The Haunts & Horrors MEGAPACK®. Lawrence Watt-Evans
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little things, skin stretched tight over bone, a dozen or more, all mummified.
“Oh, my God,” I said.
Allie screamed.
And Doc Everett, standing in the front door, seemed to slump down into himself.
“Laura always wanted a big family,” he said.
THE MUFFIN MAN, by Mike Brines
I walked into the office past the sign on the door that read, “O’Brien Paranormal Investigations.” My partner was just hanging up the phone. I set the bag with the tacos from the place up the block on the desk and started to divvy them up.
“We just got a new client,” Ann said. She was the brains of the outfit. I was the brawn. Together we were trying to make the world a better place, but clients had been scarce and times were lean.
“What is it this time?” I asked. “Voodoo cultists? More vampires? An alien abduction maybe?”
“It could be an abduction.” She reached for a taco.
“What do you mean?”
She paused, the taco halfway to her luscious lips, then sat it back on the greasy wrapper.
“An old lady’s cat is missing.”
“We’re looking for a cat?”
“Well, the bills are piling up. The rent’s due. We have to do something.”
“Yeah, but cashing some old lady’s Social Security check….” I shook my head.
“It’s not like that. Her son called. Mister Fitzsimmons is an executive at the Apache helicopter plant. He’s promised our usual rates.”
“Your tax money at work.”
Her eyes blazed. “Well, at least somebody is willing to pay us for something. The guy said his mother lost her cat and she’s very despondent. Even if we can’t find it, just having us looking for it will cheer her up. Besides, he’s willing to pay and right now we really need the money.”
“All right.” I reached for a taco. Maybe at this rate next time I could upgrade to a combo plate?
* * * *
That afternoon we drove out to their place. Our client said we could pick up a check from his wife and talk to his mother, who lived with them. The neighborhood was full of large homes on big lots. We parked in front of the house. Our old Buick looked out of place among all the Cadillacs and Beemers, like a homeless veteran at a society ball.
The woman of the house had a check made out for us. It disappeared into Ann’s pocket and we asked if we could talk with the old lady.
“Sorry, you just missed her. She’s gone out to tea as she always does this time of day. She’s at that new bakery in the shopping center on the corner.”
“Thank you,” I said. “We’ll try there.”
We drove over. It wasn’t far. The sign read, The Muffin Man. There were several tables out in front with little umbrellas over them. A gray haired woman in a flower print dress at least forty years out of style was sitting at one of them nibbling a teacake. A couple of younger women sat at neighboring tables. Using my amazing detective skills I quickly eliminated them as suspects and walked up to the older woman’s table.
“Excuse us. Are you Missus Fitzsimmons?”
“Why, yes, young man. Do sit down, you and your lady friend. Have some tea.”
She waved at the counterman inside. After he bustled over she told him to bring us tea and some more cakes. The fellow was pudgy, middle-aged with a graying moustache and short dark hair. Dressed in baker’s whites, he had on a spotless apron.
“What sort of tea?” He asked.
“Do you like Earl Gray?” She asked us. “I just adore it.”
“Just regular tea,” Ann replied. “English Breakfast or some such. It doesn’t matter. We’re not here to socialize. We’re here to help find your cat.”
“To help look for your cat,” I amended. The silly thing was probably just on a wild weekend with a local tomcat and would return on its own soon enough But just in case it was road kill I didn’t want to raise any unfortunate expectations.
The old lady took a sip of her tea.
“Yes, my son did say he was going to hire someone to help find dear little Muffin. I didn’t think he could find a detective who’d take such a case. Not these days with all the missing persons. You must be so terribly busy.”
“Yes, very,” I replied. “Tell us about the cat. Uh, where was it last seen?”
She went into a longwinded story all about her dear little Muffin’s cuteness and adorability that meandered worse than a mountain road. But we were getting paid to listen and besides she was feeding us, too.
The counterman brought out the tea and a plate of little cakes. They were literally, little cakes. They looked exactly like tiny versions of the round layer cakes you see at bakeries or that Grandma used to make, with tiny icing flowers on top and everything. I’d never seen anything like them. I tried a bite.
“These are really good!”
Ann shushed me for interrupting the old lady but she didn’t seem to mind.
“Yes, they make the best baked goods here. Why the muffins are to die for! Here, try a bite of this crumb cake.”
She offered it to Ann who declined.
“Try it,” I said. “They’re really good. One bite isn’t going to ruin your figure.”
She reluctantly took a nibble.
“That is good.”
She finished the cake about the same time the old lady finished Muffin’s life story. The cat had been missing now almost a week. We were questioning her about the disappearance when another woman at a nearby table interrupted.
“Excuse me, but I couldn’t help but overhear you were looking for a cat. I don’t want to alarm you but I’ve found a couple of dead cats on my doorstep several mornings when I’ve gone to take out the trash.”
The old woman put a hand to her mouth.
“Horrors,” she said. “Was one of them a lovely little calico with dark paws?”
The other woman thought a moment.
“No, two gray ones and a ginger cat, or pieces of them, anyway.”
“Pieces?” I asked.
“It looked like a dog had got to them, maybe.”
“And where is this doorstep of yours?” Ann asked.
The other woman gestured at the neighboring shop.
“I own the tanning salon there. I found the cats out in back of my shop when I was going to the dumpster. I think it’s that nasty pizza place over there.” She pointed across the shopping center. “I bet they have rats. Big rats.”
“How horrible!” Mrs. Fitzsimmons dabbed at an eye with a lacy handkerchief.
Ann patted her other hand. “Don’t worry. We’ll find out what happened to…uh.”
“Mittens,” I suggested.
“Muffin,” Mrs. Fitzsimmons corrected.
“Thanks, I think I will.” I picked a miniature blueberry one off the plate. It was delicious.
Mrs. Fitzsimmons pushed the plate toward me. “I’ve lost my appetite,” she said. “I think I’ll go home and have a lie down.”
“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Ann said. “We’ll keep you posted on every stage of our investigation.”