by Nic Saint
“No, you’re right about that,” Edie agreed.
“The important thing is that we slew the dragon,” said Stien, yawning.
It’s a miracle how, in spite of the fact that we’re not exactly the most capable witches in the world, we still manage to stay alive and defeat the bad guys. I don’t know how we do it, but apparently Gran does, and I’m sure she lends us a helping hand when it’s needed. She’s not just our grandmother, but also our guardian angel.
I also yawned. “I think I’m turning in, you guys. I’m beat.”
“Me too,” said Stien, having trouble keeping her eyes open.
“Yeah, me, too,” confirmed Edie.
And thus ended our merman adventure. And as we took the stairs and headed to our respective rooms, I said, “Goodnight, Stien. Goodnight, Edie.”
“Goodnight, Strel. Goodnight, Edie,” said Ernestine.
Edie waved and staggered into her room. “Goodnight, John Boy.”
I wanted to point out my name was Strel, but I was too tired to tell her.
Chapter 31
Sam listened intently, and then grimaced. “Christ,” he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. “This is getting worse and worse by the minute.”
He disconnected and stalked into the interrogation room the Happy Bays Police Department had so graciously put at their disposal. It was also the only interrogation room in the building, as the HBPD rarely needed to interview more than one perp at any one time. Happy Bays wasn’t exactly a crime-ridden slum, and the fact that all these murders had taken place was no doubt a blot on the reputation of this small and bucolic little town.
Officer Scattering had gone out of his way to assist them, and even the chief of police, Curtis Whitehouse, had proven most helpful to his big city colleagues. Inside the interrogation room Pierre was already seated with Orrick Fibril, while Karie Nelson cooled her heels in a holding cell.
“So,” Sam said the moment he entered. “Why did you do it, Fibril?”
The gardener looked up from his perusal of his dirty fingernails, and raised an eyebrow. “Sir?”
“Why did you kill all those people?” he asked.
The gardener looked confused. “What people?”
Sam slammed the table. “Don’t play games with me, Fibril. We found your fingerprints all over the bodies.” He placed his cell phone on the table, depicting a few of the more gruesome shots his men had made of the body parts they’d unearthed so far. “Salina Brevity, Richard Dogwood and Harry Jowitt. You and Karie Nelson killed them and I want to know why.”
“I just buried them, sir,” said the gardener. “I didn’t kill them.”
He frowned at the man. “And you really want me to believe that?”
“It’s the truth, sir. Karie and I, we simply did as we were told.”
“Who told you to bury those bodies?”
“Well, Mr. Brevity told us to bury the first one. The rest we did on our own initiative.”
“Brevity told you to…” He grimaced. “I don’t get it. So who killed them?”
“Why, Mr. Brevity, sir.”
“Brevity… killed his own wife and his two friends?”
“Yes, sir,” said the gardener. “That’s exactly what he did.”
Sam took a seat. His legs were a little wobbly. He was running on fumes by now. Pierre pushed a mug of steaming hot coffee in his direction and he accepted it gratefully, then took an invigorating swig of the piping hot brew.
"All right," he said at length. "Take me through this cockamamie story of yours, Fibril. You're telling me Brevity killed his own wife?"
“Yes, sir.”
“Why the hell would he do that? He just got married!”
The gardener heaved a deep sigh. “Well, I’m sure Karie will be better placed than I am to tell you the whole story, sir, as she was there when it happened. I was in the garden watering the camellias and dead-heading the lilies. If you don’t do that you don’t get as nice a quality of flower the next—”
“Forget, for a moment, about the flowers, Fibril. Just what happened?”
“Well, Karie called me in to deal with Mr. Brevity. He was distraught.”
“Why?”
“He’d just beaned his wife with a hatchet, sir.”
“A hatchet, huh?”
“Yes, sir. He was still clasping the fatal instrument in his hand when I came upon him. Blood all over the place, sir. Karie had a right tough job cleaning it all up. Been splattered all over the furniture, sir.”
“You… cleaned it all up. Didn’t it occur to you to call the police?”
