Loonies

by Gregory Bastianelli

  The story on the Women’s Garden Club tour and Rolfe Krimmer’s Boston Post Cane award went inside as planned. That meant Brian wouldn’t get the name of the mysterious flower sender from Mrs. Picklesmeir. It was a shame. If an anonymous woman was indeed the mother of one of those babies, it would be imperative to find her. Brian would have to tell Noah about it. Maybe under the guise of a police investigation, the crotchety woman would divulge her information.

  Brian decided against putting anything in the paper about the lynching of Marshall. The more he thought about it, the more he chalked it up as a firehouse prank, despite the odd reaction Simon Runck had to the strangulation of his dummy. Whatever it was, it didn’t seem like something that belonged in a news story.

  There was commotion by the front desk, and Brian looked through his office windows to see Capt. Steem and Sgt. Wickwire talking to Beverly Crump. She directed the State Police officers toward his office, and Brian waved them in.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” Brian said.

  “I’m sure,” Steem grunted, removing his hat and settling in a seat in front of Brian’s desk. Wickwire stood by the door, rigid. He didn’t remove his hat.

  “What can I do for you? Paper’s already gone to press. No chance for any last minute quotes.”

  “Can’t wait to see it,” Steem said, wiping beads of sweat from his bald head with his bare hand. “No air conditioning in here?”

  “Not one of the luxuries the paper can afford. These are tough economic times for the newspaper industry.”

  “Well, nothing like a good arson and murder story to pump up circulation.”

  Brian chuckled at that. “This newspaper sells to the same number of people no matter if the front page features the Fishing Derby results or a UFO abduction. I’m just glad I have something newsworthy to publish.” He smiled. “Now what brings you here?” He wondered if Noah told them about the discovery of the glass eyeball.

  “Noah tells me you have a photo from the fire scene with Ruth Snethen in it.”

  “Yes,” Brian said. “I didn’t know it was her, but my receptionist identified her to me.”

  “I’d like a copy of the picture,” Steem said, his tone demanding. “In fact, I’d like copies of all your pictures from the fire scene for evidence.”

  Brian leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his head, thinking how to approach this request. “You still haven’t found nurse Snethen?”

  “Not a trace.” Steem’s brow furrowed. “We discovered she was living at a retirement complex out on Twistback Road, but she hasn’t been at the place for several days.”

  “Since the fire?”

  “Exactly.” Steem seemed hesitant to answer. “But we don’t have any pictures of the woman, so we’d like a copy of yours.” He leaned forward. “If that isn’t a problem.”

  Brian didn’t want to hand over copies of the picture without taking advantage of the opportunity it provided. He placed his hands on his desk, pretending to rummage through some papers. Steem looked impatient. Wickwire was emotionless behind him, a statue.

  “I don’t see any problem cooperating with the authorities,” Brian said. “As long as I know they will co-operate with the media as well.”

  “I could get a subpoena,” Steem said.

  “I’m sure you could, though I see no need for that. I’m asking for mutual cooperation. Just keep an open line with me on developments in the case. That’s not much to ask.”

  “I keep Chief Treece informed,” Steem shot back. Then he hesitated. “I supposed I can pass information along to you.”

  Brian spread his hands wide. “That’s all I’m asking. I’m not looking for special treatment.”

  “Of course you are. You want details that I don’t give out in statements to the press.”

  “I guess if you put it that way. Yes. I’d like to think, since I’m the only media representative in this town, that I get some kind of—let’s say, home-field advantage.” He smiled.

  Steem did not smile back. “I guess that’s only fair,” he said.

  “Very good,” Brian said, getting into his computer picture folder and bringing up the photo of Ruth Snethen on his screen. He turned it around for Steem to see. “Here’s the picture of Snethen.” He pointed to the gray-haired woman on the screen. “I can burn a disc of all the pictures for you.”

  “Great,” Steem said.

  Brian rummaged through his desk for a blank disc and had trouble finding one.

