by Mike Ashley
“Old dear,” they said more than once, and she was sure she heard (with considerable relief) “kept the cannabis plants in the attic.” The men were using long forks to investigate the compost, which seemed to go down a very long way, a pit as well as a heap. Lily and Violet were so breathlessly absorbed that they almost missed the moment when a bright yellow figure detached itself from the main police group and hurtled towards them, brimming with news.
There was a certain etiquette in the flower world, a hierarchy involving – well, degrees of cultivation. And as no one ever cultivated a Celandine, she ranked pretty low down the budding order, a situation of which everyone but Celandine herself seemed perfectly aware. She was pushy – almost always the first on the scene – but just at the moment the others were agog for information. Besides, it was difficult to snub a fairy dressed in a frightfully short PVC coat of brilliant yellow, with matching boots whose practicality was more than mildly compromised by a series of geometric shapes cut out from their sides. Even Celandine, whose passion for satin was notorious, didn’t usually dress like this.
She was too full of news to waste more than a moment giggling at Violet and Lily and doing a little shimmy to emphasize her own deplorable costume.
“It’s the bloody compost,” she gasped, not waiting to get her breath back. “I’ve been around for ages . . .” (Lily and Violet shared a nod; typical Celandine pushiness) “. . .and the police have been going through the whole place since the old lady died and I’m sure it’s the bloody compost.”
“Don’t be silly, dear,” said Lily in her most managing voice. “We’ve all been nurtured on compost before – even you.”
“Yeah, but this stuff is really potent – gawd knows what’s gone into it. And old – really matured.”
“Compost is always old, Celly my sweet. That’s what makes it compost.”
Celandine grinned. For once she was in a position of power, and nobody was going to ruffle her petals.
“Not like this lot”, she said. “Not like this lot. The old lady took great pride in her natural garden.” (Lily bristled – she wasn’t at all sure she appreciated being called natural.)
“Natural, wild and just a bit on the weird side. Bit witchy.”
“Oh, Lord, not human magic – that’s oxymoronic,” breathed Violet.
“Naw – not magic but just a mite outside the norm. She’d been brewing that compost heap for nearly forty years. Ever since, they’ve suddenly remembered, her husband disappeared.”
Unpleasant trains of thought were interrupted by a low whistle from the crime-scene policeman, and a cry of “Got something, Sarge!”
The fairies, trusting in their collective invisibility, tiptoed forward to where the compost heap had been methodically raked out onto the path. Down beneath it were some whitish fragments that were undoubtedly bone – when you started off in the earth, you could be relied upon to recognize things like that. And human? Well, yes. The shape of the skull was still discernible, but what really gave it away were the fragments of clothing that the body had once worn. Metal survived best – the remains of a watch were visible, now pulled to one side by the policemen’s rake. And beneath where it had been was the fragile husk of an enamel badge, still retaining enough of its once lurid colour to allow Lily to distinguish the slogan “Flower Power”.
SPOILED ROTTEN
Grey Rollins
I was nearly to the top of the stairs when the phone started ringing. If I could hear it, surely Martin could, but it just kept ringing.
Stair steps are not a problem for most humans. For me, however, they present somewhat of a challenge as my legs are only six inches long. There’s nothing wrong with my legs, mind you, they’re attractive, well proportioned, and eminently functional. They simply happen to be one-sixth as long as Martin’s legs.
I grunted myself over the top step and began to hurry forward. It was a futile gesture, since I still had to cover a good thirty feet to get to the phone. The answering machine was set to pick up after the fourth ring, and I had already counted three.
The answering machine clicked when I was still ten feet from the door. Martin’s voice came on, informing the caller that he wasn’t available at the moment, but would be glad to discuss their case with them if they would leave their name and number at the tone.
My prehensile tongue is far more useful for manipulating things than my weak vestigial arms, so I wrapped a couple of turns around the doorknob and twisted, leaning into the wood beneath the frosted glass with the arched black lettering that spelled out MARTIN CROFTS, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. One of these days, I’m going to get him to put my name up there, too.
