The Wooden Twinkie

A new case for the detective

This is a little neo-noir I cooked up some time ago.

Photo by Sirena Velena on Unsplash

I hate cemeteries. You might think that's unusual for someone who makes part of his living investigating haunted houses, but those places aren't supposed to have dead people in them. They rarely do, and so far they've never had anything undead in them. Graveyards, on the other hand, are supposed to. Naturally, I'd been hired to look in the coffin belonging to Happy Hills' newest resident, which meant seeing a dead person. Or an undead one, since that's what I'd been hired to investigate. Now you might begin to see my concern.

I got to the appointed spot, and I was pleased to see that the c-note I'd passed the grave digger earlier today had paid off. He agreed to leave the grave open until tomorrow morning, and there it was in all of its yawning glory. The headstone proclaimed for all of the world to see that the occupant's name was Horace Fredrickson. He'd lived from August 23rd, 1937, until March 18th, 1987, just a few days ago.

"Horace, old bean, sorry you didn't live to see your fiftieth." I touched the cross around my neck. "At least here's hoping you didn't." I walked to the edge of the grave and looked down. The casket was expensive, mahogany if I was any judge, and shone in the moonlight. I sat, my butt on the ground, and let my legs dangle over the edge of the maw.

Before I could go through with it, I reached into the pocket of my black Member's Only jacket, still not sure what one had to be a member of to own one, and retrieved the silver flask hidden in its interior pocket. I'd thought about filling it with holy water, but scotch suited my temperament, if not my purposes, better. The smoky, silky liquor slid down my throat and warmed my belly. This was the good stuff, thanks to Horace's still living wife. I put the cap back on and tucked it away.

Satisfied by the near-deafening silence that no one had followed me out here, I reached into my left-hand jacket pocket for the small flashlight I kept there. Just as I was about to flick the light on, I heard a distant howl. I'd never fully understood what the term "flesh crawling" meant until that moment. It was like my back skin wanted to join my increasingly balding scalp in holy matrimony.

"Easy, Buzz. It's just a wolf." Never mind that Greenville, North Carolina, didn't have any wolves. I flipped the switch and played the light over the coffin's surface. Rather than bounce off the lid, the dark wood of the coffin ate the light like that wolf wanted to eat my face. I made sure I could step down to the lid before I left the ledge. The wooden surface was a gentle concave, but my Chucks were still grippy on the bottom. I stepped, rather than dropped, off, and the noise wasn't much louder than a polite knock. There was no answering knock from underfoot.

"Okay, I open the lid, take a picture, and close the lid. Then I go home and get paid my five grand." I didn't ask the woman why she'd hired one of the East Coast's best, if not best known, paranormal debunker and escape artist. That much was obvious. She wanted proof that her husband hadn't somehow risen from the dead, and taking money for proving things I knew to be true was something I rather enjoyed. She fervently believed this would be my first supernatural case and had told me so.

"Mr. Weiss, I know you believe my husband will be there, and I pray you're right. If he's missing, and I'm sure he will be, only someone like you would be believed."

I’d smiled, nodded, and had her sign the contract. Here I was, though, standing on the lid of this coffin and sweating. I was less certain now than I had been in my well-lit office that this coffin was round, and firm, and fully packed. When I sat sneakered foot on it, hadn't the noise been a little hollow?

I shook off the fear and uncertainty and knelt on the lower half of the lid. The flashlight rested between my knees. I made sure that it was pointed towards the head end of the grave. I reached to one side, put my hands under the lip, and heaved. Let me be the first to tell you that those lids don't want to move any more than most people want them to. Once the corpse is buttoned up, it's hard for one man to open that. I'm blessed with arms and shoulders like a gorilla. They may not drag the ground when I walk, but they're corded with muscle and when I want them to do something it gets done. With a grunt and a heave, the lid levered open and I cursed at how wrong I'd been.

White silk reflected in my flashlight's beam. There was no graying head or handsome features. Just an unfilled wooden Twinkie.

I flicked off the flashlight and was a little confused when I could still see clearly.

"Put your hands on your head, and stand up." The voice was deep, and there was little uncertainty in it. It was a voice used to being listened to.

I did what he told me to, placing my huge mitts one on top of the other. The skin of my mostly bald head had a light film of sweat from the exertion of opening the coffin. "How can I help you, officer?"

The man cackled. "He thinks I'm a cop." The laughter continued for a second or two. "I ain't no cop. Turn around, and don't do anything that would cause me to shoot you."

I turned slowly, out of necessity. The coffin's lid was slick with grave dirt and varnish. A flashlight beam shone right in my eyes, making it impossible to see the person who was now in charge. I could make out two figures. "So if you ain't no cop, what are you?"

