Paddy Whacked Read online

  Paddy Whacked

  By S. Furlong-Bolliger

  Copyright 2011 by S. Furlong-Bolliger

  Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Also by S. Furlong-Bolliger and Untreed Reads Publishing

  Death by Jello

  Christmas in Killarney

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  Paddy Whacked

  By S. Furlong-Bolliger

  No one would have ever expected foul play at the annual Holiday Icon Convention. In fact, security was at a minimum—only a few toy soldiers and a sworded nutcracker, at the most.

  When Inspector Helmes arrived on the scene, the convention floor was in chaos: Old Man Winter was blowing off steam; Frosty was having a meltdown; Baby New Year was in the corner crying like…well, like a baby; and The Great Pumpkin was turning into mush. Panicked whispers resounded from every corner of the room, “Paddy’s been whacked! Paddy’s been whacked!”

  Inspector Helmes turned to his trusty sidekick and muttered under his breath, “Watkins, have you ever seen such a collection of weirdos in your life?”

  Watkins shrugged. “No sir, I haven’t. But, it is St. Patrick’s Day and you know how weird things can get with all the blarney and green beer being passed around.”

  Helmes looked skeptical. “Green beer’s one thing, Watkins, but this place is crawling with lunatics. This may just turn out to be our most perplexing case yet.”

  “I agree, sir,” Watkins replied, motioning toward the far end of the room where an entourage of stiff-looking soldiers had roped off a perimeter around a long mahogany bar. “I believe the body’s this way.”

  The two made their way through the crowd, which consisted mostly of short, green-cloaked men all scurrying about in a hullabaloo. Inspector Helmes bent down to study the victim—a slight-built man with bright red hair and pointy ears. Like the wee people crowded around, he was dressed entirely in green, right down to his green argyle socks. Next to him was an overturned black pot and a broken whiskey bottle. The bottle’s edges were covered in a reddish-brown substance.

  Watkins knelt down by the inspector. “It appears that the victim was hit over the head with that bottle.”

  “It appears so, Watkins,” the inspector agreed. Using a pencil so as not to contaminate the scene, he lifted the victim’s top lip and peered into his mouth. “In addition to the contusion on the back of his skull, it looks like his nose has been broken and several of his front teeth knocked out. The force of the blow must have caused him to fall forward and hit his head against the edge of the bar.”

  “Good observation, sir,” Watkins affirmed.

  Inspector Helmes then tapped the overturned pot with the pencil. A hollow ping echoed back. “Completely empty,” he commented.

  Exclamations broke out in the crowd. “His gold’s been stolen!”

  Inspector Helmes stood and addressed the crowd. “This pot was full of gold?” he asked incredulously.

  “Why of course,” responded one of the wee men. “He was Paddy O’Toole, the grand leprechaun…our leader. It’s only befitting that he would carry the pot of gold.”

  Watkins whispered into the inspector’s ear. “There’s our motive, sir—envy. It had to be one of these little men. You know how leprechauns are about gold.”

  “Perhaps you’re right, Watkins,” Inspector Helmes agreed, surveying the crowd. “Who discovered the body?”

  “That would have been me,” said a portly, white-haired fellow carrying a large sack over his shoulder. “It was a right dreadful thing,” he added with a twinkle in his eye.

  Inspector Helmes studied him suspiciously. He didn’t trust that twinkle. “And you are?” he asked.

  “Nick Claus.”

  “Well then, Mr. Claus, is this exactly how you found the victim?”

  Claus sucked in his gut and let out a loud sigh. “Yes, I’m afraid it is. What a shame. Paddy O’Toole was one of the finest leprechauns in the land. He was our host and keynote speaker for the evening.”

  “Your keynote speaker?”

  Claus nodded. “Yes, he was to give a speech later on this evening about the importance of a diversified stock portfolio in troubled economic times. I understand that he was going to stress the importance of precious metal investments. Mr. O’Toole was an expert on precious metals, especially gold.”

  “I see,” Helmes said. “And you say he was also your host for the evening?”

  “Yes, every year one of us takes a turn hosting the annual HIC.”

  “HIC stands for Holiday Icon Convention, sir,” Watkins interjected.

  “That’s right, Mr. Watkins,” Claus continued. “And every year we have a different host and a different location. Why, just last year Mr. Phil Punxy held a wonderful convention over in Pennsylvania. We feasted on delicious Dutch cuisine and plenty of Hershey chocolate. Of course, I’d have to say, the lighting was peculiar—candlelight only, no overhead bulbs. You know how Phil is about seeing shadows—”

  “Uh hum,” Watkins interrupted. “Stick to the facts, would you please, sir.”

  “Uh, certainly…well, this year, it was Mr. O’Toole’s turn,” Claus resumed. “That’s why were holding the convention on St. Patrick’s Day, eating corned beef and potatoes, and drinking this lovely green beer.” As to emphasize his point, Claus lifted a pint from the bar and took a long swig. A little green foam stuck to his fluffy beard.

  Watkins spoke up. “I see you have a large bag slung over your shoulder. Would you mind telling us what’s in the bag, Mr. Claus?”