“No, sir. Karie and I take our responsibilities very serious, sir. Mr. Brevity is—was—our employer and our loyalty is—was—toward him. Sir.”
Sam stared at the man, hardly believing his ears. “Go on,” he muttered.
“Well, once Mr. Brevity had taken a sip of brandy, he told us to get rid of the body. So we did just that. As it happened I had a couple of bags of cement in the shed, to pour that pavilion Mrs. Brevity was so keen on, so I decided to use that. Did a nice and clean job, too. Mr. Brevity was extremely pleased.”
Sam squeezed his eyes shut and heaved a soft groan. “Go on,” he said.
“Yeah, why cement, Fibril?” asked Pierre, shuffling in his seat.
The gardener shrugged. “Best way I know of to get rid of bodies, sir.”
At this point, Pierre leaned in, and whispered, “I did some digging, and turns out our gardener used to work as a henchman for the Bandini family.”
Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Bandini as in Giuseppe Bandini? The mobster?”
Pierre nodded. "His specialty was getting rid of bodies by drowning them in cement. He served a couple of years in Sing Sing when the Bandinis were ratted out by Giuseppe's favorite cousin Joey, and took a gardening course when he got out. Career reorientation."
He saw all now. Brevity killed his wife, and Fibril, used to working for less than honorable figures, simply did as he was told and disposed of the body the only way he knew how: by using his time-honored method.
“Okay, all right,” he said. “Now tell me about those other guys.”
“Well, that’s a bit of a mystery, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I don’t know who killed who, sir.”
“Whom,” muttered Pierre, who was a stickler for proper grammar.
“I don’t get it. What do you mean you don’t know who killed who?”
“Whom…”
“Well, I was in the garden when it happened, cutting back the lovage and the hyssop. You’d be surprised how many new leaves you get when you—”
“Just… tell us what happened, all right?”
“Well, when Karie and I walked into the kitchen, we found three bodies, all with hatchets in their heads. As far as I can tell, they all killed each other, sir, though the exact order in which they did was very hard to tell.”
“So you’re telling me Brevity, Dogwood and Jowitt killed each other with hatchets?”
“Yes, sir.”
“But then why did you dispose of the bodies of Dogwood and Jowitt?”
“We didn’t want to see Mr. Brevity implicated in a crime, sir,” said the loyal gardener. “So we decided to give Mr. Dogwood and Mr. Jowitt the same treatment we gave Mrs. Brevity and then call the police.”
“And you also wiped the hatchet lodged in Mr. Brevity’s head?”
“Of course, sir. We didn’t want to implicate Mr. Brevity’s friends.”
He rubbed his eyes. God, what a nightmare. And the weird thing was that he was inclined to believe the bozo. He seemed entirely too dumb to invent such an elaborate and fantastical story.
“All right,” he said, getting up. “I think it’s time we talked to Nelson.”
“Yes, sir,” said the gardener, who didn’t look sorry about what he’d done. “So can I go now, sir? I promised Mrs. Beadsmore I’d prune her rambling roses and collect her ripened seed. I’m sure she’
d hate to see it go to waste.”
“No, you cannot go now!” he yelled, pounding the table again. “You just confessed to being an accomplice to three murders!”
“Not an accomplice, sir,” he pointed out. “I merely did some cleaning up.”
"Well, I'm pretty sure that's punishable by law," he told the guy, though he was so tired he couldn't think straight. The only thing he knew was that Fibril had destroyed evidence, and was an accessory to a crime, even though the main culprit was dead and couldn't be asked to share his side of the story.
A few minutes later, Karie Nelson was escorted into the small interrogation room, and it soon became clear that her story was either well-prepared in conjunction with the gardener’s, or they were both telling the truth, as crazy as the tale sounded.
“So you chopped up the bodies and drowned them in cement?” he asked.
“No, Sam,” said Nelson. “Orrick chopped up the bodies and we both drowned them in cement. I could never bring myself to cut up bodies like that, but Orrick seemed fine with it. Probably on account of the fact that he’s a gardener,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“All right,” he said, holding up his hand. “So Orrick chopped up the bodies. How did he do that, exactly?”
