listened patiently, then gave me a wink. “Keep trying.”
I turned to the windshield again, uttering an exasperated grunt.
“So how are you going to expose her?” asked Calvin, genuinely interested.
“I’ve made a urine cake and I’m going to make her eat it,” he said.
“Seriously, Rodrick?” I asked, aghast. “Are you crazy?”
“No, that’s how it works,” he said. “You make a cake with the urine of the witch’s victim—me—and then you feed it to her. If she starts crying out in agony, she’s a witch. It’s all right here in my book.” He tapped a sizable tome that carried the name ‘Witches and How to Defeat Them.’
“You’re not going to feed that cake to that poor woman,” I said. “No way.”
“Oh, let him,” said Calvin with an amused grin. “She’ll be fine.”
I fixed him with a kindling eye. “If I were to feed you a cake made of my urine, what would you do?”
His smile faltered. “Cry out in agony?”