"I'll ask the questions. Did you find anything in the coffin?"

I noticed that the person holding the flashlight trembled, and he wasn't the speaker. "Not what you'd expect, no."

"That doesn't answer my question. Get cute again and you'll get dead."

"No, I didn't find anything in the coffin. It's empty." I started to tell him how unlikely it was that I’d ever get cute, but thought better of it.

"The money's gone?" This voice had a higher pitch, but it was still a guy. The tremor was in the voice as well as the hands.

"Shut up, you idiot." This voice belonged to the man in charge.

Money? There was supposed to be money in the coffin? Interesting. I thought about the bottom half, the one I hadn't looked in yet. I thought about the white silk lining, behind which there was plenty of room. "No, I mean the body's gone."

The leader chuckled. "Ain't never was no body in there."

I winced at the grammar. I may look like a big dumb mook, but mama taught me how to talk, and I did my time in college. "And that's still the case. Now, since I didn't know about the money or where in the coffin it might be, I can't say where it is or isn't."

There was a moment of silence. "Whatever. You need to come up out of that hole so we can have a look."

They hadn't shot me yet, but that could be done once I was out of the hole. They wouldn't want to risk getting blood on the white silk or on any money that might be in the coffin. I nodded. "Coming right out." I eased to the lip and placed my hands on the ground. Both sets of fingers dug deep into the soil, and I levered my body up and out. My movement was quick and fluid. Once I was on my feet, I threw the two dirt clods in the direction of the man with the deep voice.

He barked in surprise, but there was no gunshot.

The flashlight hit the ground, and I heard rapid footsteps heading away.

Now I could see a little better. I closed the distance to the leader of the two-man crew. He wasn't as imposing, and it turned out that he had no gun, just a stout shovel. As I got in close, he tried to bring it down over my head. I got my left forearm in the way and grunted at the impact.

I slapped him with an open right hand, happy to hear the sound of flesh on flesh. He spun to my left and went down hard. I didn't give him the chance to stand under his own power. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. "Threatening me and not following through is gonna put you in one of these holes. Who are you?"

The man moaned as I shook him. I'd rung his bells pretty good. "Just trying to get the money. You know. Word on the street is, this guy's still walking around, and he hid some of his money in the coffin. We was gonna dig it up and get the hell out of town."

I smacked the guy again and dumped him into the empty coffin. "Have a look. You can keep whatever you find."

I stalked towards the entrance to the cemetery. I needed to talk to my client. Something about this whole setup felt like just that. A setup. I needed to find out if she had anything to do with spreading the word about her husband's stash. It didn't take long to get to her place. Greenville traffic was never as bad as Raleigh's, and I knew a few shortcuts and back roads. She lived in one of the gated communities just outside of town. I pulled to a stop at the guard shack.

The guard gave my battered brown Yugo the stink eye. "Can I help you, sir?"

I gave him my best glare right back and held out a card. "I'm here to see Mrs. Fredrickson. I have an open invitation."

He consulted the card she'd given me and handed it back. "Very well, sir." He nodded and pushed the button to allow me access.

The houses back here were new-money micro mansions. They all looked more or less the same. Near as I could tell there were four floor plans, and they all had names like Shangri-La or Tara. I pulled to a stop in front of my employer's house, staying on the street. The Yugo leaked oil, and she would be the kind to bill me for any stains on her driveway.

I walked up to the front door and raised my hand to knock. Before my heavy knuckles rattled the stained glass storm door, I looked around. Everything looked just peachy, but there was something off about the place. I couldn't put my finger on it. I filed the sensation away for later consideration and continued my knock. There was no answer. I tucked my right hand into my jacket pocket and pulled out a roll of leather. It unrolled into a set of driving gloves.

I pulled them on and tested the door handle. It was unlocked. I opened the storm door and knocked again, this time on the wood-covered steel core door. Still no answer. More telling, and this may have been what set off my hindbrain, no yappy little terrier was barking at my intrusion on the silence. The two previous visits showed me that if the lady of the house were home, she wouldn't need a doorbell.

"Maybe you're not home, and you took the dog to the vet?" I didn't believe that, but figured I'd have a look in the garage. The door was on the right-hand side of the house. I walked over to it and peered in. Her husband's Porsche appeared to still be under wraps. The Beemer she drove was backed in. I admired a woman who could park in a spot that tight. She might be out walking the neighborhood, but the yappy dog wasn't the sort you took around for walkies. That thing left its perch on the couch to dot the back yard with crap. Add to that the relative lateness of the hour, and my suspicion deepened.