“He used the chainsaw. He’s very handy with the chainsaw.”
“And you’re very handy with cement?” he asked, shaking his head.
“Well, that was Orrick, too. Though I helped him, of course. Once you get the hang of it, it’s not that hard, Sam. Not very hard at all.”
“Well, you sure had plenty of opportunity to practice. Three bodies, Miss Nelson. And it never occurred to you to call the police?”
She shook her head adamantly. “Oh, no, Sam. Our loyalty is always to our employer. For better or for worse, they’re the ones who pay our salary.”
Unbelievable… Even in Downton Abbey the servants were always ready to plunge a knife in their employers’ backs. These two were something else.
“Thank you, Miss Nelson,” he finally said. “I think I’ve heard enough.”
“So am I free to go now, Sam?” she asked. “I promised Mrs. Beadsmore I’d polish the downstairs furniture. She went and bought the beeswax already.”
He was inclined to yell, ‘Screw your beeswax!’ but restrained himself with a powerful effort. Instead, he said, “No, you’re not free to go!”
She frowned. “Why, Sam? I didn’t do anything wrong.”
He stared at her, shocked to the core. “You buried three bodies!”
“I merely did as I was told, Sam. I’m sure any housekeeper would have done the same. After all, it’s my job to take care of my employer’s needs.” She gave him a sultry look, indicating she was ready to take care of his needs, too.
He barked an incredulous laugh. “Well, I’m not so sure, Miss Nelson.”
And as Karie Nelson was escorted back to her cell, he stood conferring with Pierre. “Can you believe those two?”
“Yes, I can, Sam,” said Pierre, not surprisingly. “They seem very truthful.”
“Don’t you think they might have rehearsed their statements?”
“They don’t strike me as hardened killers. They do strike me as very conscientious employees. A credit to any homeowner, I might add.”
“No, you may not add,” he grunted. “They’re nuts is what they are. Who hides three bodies just to make their employer look good? That’s just crazy!”
“I think it corroborates the story of Thomas Ettrick,” Pierre said. “Remember he told us Dick and Harry might be responsible for Brevity’s murder? I think he was right. Only the three men must have gotten into a powerful and violent argument, which ended in bloodshed.”
“If only Nelson and Fibril hadn’t been as conscientious as they were, we might have learned the truth a lot sooner,” he grumbled.
“Well, the coroner will tell us what happened, I’m sure,” said Pierre.
“I don’t get it,” said Sam, yawning in spite of the large cup of coffee he’d drained. “Brevity just got married, and then he goes and kills his wife?”
“The criminal mind is an enigma, Sam, not always easy to plumb.”
“You can say that again.”
And with those words, the two detectives left the police station. It had been a long day, and whatever else was going on would have to wait until the morrow. One thing was for sure: this case had proved as surprising as any Sam had ever gotten involved with. And somehow he attributed this to the presence of the Flummox sisters and Cassie Beadsmore. They seemed to attract weirdness like poop attracts flies, and not in a good way, either.
Epilogue
It was one week later and we were all seated out in the garden, enjoying the summer day. Gran had baked the most delicious fruitcake, and we were all sipping from tea cups before taking a stroll along the beach later on. Gresham was there, and Skip was in the kitchen, trying to bake cookies.
Sam and Pierre had dropped by to give us an update on what was now known as the Brevity Hatchet Job. Yehudi, if he’d known that his proud family name would one day be associated with this sordid affair, would have turned in his grave. At least he hadn’t been chopped into pieces by an overzealous staff, and actually had a grave to rest in and not a chunk of cement.
“So when are you going to release Orrick and Karie?” Gran asked for the umpteenth time. When Sam gave her a long, hard stare, she innocently gestured around herself at the garden, now in full bloom. “I need my gardener!” she cried. “This is getting ridiculous!”
“I’m sure you’ll manage, Cassie,” said Sam in a rumbling undertone.
“No! I’m an old lady! I need a strong gardener to help me out with this sprawling garden. Not to mention a housekeeper to keep the house in shape.”
“You’re not an old lady, Mrs. Beadsmore,” said Pierre graciously.