  “Need one of these?” Beverly Crump said, standing at his door, holding up a computer disc.

  “Thanks, Bev.”

  She handed the disc to Wickwire, who in turn handed it to Steem, who passed it along to Brian, who put it into his computer and began downloading the files.

  While it was burning, he leaned back and looked at the impatient Capt. Steem, who wiped more sweat off the top of his scalp. “Now there are a couple things I’m interested in.”

  “Such as?” Steem looked irritated.

  “I was wondering if you had located the housekeeper? And what her name is.”

  “Hettie Gritton,” Steem said.

  Brian grabbed a pen and jotted the name down. “And have you talked to her?”

  “No.”

  Brian looked up from his notepad. “Because?”

  “We can’t locate her either.”

  Brian sat upright. “Hmm. Since when?”

  “We only discovered her name yesterday. She lives alone in a house out on Fogg Road. Nobody home when we’ve gone to the place. No one answers calls to the house.”

  Brian remembered her leaving the night he went to the Mustard House. “Her car?”

  “In the driveway.”

  “That is strange.” The computer file finished copying, and Brian popped the disc out. He held it to Steem. An image popped into Brian’s head of a faceless Dr. Wymbs. “One other thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “There was something covering Dr. Wymbs’ face when they pulled his body out of the fire. What was it?”

  Steem’s face grew rigid. He plucked the disc from Brian’s fingers and held it over his shoulder; Wickwire stepped forward and took it. “That I’m afraid I can’t answer.” He got up from the chair. “And I expect you to cooperate with us if you come across anything in your journalistic inquiries.”

  It was a statement Brian thought would be accompanied by a sarcastic grin, but Steem’s face showed no such thing. Brian thought about the notes he had received from the mysterious Silhouette, the anonymous flowers left on his doorstep, and the glass eyeball found in the Somnambulist’s pocket. “Of course,” he said to Steem, smiling.

  The State Police captain turned to go.

  “Oh, there is one thing,” Brian said.

  Steem halted and turned back.

  “The assistant fire chief’s ventriloquist’s dummy was found hanging at the station from a noose made from a fire hose.” Brian shrugged his shoulders. “Not sure what that could mean. I didn’t know if you were aware of it.”

  “Of course I’m aware of that. Not much in this town gets by me. But I have no interest in a firehouse prank”

  Wickwire actually cracked the only smile during his silent visit.

  “Then I guess I have nothing more,” Brian said. “But I’ll keep cooperating if anything else comes up.”

  The two men left.

  Brian left the office when he received confirmation the printer had all the pages set and was ready to roll. Bev had long since gone, and he locked up and went to where his car was parked out front. There were employee parking spaces behind the office building, but Brian often found it more convenient to park in the two-hour-limit spaces in front. The police never bothered to ticket his car, and he appreciated that. Brian saw the envelope under his windshield wiper as he approached and smiled, knowing what it was. He had hoped he would hear from his pen pal again.

  He looked around, wondering if his mysterious ally was nearby, waiting to see him find the note. M
aybe he was watching Brian right now. He gazed down Hemlock Street, past the pub and the police station, alert for someone concealed in a doorway or alley. Nobody. Looking over his shoulder, back toward Main Street, he saw a few people on the sidewalk. Rolfe Krimmer was standing near the vacant cinema, Sister Bernice was walking into Wigland’s, and a gray-haired woman was picking through baskets of fruit displayed outside of Wibbels Fruit Market and Real Estate. The woman slipped a couple apples into the pocket of her housedress and walked off.

  Nobody paid Brian any attention, but he couldn’t help the feeling in his gut that eyes were watching him.

  He grabbed the envelope, noting the same black ink lettering and dark smudges. His heart beat faster. He wanted to light a cigarette to calm down but didn’t want to waste time. He opened it and pulled the note out.

  How much do you know about the puppet master?

