The Bed Body (Gerald Bunting Book 1) Page 7

  “And, so, Mildred, she goes to cooler climates. And this funeral man, Thatch, Jr.,” Gerald stepped up to the man, “he has the eye trouble. There is the mixing up. A wrong woman’s remainders, she fills the urn. I shall not hammer this. We cannot reverse the watches and make them sticky.”

  “I feel just terrible about it,” Mr. Thatch said. “Keeps me up at night, thinking of it. Please, forgive me, ladies.”

  Bunting sighed. “But many lies, they wriggle in like the earthy worms. Like the pond, I find it muddier each morning. I dine with Wilkins at the warm home. I learn not.”

  “You were drunk,” Officer Marrow muttered.

  “Later, again, I attend the Wilkins teas. I saw a thing and tasted also—the spot of colder tea.”

  “One of the burners is out,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “It’s been on the blink for months. I keep trying to get someone in to—"

  “The blink! Precisely, madam, the lesser minds would blink and miss. Teacups, yes. The table settings.”

  “That’s how I keep it, in case a friend calls.”

  “Lady Wilkins, this tires the brains. I return to the mortifier—Harold, Jr. He drives without the spectacle glasses—the dangerous act, good for new business no doubts. I open the ears. I listen to the Thatch, to words and actions, also. Madam Sutton, she mentions he is the father’s friend. But he has the silence on this. He is cold and—”

  “Professional, Mr. Bunting,” Mr. Thatch replied. “There is no special privilege in death, even exceptional ones.”

  The detective bristled. “You knew you wore glasses on the mix-up day. Mr. Sutton, he tells me this! You would have denials?”

  Mr. Thatch straightened his tie. “I was wearing glasses, yes, but it was the handwriting on the sheet I couldn’t read. I was just trying to play it up a bit, I suppose. I didn’t want the town thinking I just cremate the first body I see. I’ve got a name to protect. I’ve been meaning to get back to the doctor’s for a stronger prescription, but I haven’t had the time.”

  Gerald nodded. “But of course. The case was shut up tightly in the freezers. But, soon, there was nothing to poke and prod in the room with the brightened lighting. The police, they throw up the hands and say, ‘Beat me.’”

  “Beats me,” Officer Andrews said.

  “Yes, yes, they request several of the beatings. But I go to the murder scenery—this Sutton couple’s home. There, I find the strange notes.”

  Mrs. Sutton shuddered. “It was a terrible shock. I still don’t think it’s safe to go home, Mr. Bunting, no matter what you say.”

  “Shh, Dorothy, let him talk,” Mr. Sutton said, rubbing her shoulder.

  “Who would send this?” Bunting asked. “Who but Harper—Mauve?”

  Mrs. Harper fought against Officer Marrow’s grip. “I didn’t do anything of the sort. Let me go! I want to talk to someone. I have rights, don’t I?”

  Gerald raised his hand. “But Harper sent not the note. It sailed in the Sutton window by the husband’s hands.”

  “That’s preposterous,” Mr. Sutton chuckled. “Ask anyone. I’m a spendthrift. I wouldn’t have spent money on a hotel if I didn’t feel I had to.”

  “Not even to cast the crime suspecting like the icing water buckets on the law sister?”

  “Truth is on my side.”

  “Which side? The brightness out in the sun time, or the shades where all must squint and contort the thoughts to believe?” Gerald walked to the fireplace and turned. “The note, it burrowed in the dreaming. I could not swat it with the counting sheep. I came quickly to Wilkins’. She said the helping things. Mr. Sutton, a man from business, now the ambulanceman? What could drive this man through changing tides? The heart hole? Plaguing conscience?

  “Constable Marrow and I, Gerald Bunting, we make the inquiries of old matters. Mauve—the poisoner, alleged. The husband found, bathing. Sleeping pills, it is said. Mildred, did she meet these fates? The mistress says Mauve has the guilt, but we will not know ever. If only police, then, had made the distanced call, I would have solved this crime also, but there are gaps like teeth missing, unsightly.

  “This Wilkins woman, she tells that Sutton made the Europe travels. The Continent, what a small placement. Two Englishmen doing the business—brothers by law—should they not have had the mutual acquaintances? Should they not be enjoying the drinks? Ms. Sprecher, she confirms this later.”

  “Quentin!” Mrs. Sutton screamed, shoving her husband.

  Gerald cleared his throat. “No, madam, you pounce to this conclusion and ride it bare-saddled. It will toss you like the autumn leaves, like salads. This husband did none of the wronging. But he introduced the dead Harper to the Sprecher mistress.”

  Mauve stirred in her seat. “This is irrelevant. My husband is dead. I moved on a long time ago. What happened to Mother?”

  “It was you who passed notes in the black darkness cover. Stephens, the crazed, thirsting neighbor, she heard the curse. You, Madam Harper, have the writing hands.”

  “It’s conjecture.”

  “This writing in the ghastly hands.”

  “It’s not my writing. You’re pulling at straws, Mr. Bunting. I don’t write threatening letters.”