“Martin?” I called as soon as I nudged the door shut behind me. I got no answer.
Without bothering to replay the message, I removed the tape from the answering machine and dropped it into a cassette player, which I took into the inner sanctum.
Sure enough, Martin was draped over his office chair as though every bone in his body had melted. A portrait of my best human friend by Salvador Dali might appear thus.
The cassette player I placed on the window ledge, less than a foot behind his ear, ran the volume slider all the way up, and punched the play button.
“Hello, this is . . .”
Martin attempted to practise levitation.
He failed.
As soon as his weight left the seat, the return springs snapped the chair into an upright position. Martin, coming down, met the chair coming up. Neither won. Planes crash with less commotion than Martin made falling out of his chair.
He glared up at me from the floor. “Victor, say your prayers. You just shortened your life expectancy by a few centuries.”
“If you had answered the phone, there wouldn’t have been a message on the answering machine.”
“Phone?” asked Martin, genuinely confused. “I must have fallen asleep.”
This was such a masterful piece of understatement that I was at a loss for a properly scathing reply. “They left a message,” was the best I could do.
Martin was still a step or two behind. “Why didn’t you answer it, Victor?”
I mustered what patience I could and replied, as though to a child, “Because you asked me to take out the trash, remember?”
Unfortunately, my ways are known. An evil gleam appeared in Martin’s eye. “You wouldn’t have stopped for a snack, would you?”
“Me?” I feigned innocence.
He painfully disentangled himself from the wreckage of his chair. “I wish you ate normal food. Then we wouldn’t have this problem.”
Martin has trouble accepting the fact that food he would toss into the trash can in disgust is something that is just barely ripe by my standards. There’s no delicacy on my home world that can match the taste of a two-week-old fast food burger that’s been soaked with rain.
“I do eat normal food. You’re the one with disgusting habits. Imagine all the nuances of flavour that are revealed as the food decomposes. Think of what you’re missing.”
“I’d rather not, if you don’t mind,” he growled. “I prefer mine fresh. You ought to try it that way sometime.”
“Blech!” I spat, coiling my tongue into a corkscrew shape. “Fresh food is bad for you – I can prove it.”
“What?” he squawked in disbelief.
“Your uncle ate fresh food. I ate properly-aged food. I outlived him. The conclusion is self-evident.”
“He probably died of a heart attack while watching you eat roadkill,” Martin muttered.
“Don’t talk like that . . . you’re making me hungry.”
Martin turned pale. “Me and my big mouth. We’ll go by the sandwich shop over on Third tonight, but I’m going inside and having real food, not leftovers.”
“I wouldn’t count on it. You don’t have enough money to buy an ice cube, let alone the drink to float it in.”
He scowled at me and punched the playback button.
“Hello, this is Cal . . .”
Martin jumped for the volume slider, running it down to a more tolerable setting.
“. . . Rosen.” He gave a number where we could reach him, then hung up.
“Short, sweet, and to the point,” I observed.
Martin’s brows furrowed, looking like two black, fuzzy worms bowing to each other. “You’d think he’d at least have said what it was about.”
“I can suggest a way to find out,” I said. I handed the phone to him and dialed the number that Rosen had given. “Talk to the man.”
“Did you have to dial with your tongue?” Martin hissed. He whipped out his handkerchief and began wiping the phone.
“It’ll dry,” I assured him.
He started to say something about crusty buttons, but Rosen answered and he left the thought unfinished. They spoke only briefly. Martin hung up and looked at me. “Put the tape back in the answering machine. We’re going to see him.”
Cal Rosen lived downtown in a swank high-rise. Everything about the building breathed affluence. The only thing it didn’t have was sufficient parking space for visitors. Martin finally found a spot four blocks away.