  The Silhouette

  He stared at the words. Obviously it referred to Assistant Fire Chief Simon Runck, the only person Brian knew of in town who had a puppet. So maybe the hanging of the dummy was more than a prank. He pictured Marshall, hanging from the noose, eyes wide open. Brian thought about Runck, leaning over the body, reaching his hand up, and closing its eyes.

  Eyes.

  What color were Marshall’s eyes?

  Brian realized why he thought he was being watched. He turned around toward Main Street and saw what was watching him—the eyes in the window of the taxidermist shop. Racks of eyes of all different colors and sizes.

  Of course, he thought.

  He sprinted across the street to the police station, glad to find Noah still there. Wanda greeted him, and he went right to the chief’s office, pausing in the open door frame to catch his breath. Noah looked at him quizzically.

  “What color are Marshall’s eyes?” Brian managed between gasps.

  Noah looked at him as if he had two heads. “What are you talking about?”

  Brian tossed the note onto the chief’s desk. “The puppet. It has glass eyes.”

  Noah picked up the note and read it, lifting his eyes over the paper to look up at Brian. “And you think the eye the Somnambulist found belongs to Marshall?”

  “Why not?”

  “But he had both his eyes when we saw him the other night.”

  Brian thought for a minute. “So? Runck might keep spares just in case.”

  “In case he loses an eye?”

  “Maybe. Can we check? Where’s Marshall now?”

  Noah grinned. “That might be a bit difficult.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s been buried.”

  “Buried? As in a grave?”

  “Funeral was earlier today.”

  “Does anybody realize that thing wasn’t a human being?”

  Noah shrugged. “It was what Simon Runck wanted. He seemed to feel that Marshall was really gone. Maybe he was just looking for a chance to get separation from his act.”

  Brian arched his eyebrows. “Or maybe he was just trying to hide evidence.”

  Noah contemplated this. “I suppose.”

  “Where is he buried?”

  “There’s a spot out behind the town cemetery, where people bury their pets and stuff.” He looked up at Brian. “I suppose you want me to dig him up?”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  The chief opened a desk drawer and pulled out the plastic bag containing the blue glass eye. “I’d rather wait till dark. I don’t want anyone seeing us do this. Go home. I’ll pick you up in a couple hours. And bring a flashlight.”

  The town graveyard was on Cemetery Road, which branched off Fogg Lane. Treece drove through the gate, going slowly past rows of tombstones. He stopped before one grave and shone a light on the headstone.

  “Timmy Birtch’s mother,” the chief said.

  Brian scanned the dates on the headstone. The woman was only forty. “What happened to her?”

  “Chief Pfefferkorn said she never got over Timmy’s disappearance. She slipped into depression. Her health faded. Drinking, drugs.” Noah shook his head. “A downward spiral from the night she woke up and her little boy was missing from his bed.” He turned to Brian. “A couple years after she died, Pfefferkorn retired. I think he felt he let her down.”

  “A shame,” Brian said, still looking at the woman’s grave.

  “It sometimes seems like the town’s forgotten about her and Timmy. That’s the real shame. I’ve come by here a few times and brought flowers for her grave. My way of keeping the two of them relevant.”

  Noah put the car back in gear and drove forward, parking the police car in a rutted lane before the last row of gravestones. They both got out and, flashlights and spade shovels in hand, walked past the tombstones to a clearing beyond them. The night was warm. A three-quarter yellow moon was embedded in a thick blanket of clouds.

  The beams from their lights bobbed along the ground, and Brian could see small, white wooden crosses. A chill crept up his spine, despite the warm night, and he shivered. Both men were silent, and the night was as well, except for the soft crunching of grass beneath their shoes.

  Noah led the way. Brian followed close behind but kept glancing around at the markings on either side of him. He bumped into Noah before realizing the chief had stopped.

  “Here,” Noah finally said, pointing his beam at a wooden cross. The name “Marshall” was printed in black marker.

  Brian thought about the dummy’s cackling laugh and decided that if he heard it coming from the grave, he was going to drop the shovel and run like hell.

