Death of a Dumb Bunny

by Melanie Jackson

  “I told my brother about you coming and he said there's no such thing as Officer Bill anymore. The real Officer Bill got hung at the haunted house.” This, I needn’t tell you, was Xander. I bet he had been the first to share the glad tidings about there being no Santa Claus or Easter Bunny.

  “Your brother was pulling your leg.”

  “No he wasn't. He never even touched me.”

  Literal. They were so literal.

  “I meant that your brother was joking. I'm Officer Bill. In fact, I'm even a detective.” Unofficial, but still a detective.

  “You are not. Girls can’t be detectives.”

  “I am too and they can so.” Blue began to whine. She doesn’t like it when I get upset and the crack about girls not being detectives had pissed me off. I had heard it too many times from my own co-workers.

  “Are not!”

  “Am too!”

  “The doggy is crying,” announced the moldy child that I thought was female. “Officer Bill is being mean to the doggy.”

  That stung.

  “I am not! I would never be mean to Blue.”

  “Boys and girls,” began Mr. Andrews in an ineffective voice as he shoved his phone in his pocket. Some breath spray fell on the floor and rolled under the podium.

  “If you're a detective, you should prove it,” Xander said.

  This got a big round of applause and some cheers.

  “Prove it! Prove it!” they chanted.

  “How?” I thought about offering to pepper spray Xander but decided The Chief would probably not like it if I did that.

  “Well…. Ricky's lunch was stolen. That’s a crime, right? If you’re really a detective you should be able to figure out who took it.” Dear Xander. But this I could handle. Finding lost things is kind of a specialty of mine.

  “Now, boys and girls—” Mr. Andrews tried again. How had this man become a principal? Blue was a better disciplinarian. I would have to find out who he was sleeping with. He couldn’t have gotten this job by merit.

  “No, that's alright, Mr. Andrews. I'll take this case. It will give me a chance to show the children some police work in action.”

  But I wasn’t going to do it while wearing a stupid paper mâché head. I began to wrestle with Bill’s oversized cranium. After a moment it came off and I gulped in a couple breaths of air that smelled of hotdogs, but was otherwise very pleasant. I dropped Bill on the floor, but gently since the children were there and wouldn’t like it if I drop-kicked the head up the aisle.

  Blue looked happier too and her tail thumped the podium, sounding like thunder.

  “Okay, where is Ricky?” I asked, wiping away the worst of the sweat with Officer Bill’s felt sleeve.

  After some pointing and shoving a boy of maybe seven came forward. He was red of face and had red hair that looked like it was fighting a stiff wind. He was either feeling very shy or very guilty.

  “Hi, Ricky. Don’t be nervous. You can pet Blue while we talk, if you like.”

  “I’m not nervous.” But he was. Maybe it was the strange clothes he was wearing. Some parents are so dense. They don’t get that what was age-appropriate school-wear when they were kids just wouldn’t cut it now. Who could honestly think rainbow suspenders were a good idea especially with hair that color? He looked like he belonged in a circus.

  “Good. Because there is no need to be nervous if you tell the truth. Now, we are going to do some deductive reasoning and see if we can find out about your lunch.” I thought about asking a bunch of standard questions like I would in a real case, but there was no need now that I had seen Ricky and I wanted to keep this as short as possible. There was no fun in torturing this kid. “Can you tell me what was in your lunch today?”

  “Sushi,” he said, and got giggles. “And Pringles and grape soda.”

  I shook my head at his wish list. No one else believed him either. I was betting he was notorious for having bad lunches. It went with the suspenders.

  “No lying to the police. That is the most important rule of all.”

  “How do you know he’s lying?” demanded Xander.

  “I’m a human lie-detector. And Blue can smell it if you lie.” I added. The first part was true. The second part might be true. I have always kind of suspected it.

  “Really?” asked the moldy female. I was sure now that I could see her clearly that she was a girl, albeit one without many girlie inclinations.

  “Of course. Ricky, hold out your hands. Blue, is Ricky lying about the sushi?”