After unravelling me from the seat belt, he gently deposited me on the ground, then began to stride purposefully down the sidewalk, as though to distance himself from the rusting hulk in which we had arrived. You’d think he’d buy a new car, but he was more comfortable hating the one he already had.
I looked from Martin’s retreating back to the still open car door, then again at Martin’s back. Grumbling maledictions under my breath, I leaned against the door and pushed. It wouldn’t budge. I heaved against it again. The hinges protested loudly, then, with a tortured squeal, they reluctantly gave way and the door slammed shut.
And I fell flat on my face on the sidewalk.
An obese woman was approaching with a Chihuahua on a leash. Being prone, my one eye was about on a level with the two bulging eyes of the dog. It stared – I glared back.
Chihuahuas are genetically limited to one response to all stimuli; it began to dance in nervous circles and bark. The high-pitched yipping was annoying enough, but having the creature engage in a war dance was adding insult to injury.
With great difficulty, I pushed myself to my feet. The wretched creature went into a frenzy; its toenails clicked and skritched on the concrete. My wish that it would have a sudden seizure and die went unfulfilled.
The woman was determined to give me as wide a berth as the available width of sidewalk allowed. The Chihuahua, however, had other ideas. It lunged, jerking the end of the leash from the woman’s hand.
Once, while trying to recover a stolen painting for Owen Kent, Martin and I dealt with a particularly vicious guard dog – a Rottweiler. Its bark would easily have intimidated the hound of the Baskervilles. I took a deep breath and let loose a replica of that dog’s bark. Having a tympanum as a speech organ does have the occasional advantage.
The Chihuahua shrieked in terror and collapsed on the sidewalk, completely unnerved. A yellow puddle began to gather under its hindquarters as it cowered.
“Oh, Maximilian!” the woman cried, wringing her doughy hands. Then she turned on me angrily. “How could you?”
“Just enforcing the leash law, ma’am,” I replied, and started off after Martin, leaving her to decide how best to put the pygmy pest out of its misery.
“Take the scenic route?” Martin inquired facetiously when I finally came huffing up behind him.
“You overgrown hairless baboon,” I snapped, “you didn’t close the car door. It took three men and a scantily clad young lady to help me push it closed.” I kicked his ankle, which is about as high as I can easily kick. “Pick me up, you beast. I wore my legs out catching up with you.”
He cocked his head as though to assess the veracity of my statement. “Yup. Only six inches left. If I made you walk all the way to Rosen’s building, you’d arrive on nubs the size of my thumb. It would serve you right . . . I saw you bullying that Chihuahua.”
“Bullying! It attacked me! I never laid a hand on it.”
“You probably caused the poor thing permanent psychological damage. I ought to make you go back and apologize.”
“Quit picking on me, you ugly, two-eyed monster.”
“I never laid a hand on you.”
He had come full circle and snared me in a completely logical trap. Martin is not usually so devious as that. I was angry at letting myself be outwitted so I stomped on, determined to make it on my own, even if my legs were the size of his thumbs when I arrived. I had not gone more than ten paces when he swooped me up under his arm like an elongated football.
I started to protest, simply as a matter of honor, but thought better of it. If nothing else, being carried put me safely out of reach of psychotic Chihuahuas.
With his longer strides, we were soon at Rosen’s building. I caught one swaying glimpse of the doorman as we passed. He seemed amused as he touched the tips of his fingers to the brim of his cap. “Good mo’nin’, Cap’n.”
The D-shaped metal handle on the thick glass door caught my right leg as we went through, giving me a sharp crack on the knee. Martin, not being aware of this, placed me on the floor in front of the security desk when he stopped to give his name to the guard on duty. I immediately began to topple as my leg collapsed. The only way to save myself from falling was to catch Martin’s leg for support.
Unlike humans, who prefer to use vowel sounds, my species tends to use a buzzing noise. Thus, when I gave voice to a muted, “Uhzzzzz . . .”, the guard looked down, saw my tongue around Martin’s leg, and blanched.