  Mrs. Sutton gasped.

  Bunting nodded. “Yes, I gasp, but insides. I said it was the strange note, not this threat.”

  “I was…” Mrs. Harper muttered. “I assumed based on the hotel bit. I didn’t write it.”

  “Fear, she paints the face with the ugly rouge. This patron, the art buyer, I wish to say now—and I regret bearing badness—it is the Sprecher you despise. She buys the art and pays the trifle. Mauve—now, she glares at Gerald. This has angered? It is good, Wilkins, that the chandelier crystals hang in the dining place, or the hate staring would have refractions and kill the many.”

  Mr. Thatch wiped his glasses. “This is really something.”

  “No,” Bunting continued, “Harold, this is wrong. The note was the silly desperation, the meandered circuit we must walk that leads to nothing more. Still, I could not solve the Wembley death. I could not point the blaming finger. I make the trips. Witnesses, they share the tired stories, rehearse the parts, details they wish to be known. And, yet, Wilkins’ compost, it assaults the nose—distracting. I am not a greengrocer man of advertisements, but I notice the vegetables in all places. So many fragments, heaped in this bin.”

  “They’ve been there for ages,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “The bucket is very heavy. I usually wait for one of my grandchildren to visit, so they can take it out for me. I’ve gotten used to the smell.”

  “And that, woman, is why the tough candy, I spat.”

  “What?” Officer Marrow asked.

  “I take the candy and spit it—pew—among the vegetable bites. It is there. I did not only glance and smile at the windowed plants, Wilkins. It is buried in the fresh pile.”

  “I made a big dinner last night. A few friends joined me to play cards.”

  “I see,” Gerald nodded. “That explains it well.”

  “Before we go any further, where is Mrs. Stephens?” Marrow asked. “Shouldn’t she be here?”

  “No, she is home, behind the locks, taking the baths. I will not waste the time with this. She had the interested commenting, the hint I shake but cannot escape. Madam Stephens tells that the Quentin husband sang the tunes to the body. Bat-crazed, yes, but this neighbor has the eyes and earrings. The singing, I suppose, was the man busy with work, loosing steams.

  “But,” Bunting smoothed the wrinkles in his remaining scarves, “was it the singing Stephens heard or the chatting, perhaps? Saying the bottled, nasty words, casting burdens from chests?”

  “She’s a loon!” Mr. Sutton cried. “I did nothing of the sort. You can’t take a woman like that seriously. Did she tell you about the Russians? Those men were from London.”

  “You see the troubling, then, also. Mildred, cremated. The unhelping urn. A funeral directing man who lies to save the self. One daughter lies to blame and
frighten. An old woman with the vegetable and party dinners. A Quentin who sings to the corpse. The tea, it is cold. It leaves the one choice.”

  “… She’s not dead?” Mrs. Sutton said. A tear slid down her cheek.

  Gerald sighed, shaking his head. “One glory, I receive from the tough working, and you rip it from my graspings.”

  "I’m sorry.”

  “Mildred lives! The shoe, I see myself. She stands near to hear the treat, my summing up. Come, Wembley,” Gerald called. “Arise from the false death.”

  The closet door opened. Mrs. Sutton jumped up, embracing her mother. Mildred Wembley stood stiffly, patting her daughter lightly on the back. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Mother. I thought you were gone.”

  Mrs. Wembley pulled herself free and took an open seat by Mrs. Wilkins.

  Officer Marrow released his grip on Mrs. Harper’s arm. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “Wasn’t expecting that. Didn’t have a chance to talk with him before.”

  Bunting coughed. “Yes, Mildred was the scheming person. She plotted the novels, and it was this Quentin and Thatch who assisted the thing. She never went to the chiller. The bag, Harold retrieves it empty.”

  Mr. Thatch shook his head. “No, you’re wrong there. There was a bit of roadkill in it. Had to get the ashes somehow.”

  The detective shrugged. “I twist the ankles but get medaling on the podium tops. Mrs. Mildred, why was the precious investigating spent vainly? I must know this.”

  “I didn’t mean for it to come to all this,” Mrs. Wembley began. “I just wanted some peace from those two. I love you, girls, but you were driving me mad with all that nonsense about the pension checks and my welfare. And not a word of it to me, the one at the center of it.

  “I talked to Jane, and we settled on a plan. I figured Harold would be kind enough to cover things up for me, but I wasn’t sure how Quentin would take it. I thought the tragedy might shock you out of your drinking, Dorothy. He thought so too and agreed to help. Girls, I’ll be staying here until I’m no longer able, and then, I’d rather die in a rest home. Dorothy, please get some help. And, Mauve… move. Quit treating me like an anchor.”

  Gerald frowned. “The comments, yes, the stinging, but this is the Wembley wish. I, Gerald Bunting, greatest of detectives, living, mummy, or ashes, would choose to stay and hear the laundry gossips, but I must leave to sunshine bathe, as I am victor again. The records are solid. ‘No body, no matter to G. Bunting!’ The papers shall declare it all in large types.”