  I gave Blue the sign for speak and she obligingly howled. The room was full of wide eyes. I didn’t impress them but my dog doing the Hound of the Baskervilles sure did. Mr. Andrews was smothering a smug smile, and though it had been my intention that the children have an ooh-ahhh moment, I didn’t care for the fact that he was laughing at them when they did. Mr. Andrews just wasn’t a very nice man.

  “Okay, it was a bologna and onion sandwich,” Ricky admitted sheepishly. “And stewed prunes.”

  There were more nervous giggles. Prune is a dirty word in the lower grades.

  “Well, there you go. The solution is simple.” I paused dramatically. “Nobody stole Ricky's lunch. He forgot his lunch today. On purpose.”

  Ricky gasped and then looked like he was going to cry.

  “I did— and now I’m hungry!”

  “It’s okay Ricky.” I would slip him a granola bar. I had one in my belt-bag.

  “Wow, how did you know that?” Xander demanded.

  “If you had a lunch of bologna and onions, wouldn't you forget it at home?” And besides, Blue loved adulterated swine and beef products. If Ricky had so much as walked near a bologna sandwich, Blue would have been all over him when she sniffed his hands.

  “Impressive,” said Mr. Andrews. “Let’s give a round of applause to Officer Bill— er— Boston.”

  The children clapped with much more enthusiasm this time. I smiled at Mr. Andrews as I gathered up Office Bill’s head and said goodbye to the kids who were brave enough to come forward and talk to me and pet Blue. One child pressed a scrapbook of Officer Bill drawings into my hands. Obviously they had been done ahead of time. A quick glance told me we probably weren’t harboring any Renoirs in the grammar school, though I thought maybe a few of the kids should be in therapy. It had to be Xander who drew Officer Bill swinging from a tree.

  I snuck Ricky his granola bar and gave him a wink. I was rewarded with a toothy smile.

  And I smiled too. Officer Bill had gone to the school and not caused any panic or crying. The Chief would be pleased.

  My steps were lighter as I walked toward the parking lot and Blue pranced beside me, basking in the afterglow of the children’s attention. I wanted to know who Mr. Andrews was having the affair with. Not that I would necessarily do anything with the knowledge, but it’s good to know things and finding them out has always been so easy for me.

  A quick stop at the Lexus showed me crushed oyster shells in the tires. The white dust came from a private road on the east side of town. The road where Councilwoman Watts lived. Neither The Chief, nor my father, the former chief of police, thought much of her morals. Neither had Mr. Watts who left her six months ago. This might be something we could use later if the new principal continued to be mean to Mrs. Roberts. That’s the thing about a small town— we look after our own.

  “Come on, Blue. Let’s get some lunch.”

  Mostly what I do is based on logic, but sometimes I am nearly psychic. Precognitive even. Take Officer Bill. I had a strong premonition that Officer Bill was going to have another accident that afternoon on my way back to the station. And this time the head would be crushed completely, even if it meant driving over it a dozen times to make it happen.

  Blue woofed approvingly.

  Chapter 2

  The winter had been rather long and burdened with dead bodies, but spring had finally arrived. Which didn’t mean we couldn’t have cold weather or even other deaths, but that at least we woul
d have our frost and other losses decorated with tulips and daffodils and some of the world’s most exotic hyacinths.

  I was especially aware of the hyacinths because Mom and Aunt Dot were both entered in the Flowers of Spring Contest. It is an annual event to raise money for the community garden. As you have probably guessed, this year’s chosen flower is the hyacinth. Flower fever had been running high since right after Christmas when Mom and Dot began forcing bulbs, searching for that perfect entry. I had a few particularly pungent specimens on my front porch.

  I prefer pumpkins, but would never sneer at Mom’s endeavors in the world of bulbs and tubers. And I understand why she was experimenting so diligently. The hyacinth isn’t as hardy as the narcissus, but then few flowers are stalwart enough to push their way out of frozen ground and brave the winter snow in Hope Falls. And allowance must be made for the hyacinths superb scent and varied colors, but she still needed something that could be safely exhibited in a cold barn from Good Friday to Easter Sunday, when horticultural-minded citizens would stop in to see the flowers and cast a ballot for their favorite.