“Is that a snake?” he asked, horrified.
Martin belatedly noticed that I was listing to starboard. He reached down and grabbed the top of my tapered head. “What’s wrong, Victor?”
Over the sound of my suffering, I superimposed my voice. “I think my leg is broken.”
Martin picked me up, cradling me like an infant. Under the guard’s cross-eyed stare, he proceeded to examine my leg, which was already beginning to swell. He prodded and poked, flexed and turned, while I hummed and buzzed under my breath. He does not have what one would call a delicate touch, but he is thorough to a fault.
“It’s just bruised.”
“Feels like broken glass,” I assured him.
He went back to his examination. After eliciting several more varieties of verbal agony from me, he said, “Don’t think so, little buddy.” He then frowned at me. “How did you manage to hurt your leg?”
Martin is not malicious, just careless, so I did not berate him for not opening the door further. “The door got me,” I said simply. To the guard, still staring, I said, “We have an appointment with Cal Rosen.”
The clerk looked from me to something on the desk, then back up at Martin, as though he had spoken instead of me. “Yes, I see it here. He called down and left word a little while ago. You’re to go right up.”
Once inside the elevator, Martin asked, “Can you stand?”
“I’d rather not. It hurts quite badly.”
The doors hissed open on the fortieth floor, revealing a hall with thick carpet and unnecessarily busy wallpaper. “Ugh,” I said. “I’m sure it’s just that I’m seeing it sideways, but it appears that the interior decorator should be drawn and quartered.”
“It’s no better seeing it upright,” Martin assured me. “Listen, you’re starting to get heavy. Are you sure you can’t walk?”
“My knee is the size of an apple – twice its normal size. Can’t you see the little lightning bolts coming out of it, like they do in the comics?”
“Well, yeah, it is a little swollen,” he admitted. He shifted me from one arm to the other. “Are you sure you haven’t gained weight?”
“Martin, I’m on the verge of starvation. I’ve only eaten twice in the last nine days.”
“I know, but that’s normal for you.”
“True, but I could get you convicted of cruelty to animals if I acted pitiful enough.
”
“Ah, ha!” Martin crowed. “So you’re finally admitting you’re an animal? The way you barked at that Chihuahua, I’m sure we could get you registered with the AKC.”
Uh oh. “I think I want my lawyer present before this conversation goes any further,” I grumbled.
A middle-aged couple approached. The woman caught sight of me and said, “Oh, look, Hubert! A banana with legs. How cute!”
“Ain’t got but one eye, Martha. What good is a critter with only one eye?”
“You mean it’s alive?” she asked, turning to him in wonder. They continued to debate the pros and cons of a monocular pet as they waited for the elevator.
“The sooner we get out of here, the better,” I groused.
“Patience,” Martin counseled. “We still have a fee to earn.”
The security guard must have told Rosen that we were coming, for his door popped open as soon as we got to it. “Martin Crofts?” he asked.
“Yes.” He deftly swung me around so that I could face Rosen from a more-or-less standing position, while still cradled in his arm. “And this is Victor. He’s my partner.”
“I didn’t know that you had a . . . partner.”
Martin nodded into the apartment. “Shouldn’t we discuss your problem inside?”
Rosen took the hint. He stood aside and said, “Come in, please.”
Martin nodded. “Now,” he said after the door was closed, “what can we do for you?”
Rosen licked his lips nervously. He looked at Martin. He looked at me. He looked back at Martin. He licked his lips again. “Um, where do I start?”
Martin said, “Just start at the beginning and we’ll ask questions as we go along.”
He nodded nervously. “Yes, I suppose so.” He turned and walked to a chair near the window as though to sit, then thought better of it and stood facing out with his hands clasped behind his back. “Candice, that’s my ex-wife, brought over Alice on Friday afternoon. Alice was to stay the weekend . . .”
“Excuse me, but who is Alice?” Martin asked, moving closer.