A door set into the wall just to the right of the garage would let me in, and the lock looked a little less impressive than the one out front. I reached into my hip pocket and pulled out the zippered case there. Thirty seconds of fiddling and I was safe inside the garage. I sniffed the air and couldn't detect a whiff of exhaust. I walked over to her Beemer and touched the off white hood. It was cool through my glove. She was home and had been for at least an hour or so.

At this point, it would have been prudent for me to call the police. I was never good at prudent. I walked up the three steps to the interior door and checked it. Locked. The hour was late, and it could just be that she was asleep. The dog could be too. I pulled out my picks and cracked open this one just as easily as I had the outer door. I swung it open and stepped onto the kitchen tile. The air should have smelled like this evening's takeout. She was no cook. Instead, it smelled like blood. Now it was time for the police.

"You might as well come all the way in, Mr. Weiss." The voice was male, though a bit high-pitched.

"Why would I want to do that, Mr. Unnamed Assailant?" When confronted with death, I often cracked wise, or unwise as the case may be.

He answered by way of thumbing the hammer back on a pistol.

"I see." I stepped into the kitchen, and he chose that moment to turn on the lights.

The kitchen floor was covered with blood. My former client sat in one of the expensive wooden dining room chairs. She was held in place by a series of bungee cords. The person who had done this to her, the man now holding a gun on me, had taken his time with the knife. The number of incisions was hard to discern, but none of them would have been the cause of death. When he was done, he'd cut her throat from ear to ear.

I turned my attention to the man with the gun. This guy was dressed all in black, down to the balaclava that covered his face. The pistol wasn't a large caliber weapon, but it would make me dead just the same. The silencer at its end would keep anyone not in the same room from hearing it. "Hi there."

The man nodded to me. "You'll be Buzz Weiss, then?"

I shrugged. "That's what my mama called me. Who are you?"

"I like 'Mr. Unnamed Assailant'. Clever. So, do you have the cash?"

I patted my pockets. "Not on me."

He tsked at me.

That just pissed me off. Less than the fact that he killed my client, but not much less. That made getting paid a challenge.

He continued. "You wouldn't be carrying a sum this large on your person. She did hire you to retrieve the contents of her husband's coffin."

I shook my head, taking a step forward, careful to avoid the blood. "I'll be honest with you. She hired me to see if her husband's body was in the coffin. It has come to my attention that while his body wasn't there, some money might have been. I didn't look."

"You just left the money there?" He sounded incredulous. That took a lot of nerve, given that he’d just tortured someone and then killed them.

"No. I don't know that there was any money to leave. I did leave two idiots there. One of them was in the coffin when I was done."

The hand not holding the gun tightened into a fist. "They'll have it by now."

I looked at the clock ticking on the wall behind him. "If there was any, they'd be well on their way with it."

He gestured for me to step forward. I obliged.

He pointed at the dining room chairs nearby. "You're going to tell me who these men were, and I'm going to find them and my money."

I looked at my former client and back at him. "I'm not sitting down. If you're gonna do that to me, you may as well shoot me."

He didn't take me up on my offer. "If I shoot you, it will be in your knee caps and then your elbows. If that's not enough, I'll start cutting you like I did her. By the end, she gladly told me everything she knew."

"She probably told you a thing or two she didn't know. Torture gets you all kinds of information and almost never the right stuff."

“I don't need your opinion on my methods." He extended the pistol.

I held up my hands. "Fair enough. I'll sit." I walked towards him. He stepped back and away, careful to keep at least five feet between us. I sat on the chair.

His head moved from the mutilated body to me and back again. "I can spare you her pain. You just tell me what you did with the money. Then I put a bullet in your brain."

I am not going to lie. I was scared. Not the kind of scared that made you a useless, shaking pile. In fight or flight situations I almost always took fight. This time I'd have to do it with my words. "I took the money and put it in the trunk of a car parked downtown. That was our deal. She'd get to the car tomorrow and drive it to my house. We'd split it there."

He laughed. It was a loud, high-pitched, and annoying titter. "You trusted her?"

"She paid me a finder’s fee up front. And she trusted me not to take off with whatever I found. Trust goes both ways."

"How much money?"

I shrugged. "I don't know. A lot. I didn't count it. It was in bundles of twenties. There were at least..." I looked up and to the left, pretending to count in my head. "I'd say forty bundles of cash. I put it in my gym bag and drove to the drop point. Then I came here. End of story."

"Where was this car parked?"

