13
Summer’s Garden
“I’m the last person on Earth who can help you. Sorry,” Summer said as she sprayed the ferns in the corner of the greenhouse.
Bronson and Cindy stood near the arrowhead vines watching her work as the sky grew dark through the glass panes above them. Ladybugs flew around dive bombing the humans, who ducked as they buzzed by.
“Cut it with the crap, lady,” Cindy said. “You know something. Spill it.”
“I said I wouldn’t be able to help. I didn’t say I couldn’t,” Summer said.
“What do you mean?” Bronson asked.
Summer reached out, tilting his chin up an inch higher and forty-five degrees to the left.
“Friendly tip, kiddo. You ever get pictures taken you hold your head like this. You got a real nice jawline. Shame not to show it off.”
Cindy grabbed Bronson’s sleeve, pulling him away.
“We ain’t here for style tips, lady,” she said. “Why don’t you want to talk?”
“I signed something saying I wouldn’t. You don’t get ahead in this business by breaking contracts all over town. Besides, the schlub is still alive, ain’t he? What’s it matter?”
Bronson looked up at her. “My dad’s friend was there too. I don’t know how he got involved or what you guys are mixed up in but some guys grabbed him on the street this afternoon. They didn’t seem very nice. If we don’t figure out what happened to him quick…”
“Nothing worse than a whiney kid,” she said, looking through the windows into the parking lot. “Just quit it… be quiet… I’ll tell you anything you wanna know, sweetie. Might not be much, but maybe it’ll help you find your friend.”
“I’ll take it from here,” Cindy said, stepping in between Bronson and Summer. “So how did you end up on Liberty Pier last night?”
Summer reached into her smock, pulling out a folded piece of paper. She handed it to Cindy. “My acting coach over at Kelly Theater gave me this two days ago. He wasn’t sure who the client was but a gig’s a gig, right?”
Cindy unfolded the paper, a call for performers of all stripes willing to participate in a performance art piece.
“So you went to this address?” she asked.
“Yeah. Creepiest audition I ever been on. They had this skeevy little bald guy sitting at a table. We was supposed to do two monologues in five minutes. So I’m standing there in front of him, doing my best Blanche DuBois, and the guy’s not even listening. He’s just sitting there, reading this paper the guy who let me in gave him. Pretty hard to stay in character in those conditions, you know? So I make it to the end of my monologue and he tells me I got the gig and to show up down at the chemical plant the next day.”
“The chemical plant?” Cindy asked. “You mean Thoth Chemical down by the river?”
“Yeah, that’s the one,” she said.
“Okay, if Stonehouse faked his own death he needed help, right? Gotta get a good cast if you want to put on a good show, right?”
“Maybe Mr. Morgan was working for him too,” Bronson said.
“I’d bet your life on it,” Cindy replied. She turned back to Summer.
“So what happened next?” Bronson asked.
“Well, the creepy guy was there the next day. There was a bunch of us, and not everybody seemed like a professional I’ll tell you that much. So he gave everybody a bag and a list of instructions. Real exact stuff. Times, places, and what we was supposed to do.”
“Where is it?” Cindy asked.
“That’s the thing. He made us burn it when it was all over. Seemed like it was real important. I got a pretty good memory for that kinda stuff, though. My sheet had a picture of this guy on it, same guy you got my number from. It said I should find him and chat him up, maybe get a little flirty, until ‘something happened.’ When the gun went off I figured that was it, so I ditched the guy and used this little bottle of bleach they gave me to wash the blood off the pier.”
“Any idea what the guy’s name was?” Bronson asked.
“You just talked to him. You tell me,” Summer said.
“No, the guy who hired you.”
“Oh yeah. Sure. What was it? Arborton? Appleton?” Summer said.
Cindy and Bronson looked at each other.
“Applebottom,” they said.
The door to The Old Curiosity Shop was open when Bronson got back that evening, which was only unusual because the shop closed an hour before he arrived.
He’d just come from Cindy’s, where they’d spent the afternoon researching this Applebottom character who kept popping up. It turned out he worked as Dexter Stonehouse’s business manager, and after a quick login to the computer in the mayor’s office they had his address. The plan was for Bronson to pick up his costume then for Dogboy to pay Applebottom a personal visit.
Plans change.
Bronson slid through the gap, careful not to bump the door. The shop seemed quiet, and normal, except for one oddity: the hatch which led down to his room was open.
Shoot. My Dogboy stuff is down there, he thought.
He looked around the shop for something he could use, spying a sword in a black sheath hanging over the office door. He retrieved it from the wall then removed it from its sheath. Mr. Horum had told Bronson about the sword, called a kattara, which he’d brought with him from his home nation of Oman. It had a broad tapered double-edged blade, tarnished around the edges, with an iron hilt covered in black leather for a solid grip.
Bronson crept toward the hatch with the kattara out in front of him. He peered down through the hole into the dark room below. Empty.
He put the kattara on the floor next to the ladder then climbed down, retrieving it before stepping off onto the floor.
Bronson looked around the room, under the bed, and behind the TV. Nothing.
A man coughed behind the door to the decaying passageway.
“Anybody there?” he asked. No response.
He stalked up to the door then gripped the doorknob. After taking a deep breath he turned the knob, flinging the door open.
The tunnel was dark, but he could make out the figure of a man in the shadows.
The figure took a few steps toward him. Bronson held the kattara up over his head.
“Don’t come any closer,” he said. “I have a real-life sword here. It’s dangerous. Give me my stuff back and get out or I’m calling the cops.”
“You can’t, though, can you?” the man asked. “The cops are after you too.”
He approached Bronson, stopping just before the light reached him. Bronson looked at him for a moment then put the sword down at his side.
“Me? What are you even talking about, mister? Who are you anyway?” Bronson asked.
“Silly Dogboy. I found the mask. It’s been all over TV for weeks now,” he said.
“Welcome to the at-home game,” Bronson said, cracking the figure over the head with the sword’s hilt.
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