  The detective retrieved his spare scarf and walked to the door, pausing to take a bow. “Andrews, Marrow, there have been no crime actions. You and I shall take the leave of these persons.”

  “I’d rather like to stay,” Officer Andrews said, but Marrow pulled him outside.

  “You, detective,” a voice called from the bushes.

  Gerald leaned over a flowering shrub. “Is it the Mrs. Stephens?”

  The woman peered through the leaves. “Someone’s been through my bins. I’m sure of it. They’re searchin’ my letters now. I tear them up and burn them, but I’m sure they’re after my letters. Want to find a weakness in my locks, I’d wager. Tryin’ to find out what type I’ve got, so they can pick ‘em. I’ve called it off—going to Moscow. But could you come ‘round and have a look first—but only if you don’t touch my fence. I won’t have none of that. I need a drink of water again. I’ll let you in once I’ve had one. But not until I’ve washed the dishes. And maybe after a bath—if that Quentin starts singing again, I’ll have to make it two. Eerie voice, strange character. Maybe tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow—you’ll drop by then? That’ll give me time to…. I think I’ve left the bolts undone on the back window.”

  Mrs. Stephens tore through the yard, headed for home.

  Gerald chuckled. “See, you constables? Mysteries, are finding me always.”

  Epilogue

  “Yes, that’s right, darling. I made the move,” Mauve Harper said through gritted teeth. “No, I’m fine. Just had a bit of work done—root canal. Nothing serious. Jaw’s a little swollen. The next piece is magnificent. My best yet, I think. It’s a sunflower sundial. All this good weather’s done wonders for my creativity. Yes, twenty thousand pounds. Really? Well, I think that’s a fair price. I put a lot of work into it. You haven’t even seen it yet. No, I insist, Bruce, I won’t take anything less.

  “Well, pass along my regrets. I’ve been getting a lot of offers for my work around here, so this mysterious patron of yours will have to put up the money, or I’m afraid I’ll have to fire them.” She laughed. “Oh, and would you pass along a message to them from me? Thanks. Tell the patron that she may have stolen my husband, but she can’t have my art.”

  Acknowledgements

  I heard an interesting piece of writing advice recently. To paraphrase, it went something like: “What genre did you read most as a child? You must have enjoyed it back then, so why not write that?”

  As I thought back to my childhood, I remember reading a ton of juvenile non-fiction. If a topic interested me, I devoured everything my local library carried on that subject. But that wasn’t much help as far as the advice was concerned.

  When it came to fiction, nearly all of the books I can recall reading were mysteries. I inhaled series like: The Bailey School Kids, Encyclopedia Brown, The Hardy Boys, The Boxcar Children, The Sugar Creek Gang, Hank the Cowdog, the Mandie books, Choose Your Own Adventure titles, and anything that novelized the board game Clue. Okay, yeah, I’ll also confess to burning through a series where everyone had horses, and they solved horsey crimes. I can’t remember which one—there are several like that, but you get the idea….

  Stepping into the present, I regularly enjoy books from many genres, but mysteries continue to capture the lion’s share of my fiction reading. So, for these acknowledgements, I’d like to thank the children’s book authors who helped me fall in love with the genre. And I’d be remiss to leave out Agatha Christie. Yes, I know I’m laying it on pretty thick after dedicating the book to her, but she’s the “Queen of Mystery” for a reason.

  Thank you, also, to my family and friends. Your support and encouragement are appreciated more than I could ever express. Specifically, thank you, Sarah, for offering valuable feedback on an early draft.

  About The Author

  Adam spends most of his time in Indiana. He lives there, so this is deemed “appropriate” by all concerned parties. He writes humor, as you’ve experienced. If not, why did you skip to the end? These author notes aren’t that good. I mean, they’re decent—better than most. Adam never reads them, so he wouldn’t know. He thinks these books end after the acknowledgements.

  Anyway, this Bunting guy seems pretty cool, right? A Cornish detective for once, and a master of languages, too? Interesting take, right? I don’t know. Maybe there are others. I spend so much time writing these notes, I hardly get a chance to read anymore. That, and the—I almost overshared. If you’d like to read Gerald Bunting’s next adventure, check out Gone By Dessert.

  I don’t know if you’ve left book reviews before, but they help out authors like Adam, apparently. He’s always going on and on about them. “They build social proof. Herds, mobs. Psychology, psychology.” It gets annoying, but he might be right. Please consider leaving one.

  Before I wrap this up, Adam also wanted me to let you know about his newsletter. All you have to do is head over to his website (link below) and sign-up. It’s quick. It’s easy. The newsletter is (mercifully) short. And, to express his gratitude, Adam will even send you a free, exclusive title just for joining and waiting fifteen minutes to unsubscribe. (Which almost never happens.)

  www.adamdrice.com

  Adam’s other books:

  Festive Figments

  Dearest Fluffy – Off To War

  Pioneer Pillow Talk

  National Treasures

  How To Be A Fire Engine

  Pritchard Daviess – A Blissful Existence

  One Final Affai
r

  Jumbled