  They bent and removed the loose sod from the burial spot. They set their flashlights down, beams pointing at the grave, and began digging. No words were exchanged as they flung shovelfuls of dirt onto a pile beside the grave.

  Brian heard someone call out “Who,” and he stopped dead in his tracks, a pile of dirt on his spade. He looked behind him at the woods beyond the cemetery. His heart thudded. Was someone watching them? The sound repeated, and he realized it was an owl. Who? he thought. Us, that’s who. Just a couple of grave robbers.

  There was a thunk. Noah had struck wood.

  The two of them scraped dirt away in silence until a tiny dark pine coffin was revealed. Brian’s first thought was to wonder how much the casket had cost, and if it had been worth it for Simon to get rid of his sidekick.

  “Here goes nothing,” Noah said, no trace of a grin as he pulled open the casket.

  Moonlight cast a glow into it. The dummy looked stiff, dark hair neatly combed, lips shut (thank god), and eyes closed. Brian’s skin crawled, the hair on his arms tingling.

  Noah pulled the plastic bag out of his pocket, looking at the eyeball inside. He glanced at Brian, who nodded and kept his flashlight trained on the dummy’s face. Noah bent and pulled the puppet’s right eyelid open.

  The blue eyeball stared up at them, and Brian grew cold, feeling as if it could really see the two of them. No, him. It was looking past Noah and directly at him. With just the one eye open, the dummy appeared to be winking. (I know what you’re doing.) He felt the urge to flick the flashlight off and plunge the coffin into darkness. But that might be even worse. Because in the darkness, he might hear it move, trying to climb out of the casket.

  Hurry, Brian thought. And let’s get the hell out of here.

  Noah held the glass eye in the bag and placed it beside the dummy’s eye.

  It was a perfect match.

  Chapter 7

  CONFESSION TO A CRIME

  Noah and Brian steeled away from the burial field beyond the cemetery, with Marshall’s wooden corpse in hand, cradled in the arms of the police chief as if it were a young child. Brian followed behind, carrying the shovels and flashlights.

  “Whooo,” called the owl from the woods one last time.

  Brian stopped and turned to look at the dark trees bathed in shadows. Us, he thought, that’s who.

  Back at the police station, Noah decided to contact Capt. Steem, despite Brian’s objections.
“It’s his investigation,” Noah said, “and this is a possible development.”

  Brian was frustrated. “It could be your investigation too.” But he knew it fell on deaf ears.

  “That’s not how it works.”

  When Steem and Wickwire showed up, they were not too pleased with Chief Treece. Brian sat outside the chief’s office, watching through the glass. Steem was loud enough that the closed door had little effect on keeping the conversation private and at one point Brian saw the State Police captain point out the office window toward him but only heard the words “this asshole.”

  He felt bad for Noah, who looked like a cowering school boy being reprimanded by the principal. It was almost lost on Brian how young Noah was. Christ, he was still in his twenties. He had taken a head position in a small town that was probably beyond his experience level if not for the fact that the size and location of the town made it an easily manageable job. No one could have expected events of this magnitude happening in Smokey Hollow.

  When Wickwire came out and motioned for Brian to join them, he hesitated, worried he’d get the same treatment, but then realized he didn’t work for them. What could they do to him?

  Inside the office, Steem glared at him.

  “Mutual cooperation, huh?” he said.

  Brian looked at him perplexed.

  “You kept those anonymous notes from us?”

  Brian cast a sour glance at Noah, who shrugged apologetically.

  “Of course he had to tell us,” Steem said, reading his thoughts. “What other reason would he have to dig up the stupid puppet?“

  “Look,” Brian said, stammering a bit. “I was trying to protect a newspaper source.”

  “But you told the town police chief about it,” Steem shot back.

  He had him there. Brian just shook his head. “I haven’t been working in town that long. I needed some help.”

  “And you have no idea who these notes came from?”

  Brian shook his head. “Of course not.”

  Steem huffed. He turned to face Noah. “Well, let’s go pick up Simon Runck and bring him in for questioning.”