  Claus shifted the bag from his shoulder and placed it on the ground with a thump. “This bag? Why, toys of course. I’m the largest toy distributor in the world.”

  Watkins made a move toward the bag, but the inspector held him back. “What time was it when you found the body, sir?” he asked.

  Claus paused, stroking his beard. “Well, it was right after the main course was served. I remember that I came to the bar to get another pint when suddenly the lights went out.”

  “The lights went out?” Watkins asked.

  “Yes, it was the strangest thing. Pitch black it was. Couldn’t see a thing. Now if my trusty friend Rudy would have—”

  Inspector Helmes cleared his throat. “Uhm, how long were the lights out, sir?”

  “I can answer that,” said a voice from behind. They turned to see a white-haired, hunched-back man dressed in a priest’s garb approaching. His staff clicked against the tiled floor as he shuffled along. “The lights were out for precisely twenty-eight seconds.”

  Watkins raised a brow. “Father…?”

  The old man adjusted his white collar and held out his hand. “Father Time. I’m recently retired from the brotherhood. Nowadays my business is just…time.”

  “I appreciate your accuracy, Father. Were you near the bar when the lights went out?” Helmes asked.

  “No, Inspector. I was in the back room, playing poker
with Jack Frost and San D. Mann. I’m sure they will verify my whereabouts.”

  “No need, Father.” Helmes turned his focus back to the crowd and asked, “Who else, besides Mr. Claus, was in the vicinity of the bar at the time the lights went out?”

  There was a slight mummer throughout the group as two other attendees stepped forward. The inspector regarded them curiously and then spoke to the nutcracker who appeared to be the head of security. “Will you please move everyone else to the back of the room? I would like to examine the scene without fear of additional contamination and I will need to question the witnesses in private.”

  The tall soldier snapped to attention. “Of course, Inspector…as you wish.” He then turned and barked out orders. The crowd shuffled toward the back of the room with the encouragement of the soldiers, who butted them with the ends of their wooden rifles.

  As soon as they were alone, Nick Claus stepped forward. “Allow me to introduce my colleagues, Inspector.” He pointed first to a round, hairy fellow with huge front teeth. “This is Peter O’Hare.”

  The hairy fellow bowed, removing his hat in a polite gesture. Inspector Helmes couldn’t help but notice how absurdly long his ear lobes were. He also noticed that O’Hare was carrying a large wicker basket.

  Claus continued, “And, this is Ms. Anita Flossmore.” Helmes and Watkins regarded the strangely dressed woman who was attired in a white power suit with a gold tooth-shaped pin attached to her lapel. Around her waist was an elegant gold belt from which dangled, strangely enough, several different types of pliers, some quite large. She carried a rich looking designer bag in matching white leather and gold accents.

  Helmes whispered into Watkins’ ear. “What icon is she supposed to be?”

  “If I had to venture a guess, I would say that she’s the tooth fairy.”

  Helmes did a double take. “Aren’t you supposed to be in some frilly dress with a wand and wings?” he asked aloud.

  Anita Flossmore rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. That was so pre-feminist movement. Nowadays, I’ve got to fit in at the boy’s club. Know what I mean?”

  Helmes shrugged. “What’s in the bag, Ms. Flossmore? Gold coins?”

  “Coins?” She tipped her head back and laughed. “No, not coins, sir. My business is teeth. I’m carrying a bag full of enamel samples. You could call me an ambassador of sorts for the American Dental Association.”

  Helmes nodded and turned to Mr. O’Hare, regarding his basket. Before he could ask, O’Hare volunteered an explanation. “Nothing but eggs, Inspector. You see, I always carry a sample of my best colors just in case I meet a prospective customer. My success has always depended on my ability to network,” O’Hare offered. “So, you see, you can mark me off your suspect list. I have no use for gold coins.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” Flossmore interrupted. “Ever since the salmonella scare last year, your business has been on the down swing. They’ve been shutting down egg farms all over the country. And I happen to have heard that you’ve been considering Chapter Thirteen.”

  “Simply not true, Inspector,” O’Hare declared defensively, his nose twitching nervously. “I mean, it’s true that my business has taken a hit, but I’ve been able to streamline, cut overhead. I certainly didn’t need those gold coins…however….” He turned an accusing eye on Claus. “Mr. Claus may have. His toy manufacturing company is in trouble. The elves have formed a union and are driving labor costs through the roof. That, plus the rising cost of heating fuel, is cutting into his bottom line. It’s rumored that Mr. Claus is having a difficult time making payroll and that he may have to shut down production for the upcoming season.”

  Claus laughed off the accusation, “Ho, Ho, Ho…that’s ridiculous. Sure, it’s true that the elves have unionized and their demands are steep. Plus, the high cost of heating fuel is making it difficult to keep my business going in the cold North; but I operate with a large profit margin. I can afford a little wiggle room. Besides, just last week, through arbitration, the United Elves Union and I came to an amicable agreement.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it, Claus.” Flossmore’s hands were on her hips, her shoulders moving back and forth to emphasize her point. “I heard the UEU got the better end of the deal. That you’ll be paying out the nose for health care and year-end work bonuses—”

  “Still,” Claus interrupted. He wasn’t looking so jolly anymore. “I can’t seriously be considered a suspect in poor Mr. O’Toole’s demise. I really had no beef with the little man. And, gold coins? Why, my elves pour those out by the millions.”