  If Mom had drawn the line at the flower show my Easter would be easy, but she had also signed Blue and I— and Aunt Dot, Rosemary and Althea— up for the Easter parade because they were short on bonneted heads this year and she felt tradition needed upholding.

  That meant I needed a bonnet. And since this was also a competition….

  Now, I wear hats. In the winter. Which, yes, maybe do make me look like a mushroom because they are brown and grey and cling to my head as knit caps are known to do. But I am a small person and I need a small hat. The Easter bonnets Mom was building out of chicken-wire would be nearly as wide as I am tall. And as for making Blue wear one, well, I already told her I wouldn’t do it. Instead Blue is getting an Easter collar with all the frills upon it, which Althea can put in a sonnet or not, as she chooses. Knowing Althea, she’d probably do it. Odes and Easter and a dog called Blue, it was inevitable.

  No help or sympathy would be had from Alex either, who was busy boiling and dying eggs in our kitchen for Sunday’s egg-hunts at Hurst Meadows by the old marble quarry. Alex, who is a freelance forensic anthropologist and usually very busy solving cybercrimes, had never dyed eggs before and he was fascinated enough to have gotten roped into the job by my father, who was on the Easter planning committee (the mayor always is). The eggs and dyes were all organic— boiled beats, carrot tops and onions skins and the like. And I couldn’t blame my new husband for not making waves. His mother was happy about the bonnets. His dad was happy that his mother was happy. My mother was happy about so many people wearing her bonnets and she had correspondingly higher chances of winning a prize for her millinery endeavors. I would try to be happy too.

  Easter is a big deal in Hope Falls. Partly because everyone is very happy about Christ being risen and saving us all, but also because it brings in a lot of tourists whose dollars are needed after the long winter of empty hotels and attractions like The Falls Recreational Facility. We have lovely bunny balloons to mark the occasion and cotton candy in a rainbow of colors, both of which are given to children on Good Friday. I missed the part in the Bible about balloons and cotton candy—and bonnets and hyacinths— but it’s fun and festive and we all love it. And if it brings joy, can it be wrong?

  The Easter drill goes much as follows:

  Church and/or breakfast involving lots of pastry

  Easter baskets, if you are under 10 or Alex

  Parade at 10 a.m. where bonnets are admired & a winner chosen (rain or shine— and there was 50-50 of being either so bonnets tended to be made of synthetic materials rather than the silk ribbons of old)

  1st egg hunt for the under 4s was at 11 (the field would be emptied by 11:30 and there would be time for volunteer bunnies like Alex to hide more eggs)

  2nd egg hunt at 12 (for 4-7 year olds)

  3rd egg hunt at 1 (for 8-10 year olds)

  1:30 p.m. winners of Flowers of Spring Contest announced in the old barn

  Then home to cook/consume dinner of ham or lamb (ham for us and I had convinced Mr. Jackman to make it since he is the better cook)

  Thaddeus Rabbit, our very own Easter Bunny, was available for pictures all day long. He was a roving ambassador of Easter spirit, handing out carrots and words of good cheer. I really like seeing Thaddeus in costume. He looks even hotter and dumber than Officer Bill. Though he wears his voluntarily and with a good heart, which should shame me.

  “You look nice,” Alex said, stepping out of the steamy kitchen.

  “Thank you.”

  I don’t wear much makeup on work days. I mean there is no way to accessorize the uniform and make it fashionable, so what you see first thing in the morning is pretty much what you get. Okay, the teeth are cleaner and the hair combed, but that’s about it.

  But it was Good Friday and a day off, so it seemed a nice time to spare some effort on my clothing. And Blue and I would walk downtown and get a balloon and cotton candy for Alex who was steaming himself over a hot stove. He would love that. It was something of a surprise to me still, but Alex really was a great big kid.

  “I’ll be back in about an hour,” I said.

  “I think I’ll be done by then,” Alex said, but sounded a little doubtful.

