Who Got the Meat Came Off Them Bones? - William B. Naylor (free e reader txt) 📗

Who Got the Meat Came Off Them Bones?
A Darce Vardy Novel
by
William B. Naylor


July 2011

Copyright 2010 by William B. Naylor
ISBN: 978-0-98668 94-0-6


All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

License Notes

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Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

wbnaylor@rocketmail.com

Of course the characters and events within this story are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or alive, is coincidental and not intended by the author. In other words everything in this novel is true except the parts I made up.


Will Naylor has been telling and writing stories since he learned to talk. His big break came in Grade two when the teacher hung a composition in the hall with all the other brain scientists, or is that rocket surgeons? Any case, to see more set your browser to
:http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/wbnaylor


“Who gathers knowledge, gathers pain.”
Eccles. 1:18

This work is dedicated with gratitude to my first reader and biggest supporter my patient, encouraging, far sighted wife Francine.


Had he known where the ring-ring-ring would take him, Darce Vardy might have ignored it. He was deep into that boy and his dog dream, again, listening to his mother ask his father what was she going to feed them for God's sake! - the four tiny puppies he'd dumped onto the poor woman's clean kitchen floor. They were less than eighteen hours old and already orphaned. Four German Shepherd orphans fresh from the Dutchman's barn.

* * * * * * * * * * *
Chapter 1: Try These, Why Don't You, Mr. Vardy?
A man has three options when faced with an insistent woman: love her, suffer for her or turn her into art.

"Help me! Help me, please!"

Darce struggled to focus his attention on the handset. It was a girl's voice; shrill with terror, but teasingly familiar. Whose voice was it?

Saturated with sleep, his mind reeled with images from dream scenes. If I could just get a minute to wake up, I'd be able to figure this out. Then it hit him. Elizabeth Edison. It was the voice of thirteen-year-old Elizabeth Edison. She wouldn't be thirteen now, but he was certain it was her. Last time he'd heard that voice was in Family Court. After Auntie Millicent had 'accidentally' forgotten she'd locked the child in a closet under the stairs.

For three days.

Before he could say anything, the phone crackled with what sounded like a disconnecting click. Then a different, very chilling voice came on.

"As I said when last we met, Mr. Vardy, the most famous riddle in all of literature was the riddle Sphinx posed to young Oedipus. You seemed not to know of it then. Have you familiarized yourself with it yet?"

"Is that what this is about; solving riddles in the middle of the night? How did you get this number?"

"I will ask the questions, Mr. Vardy, if you please. Do you remember the riddle or not?"

"Is that the riddle about the legs?"

"Yes, it is. The infamous Sphinx terrorized the people of Thebes by forcing their young men to solve a riddle. 'What has one voice and walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at midday, and three legs in the evening?' If they failed to answer correctly, they were eaten alive."

"Oedipus told the Sphinx the answer to her riddle was man. Man crawls on all fours as a baby, walks on two legs as a grown up and uses a cane in old age."

"Correct again, Mr. Vardy. Yes, as a matter of fact, he did. However, did I know you would rise to the occasion? You see the mythic Oedipus of this story is a sort of hero of mine. He too started life as an outcast, deformed and shunned."

Darce visualized her dead smile and the shiny waxy skin on the blotched, patchy side of her face. And how, when she spoke it was more out of one side of her mouth. The left half of her face was stiff and pasty as a pie crust. But what does any of this have to do with me? Why is she talking in riddles? And why call now, in the middle of the night?

"Outcast or not he rose to the occasion. He was measured, and he was tested, and you'll be happy to know he was not found wanting. Is that not what heroes are about? Single-handedly, he ended the unholy Sphinx's reign of terror - using only his wits. Poor Sphinx, she was so distraught she took her own life. Her death, of course, represents the victory of culture over the mindlessness of nature; proving that man is indeed, the measure of all things."

Silence.

Darce continued to stare straight ahead at the black blotches Picasso had artfully used to imply a spidery, long-legged Don Quixote. It had always been one of his favorite prints, even if it was only a big box store copy.
Receiving no response she continued, "Like Sphinx, I believe riddles are an effective way to measure a man’s character. I do so hope we are in agreement about this."

"So that's what this is about: riddles?"