  “Those are chocolate coins, Claus. Not the real thing,” O’Hare retorted.

  “Yes, chocolate—a real menace to the enamel business,” scowled Flossmore.

  “And the enamel business can’t stand many more menaces can it, Flossmore?” Claus returned.

  The inspector’s brows shot up. “Is there a problem with your enamel business, Ms. Flossmore?” he inquired.

  Flossmore shifted nervously, absently fumbling with her tool belt. “Well, in all honesty, commodities have taken a hit on the market this year. Prices on enamel are tumbling, but fortunately, I was able to diversify before the big enamel crash last month.”

  O’Hare cleared his throat. “Taking such a hit on the markets must be difficult at this time—especially since you’ve just recently built that monstrosity of a home that you call a tooth castle. I bet you’re feeling a little overextended in your mortgage, aren’t you? Maybe even worried about foreclosure?”

  Flossmore laughed, her shiny white teeth gleaming in the light. “Foreclosure? Why that’s ridiculous. I can easily make the payments on my tooth castle. No problem. But I heard that Claus is—”

  Helmes held up a silencing hand, “That’s enough.” His eyes roamed slowly over each suspect as he studied them with interest.

  Watkins pulled him aside and whispered. “A very trying case, indeed. It appears that all three suspects had a clear motive, means, and opportunity. How will you solve this one, sir?”

  “Watkins, you mustn’t give up hope so soon. It’s all just a matter of keen observation,” Helmes replied, bending down for a closer look at O’Toole’s body. Extracting a large magnifying glass, he perused the victim’s green suede jacket. With a pair of tweezers, he extracted what appeared to be a clump of fur from the underside of the man’s sleeve.

  “By golly, sir! Your powers of observation never cease to amaze me!” declared Watkins. “Is that what I think it is?” he asked, holding open a small plastic bag.

  “Fur,” the inspector said matter-of-factly, dropping the clump into the evidence bag.

  “Then the case is solved,” Watkins stated excitingly. “It was that furry fellow, O’Hare! I knew that there was more in that basket of his than just eggs. I’ll have the soldiers arrest him and search—”

  “Not yet, Watkins,” the inspector said. This time he held his magnifying glass over a small black stain on the underside of O’Toole’s right sleeve. Do you see this?”

  Watkins rubbed his chin. “Why yes I do. Some sort of stain.”

  “If you noticed, Watkins, Mr. Claus has a similar stain on the back of his red jacket. I’m sure if we compared the two, we would find them to be exact matches.”

  Watkins smiled knowingly. “Of course…I should have noticed that stain. What do you think it is?”

  “Well, without proper lab analysis I can’t be sure, but my best guess is that it’s soot. I would be willing to bet that Mr. Claus has been in the vicinity of a fireplace lately.”

  “I’m always in awe of your deduction capabilities, sir. I’ll call the soldiers now and have Claus taken into custody. I bet a search of that large bag he carries will reveal more than just toys.”

  Inspector Helmes placed a hand on Watkins’ tweed-clad shoulder. “Not so fast, my fine fellow. You’re jumping to conclusions. While the fur and the soot stain are curious indeed, they don’t necessarily point to foul play by either of the suspects.”
br />   Watkins appeared perplexed. “I’m not sure that I’m following you, sir.”

  “Well, the fur on Mr. O’Toole’s sleeve could have easily been deposited during a handshake. Likewise, the soot stain could be equally as innocent. Perhaps Mr. O’Toole brushed up against Claus earlier in the evening and got some of the soot on his jacket?”

  “Sure, I guess that’s all possible,” Watkins reluctantly agreed. “Alas, I’m afraid we’re back to square one, sir,” he sighed.

  Inspector Helmes smiled reassuringly. “Don’t fret, Mr. Watkins. This is a difficult case indeed. For in this case, it’s not so much what evidence is at the scene, but what is not evident at the scene.”

  “What do you mean, sir?”

  Inspector Helmes knelt down by the victim’s face. “Do you remember that earlier we deduced that the blow to Mr. O’Toole’s head caused him to fall forward and hit his face on the edge of the bar?”

  “That’s right. We had noticed that several of his teeth were knocked out.”

  Inspector Helmes simply nodded.

  Watkins slapped his palm against his forehead. “And, the teeth are nowhere to be found. Of course! It should have been obvious to me. I’ll have Anita Flossmore arrested and that bag that she carries confiscated, sir.”

  Helmes nodded his approval.

  “Congratulations on another good case, sir.” Watkins commented, extending his hand.

  Helmes returned the shake and smiled. “Perhaps the luck of the Irish was with us on this one, Watkins.”

 

 

  Susan Furlong-Bolliger, Paddy Whacked

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