"Hey man, you're gonna shoot me, or shoot me then carve me up. I don't think I'm gonna take the liberty of signing my death warrant. I'm no scared hausfrau. I did my time in the military. Death don't scare me much, but I’m in no hurry to die. Only way you’ll find your money is if I take you to it. I’ll take you to the car. Then you take the cash, and we go our separate ways."

He took a moment to consider the offer. "Alright. We can do that." He gestured for me to get up.

I stood.

"Turn around and put your hands behind you."

I felt the cold steel of a pair of handcuffs encircle my wrists. He cranked them down hard, but I was no stranger to the sensation. When I felt his fingers probe my waistband, I tried to emulate his titter. "Not on the first date."

He ignored me and gave me a thorough pat-down. He took the picks out of my pockets. "Nice tools. I believe I'll keep them."

This guy was just begging for me to kick the shit out of him. I'd made those tools myself from old jigsaw blades. I bit my tongue. When the black cloth went over my eyes, I let out a surprised grunt.

"Can't have you seeing my face if you want to live."

The gun prodded the small of my back. I considered just falling on the son of a bitch. The gun might go off, though.

With no small amount of thumping into walls, he got me out to the garage. He managed to get me into the back of the BMW. A few moments later the engine purred to life, and I heard the garage door open. "Where to first?"

"Head out of the development, and take a left." I knew we wouldn't look too suspicious since the windows on my deceased client's car were tinted. No one would see me, and I'm sure he looked like he belonged. I was sure he would glom onto the fact that this whole thing was a wild goose chase. At that point, he'd dump me out somewhere and shoot me in the head five or six times. That might just do the trick despite how thick my skull was.

While he drove, I started to work the fingers of my left hand under my watch band. The piece of metal hidden there would be able to shim the cuffs open. It would hurt like a bitch since I'd have to ratchet the cuffs down even harder. Doing the whole thing blindfolded didn't make it any harder since my hands were already where I couldn't see them. I'd done this about a thousand times, both on the stage and in my bedroom. Some mook who thought he was a better man than I am would always grind the cuffs down to the bone. In those cases, I resorted to the key I kept in my shirt cuff. These weren't mine, though, and even if I'd had the key, there was no guarantee it would fit.

"Take a left on Greene Street. It's about a half mile up." I slid the shim into the right manacle just above where the teeth went into their housing. Without making a sound, I bore all of my weight on the cuffs. It hurt like a bitch, but it wasn't as bad as a bullet would be. The shim got dragged into the cuff's housing and hit the right spot. I felt the cuff loosen and slide free. I now had free hands.

"Where to next?"

"You'll need to take a right on Freedmont. It's about a half mile down Green." I didn't have any weapons, but I wouldn't need any. I balled up my big right hand, swept the balaclava from my eyes with my left, and brought my fist around. It caught the killer on his ear.

The car swerved left, and he let out a string of curses. Now that I had both hands around where I could use them, I did. I grabbed him around the throat and began to squeeze.

He gagged, and the car accelerated. I bore down, and he slammed on the brakes. He hadn't buckled me in. I was too massive to fly over the front seat, but it did break my grip on his neck.

He coughed and dove for the floorboards. I threw myself down just as the gun went off. The bullet blew through the seat and into the car's roof.

I heard a scuffling in the front seat, and the door opened and closed. Not knowing if he was going to run or try to plug me through the windo,w I scrambled as fast as I could and pushed myself out of the passenger side door. I looked under the car and didn't see any feet.

I heard the shot and felt the lance of pain in my shoulder at the same time. I looked up and there he stood on the roof of the BMW. The man had a thick ruff of blond hair. I had time to see that he was handsome except for a scar that ran from his chin to the left corner of his mouth.

"I guess I'll have to go check the graveyard and see if the money is still there. Either way, you've just become a liability."

I knew there wasn't any way out of this one for me. I started to get up anyway.

I heard him scream as I got to my feet.

"You're both dead." The gun barked twice, but neither bullet hit me.

I heard a thud, and by the time I stood, I saw that the killer lay prone on the roof of the car. I looked around but didn't see who he was talking to. I took the gun from his fingers and checked for a pulse. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't conscious either.

I don't know what he saw in those last moments of consciousness. They found Horace Fredrickson's body carved up in a storage unit on the outskirts of town. He'd been dead for at least thirty-six hours. Between the gunshot residue and the blood on his clothes, convicting the blond, scarred killer was a slam dunk. There was indeed a good chunk of cash in the coffin. The idiots that tried to jump me hadn’t gotten it all. I made sure to point the cops in its direction.

I never did get paid, but what galls me to this day is that I didn't see what he must have. I'll never stop looking, though. No matter how I turn it around in my mind, I can’t figure out how he died.