  The air was crisp and the sky a painful blue that made all the daffodils look like they were lit up from the inside. Blue and I both pranced along the sidewalk, enjoying the church bells and the children running about with their balloons. Every Easter— and only at Easter— Mundorff’s Sundries gets in special balloons that are clear on the outside, but inside have a second balloon shaped like a bunny’s head. Blue and I stopped at the card-table to pick up a balloon and then to wave at Mrs. Everett who was having a sale at her lingerie store, What Lies Beneath.

  Gepetto’s, our toy shop, was doing a booming business. They were selling matching bunny noses and ears in a variety of colors and both children and adults were getting into the spirit by wearing their bunny gear. It was odd how well even this simple costume could alter identity. I almost missed Mrs. Adams and Linda Stone though they were only a dozen feet away. Fortunately Blue saw them and said something so they didn’t feel slighted.

  Our next stop was the Morningside Inn where the cotton candy booth was in full production. Mr. Jackman and Mrs. Graves were there, but not in ears and noses. Though the cotton candy is free, there is a jar for donations to the food bank which Blue and I gladly contributed to.

  Mrs. Graves, who was the one actually spinning the candy onto the paper cones, was beginning to look a bit like Marie Antoinette as the spun sugar lofted up in the breeze and got caught in her hair net and began to spin itself higher and higher above her head.

  “You look like a fairy princess,” I told her and got a wry smile along with a blue cotton candy. “Blue says she can take care of that for you if you kneel down.”

  Blue woo-woo’ed a confirmation.

  “Very thoughtful, but I promised Ricky Redfern that I wouldn’t touch it until he could run home for his camera. He seems to feel that I would make good copy in the school newsletter.”

  “Will you be at the Lit Wits on Wednesday?” I asked. My own attendance had been spotty in recent weeks.

  “I suppose, though Tara Lee is being tiresome about reading poetry. I never thought I would say it, but I miss Althea. At least you could laugh at her stuff. Tara’s is just boring and impenetrable.”

  I chuckled. As we were talking, I noticed a woman who came out onto the screened porch of the inn and began scanning the crowds. She was striking because of her bright (and impossible) red hair and her drum tight face that was free of winkles but somehow made me think that she was older than she wanted anyone to believe. She did not seem to be taking in the pleasurable sights of Good Friday, but rather looking for someone with a high degree of worry and annoyance. At least as much worry as Botox would allow.

  The Morningside Inn caters to mostly upscale clients, but the people who
visit understand that the inn is located in the heart of the historic district with our authentic brick and cobble streets (basically they were pavers thrown down haphazardly to keep wagons getting mired in mud) and old wooden walkways which served the same purpose for pedestrians. Our other big attraction was Hope Falls, also known as The Other Falls, which is a forested wilderness. People choose their footwear accordingly. This bottled red-head had obviously not read the chamber of commerce brochure or visited the website where weather and terrain were discussed at length. Four inch, red leather, strappy sandals could only end in heartache— or broken ankles— if she left the hotel’s manicured grounds.

  Mr. Jackman noticed my staring at her feet and nodded slightly in agreement.

  “Her name is Rochelle Golightly. She’s here with her brother, Bobby.” I could tell from the reserve in Mr. Jackman’s voice that he was not a fan. “She may be okay, but the brother is an arrogant jackass. He’s been complaining about the children playing on the lawn.”

  This was strong language from the mild Mr. Jackman.

  “What kind of car do they drive?”

  “A black Escalade. It has a bumper sticker that says: If you love something set it free. If it returns then it’s yours. If it doesn’t return, hunt it down and kill it.”

  “Hm. I’ll watch for it.” I try not to ticket tourists unless they are egregious about their violations, but I would make an exception for anyone Mr. Jackman thought was a jackass.

  I spotted the school principal, Mr. Andrews, crossing the inn’s croquette field where a game was in progress. He did not seem overjoyed to see his students, sticky with cotton candy and higher than their helium balloons.

  “Speaking of jackasses,” I murmured and was not really surprised when he gave a toothsome smile to Rochelle Golightly or when he happened to meet up with Nadine Watts and casually decided, in a needlessly loud voice, to have breakfast at the inn. Really, I prefer it when people conform to my low expectations. Then I don’t have to wonder if I have misjudged them or why they are lying with words or deeds.