"Is life ever that simple, Mr. Social Worker? Afraid not. I’m calling to invite you to take up the burden of your mission and to caution you of the seriousness of failing to acquit yourself in a suitable manner. In either of these cases, young Elizabeth will suffer a long, agonizing death."

What the hell is she on about? And why.
Darce's mind was racing. "Millicent, you can't be serious -"

"Time will tell, Mr. Vardy, time will tell. Before we go on, I do think we should clarify the ground rules. No police this time, only your wits or it's over."

"Why me?"

"Perhaps I was struck by your demeanor, when first young Elizabeth brought you into my life."

During the Family Court proceedings Millicent Worthington had displayed a shrewd, quick intelligence, presenting arguments far too cogent to stand alongside the 'Oh, I must have forgotten' story she used to explain her negligence. And yet, despite my best efforts, Darce thought, I had been unable to convince the judge to remove the child from the Aunt's custody. If the system had done its job then I wouldn't be caught in the middle of this madness.

"Okay, enough! Let's try another riddle, Mr. Vardy, shall we? How about this: 'there's one in every corner and two in every room'. And no, it is not a rotten child." Her chuckle sounded like dry, old paper rustling.

The trick to solving riddles, Darce thought, scrambling to review what little he could remember about them, is almost always in rephrasing the central question.

"Well, come on, now."

"Could you repeat the question, please?"

The clap of her hands was like the crack of a starter’s pistol. "You really must learn to listen, young man. And do try harder to remain present. Here and now, if you please. Never mind, I have another. 'Luke has one in front and Paul has one in back. Girls have one but boys don't. Mrs. McMullen has two. What are they?'"

All he could think of was the old high school joke the boys used to start conversations with the girls. 'Got any holes in your socks, sweetheart? No? Well, how'd you get them on, then?' Wait a minute, he thought. Like jokes riddles play off the unexpected...

"Very well then, Mr. Vardy, listen closely. I am about to give you the information required to solve the most important riddle in young Elizabeth's life. Do I have your attention?"

"Just give me a minute to –"

"This really is no time for tomfoolery, Mr. Vardy. I am only going to say this once. Four prisoners are buried to their chins in sand. They are unable to turn their heads. Nor can they lift them up or down. Each can see only that which is directly in front of them."
Scrambling, Darce tried again to find a pen and something to write on. The drawer, he thought. Look in the drawer.

"One prisoner, the one on the far right, is separated from the other three by a high brick wall. The other three are buried one behind the other, Indian file, on the opposite side of the wall, also facing it. Two of the four prisoners are wearing black hats and two are wearing white. If any one prisoner can identify the color of their own hat all four will be set free."

"Wait now. You said four, one on the right of the wall and three on the left –"

"You'll have to do better than that, Mr. Smarty Vardy."

And that is precisely why she chose to place this call in the middle of the night, he thought, to catch me off guard - confuse me.

Finally! - a pen that works.

"They have only negative logic with which to free themselves, as do you and young Elizabeth. How would it look if you were to fail, Mr. Children's Aid Society?"

Scribbling as he listened, he said, "Why don't we -”

"Trace the call and spoil everything? No, Mr. Vardy, I have taken the measure of your character. And now, like it or not, you are to be tested. I do so hope you won't disappoint me. After all, dear Elizabeth's life is entirely dependent on your efforts.

Yes, I can just imagine the headlines:

'Mummified Body of Teen Found in Airless Chamber!'

"Millicent, if you have a beef with me why not -"

"Oh, and there is one final consideration.

Each prisoner is to make only one statement about the color of their own hat. If the statement is correct, all four are set free. If wrong, all four die. You have whatever air is left in Elizabeth's chamber, sir. Good luck and goodbye."

"Wait! They're both letter riddles. The answer to the first one is the letter 'O'. 'There's one in every corner and two in every room.' The answer to the second one is the letter 'L'. Luke has one in front and Paul has one in back. Girls have one but boys don't. Mrs. McMullen has two," he said in a walk-the-gang-plank rush.

"Well, it seems I may have underestimated you a tad, Mr. Vardy."

"For the love of God, Millicent, stop this foolishness right now before somebody gets hurt. That child's life is --."

"Elizabeth's life is in your hands now, Mr. Vardy."