“Yeah, and we’ll help you take care of the house and the garden, Gran,” said Ernestine, who was reading a book on the Revolutionary War.
Gresham, after having taken reception of the affectionate letter ‘Binky’ had written to Gresham’s ancestor ‘Ducky,’ had donated the unique find to the National Archives, where scholars had determined that the document was authentic and had given it pride of place in their collection. Its discovery had created a genuine buzz of excitement and debate amongst historians on both sides of the Atlantic, and the Queen had been forced to weigh in on the matter by saying she was sure her forefather had written the missive in jest.
“Yeah, we’ll help you, Gran,” agreed Edie, clasping a cup of tea and resting her feet in Sam’s lap. The latter, here in his official capacity as a representative of the NYPD, seemed a little baffled by the intimacy this gesture suggested, but seemed to like it all the same, for he made no attempt to remove Edelie’s feet. Instead, he’d started giving her an absentminded rub.
“You can’t keep them in prison,” Gran argued, not giving up the fight. “All they did was do their job.”
“Their job!” Sam cried, still aghast at the prospect that a servant would go to such lengths for his employer. “Their job was to take care of the place, not conceal the bodies of Brevity’s victims!”
“Well, that’s just a matter of opinion,” Gran said with a light shrug.
“I don’t think they’re going to be charged,” said Pierre now.
“You don’t know that,” Sam said, obviously not in agreement.
“They’re not?” asked Gran, well pleased. “That’s great news!”
“You’re not thinking of giving them a job once they’re out, are you?” Sam asked. “Cause if you are, you better reconsider.”
“Of course I’m giving them their job back. I can’t think of anyone better than Karie and Orrick. Imagine the level of loyalty.”
“Imagine the bloodshed,” grunted Sam. “Do you really want to hire people who cut up bodies and sink them in cement as if it’s the normal thing to do, Cassie?”
“Yes, I do,” Gran stated adamantly.
Sam shook his head. “This is just crazy. But then this entire case has been one long string of crazy.”
“What did the other guy say?” I asked. “Um… Dick, Harry and…”
“Tom,” muttered Ernestine without looking up from her book.
“Yeah, that’s right. The other fishing buddy. And why isn’t he dead?”
“Well, apparently Dick Dogwood tried to take a hatchet to Tom Ettrick, too,” explained Pierre, “but he managed to outrun him. Ettrick used to run marathons, which gave him an edge over his murderous former buddy.”
"If only Mr. Tom Ettrick had told us from the start that his buddies were hatchet-wielding murderous maniacs, we might have solved this case a lot sooner," grumbled Sam.
“Well, at least the case is closed now, right?” I asked.
“Right,” said Sam, subjecting Edie’s feet to a vigorous massage.
It gave me an idea. “Maybe you should have been a masseur, Sam, and not a detective.”
He frowned at me. “Why? Because I suck at being a detective?”
“No, because you’re a great masseur,” I pointed out.
He shrugged, but the compliment had drawn a slight smile from Edie, and that seemed to do much to assuage the grumpy detective’s misgivings.
“What’s going to happen to the Brevity estate now?” asked Gresham.
“Well…” Sam frowned. “Apparently, Brevity’s first wife, the lovely Mrs. Zaida Brevity—née Boat, was still featured in the guy’s will, so it looks like the whole kit and caboodle will be bequeathed to her.”
“Lucky lady,” said Pierre softly.
“Lucky lady indeed,” said Sam with a nod. “And what have you guys been up to out here? Any more diving trips to sunken shipwrecks?”
“No way,” I said, shaking my head. “Uh-uh. No more shipwrecks for me, thank you very much.”
“Yeah, once was enough,” agreed Edie.
I’d gone down to the beach the day before, half fearing Hayes Suggur would accost me again, but no disembodied voices had spooked me this time. And even when I went into the water, expecting a merman to jump out at me with a hatchet, things had been fine. Clive was back on his high perch, and, like the other divers, didn’t remember a thing about what had transpired that night. He seemed a little embarrassed, and when he approached me had apologized for trying to outrace me to that treasure.