Grimm Tales (7 page)

Come on, time is money. Don't sit there staring.

I'm a busy man, after all.

Henry, Gina and the Gingerbread House

By Kaye George

My Fairy Tale Crime Story is an updated, hard-boiled takeoff on “Hansel and Gretel.” But I think the original was quite hard-boiled, too. Aren't all fairy tales?

“Get in there and fess up, you little hoodlums.” Vanessa shoved Henry and Gina toward the door of the Gingerbread House. “And quit sniveling, Gina. I know you're faking.”

Gina leveled a cold laser stare at her stepmother.
And quit sniveling
. It hadn't taken the bitch long to figure her out, Gina reflected. The fake crying had only worked for about a month or so. Henry had had the same luck with his stomachaches. Except Gina knew those were real. That red-headed she-devil could give anyone a stomachache.

A bell, shaped like a heart, tinkled innocently as Vanessa flung the door open and pushed the children inside the candy shop.

The blowsy bleached-blond owner, Brenda Pritchard, ambled through the beaded curtains from the kitchen and squinted at them.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice was light and thin. Gina thought it was a nice contrast to the heavy, thick goodies in the glass cases, Brenda's heavy, thick body, and her heavy, thick glasses.

Vanessa put on her sweetness-and-light face, but it almost cracked under the thick makeup from the effort. “Yes, you can. The children would like to tell you something.”

Both women waited and stared at the kids. Gina considered trying the snivel again. Henry bent over slightly with a pained look on his face.

Gina grimaced and stepped forward. “We shoplifted some crap. The old lady wants us to tell you that.”

Brenda's eyes grew large in her smooth, bland face. “Such language from such a young child,” she said.

Not all that young, thought Gina. She and Henry were ten, after all. Not babies.

“Yeah, well…” Gina jerked her head toward Vanessa. “She made me say it.”

Gina could almost detect the steam rising from the top of Vanessa's red hair.

“I did not tell you to—never mind. The children stole from your store and need to make restitution.”

“What did you take?”

Gina thought Brenda gave Henry a look of pity. He was bent over even further, pressing his small fist into his belly.

“Just some chocolate shit, a couple truffles,” said Gina.

“And?” prompted Vanessa.

“Some turtles,” Henry said through clenched teeth.

“You had half a dozen truffles left when I found you with them,” sneered Vanessa. “And at least that many turtles.”

“Yeah, well, you enjoyed 'em, didn't you?” said Gina. She ducked, expecting a slap, but Vanessa apparently didn't want to abuse them in public. It was the first standard Gina had discovered in the woman. What had her father been thinking, bringing that bitch into their home?

They'd been devastated by their mother's death to cancer, but the three of them had been getting along all right. They would have been okay eventually. If Vanessa hadn't shown up. Then their father shipped out to the latest war zone and abandoned them to her. That's when the stepmother had shown her true, wicked nature.

Brenda put her nose next to the glass case below her and peered in. “I kind of wondered where all those truffles went.”

“How much do they owe you?”

“Quite a bit,” said Brenda. “The truffles are three dollars each. I use only the freshest ingredients and everything is made by—”

“And how much for the turtles?” said Vanessa.

“They're even more. I buy the pecans shelled to ensure freshness and have to—”

“How long will it take them to work it off?”

“Work it off?” Brenda frowned.

Gina noticed, when she lowered them, that she did actually have eyebrows, but they were awfully thin and light colored. “I…I don't know. I'm not sure—”

“I'll be back later,” said Vanessa, and banged the door shut on her exit. The little heart-shaped bell clanged and swung crazily.

Gina thought, at first, that Brenda would be a pushover, an easy mark. She was blind as a bat so they ought to be able to get away with anything. There had been worrisome stories about children entering the candy shop and never being seen again, but Gina never believed them.

Brenda set them to polishing the glass on the display cases first, then told them to scrub the metal counters in the kitchen. When Gina announced she was done, Brenda ran her hands over the counters and told Gina to start over. Gina had to pick the sticky goo off with her fingernails. Henry was given a bucket and a heavy rag mop and told to swab the kitchen floor. It was even worse than the counters. He ended up on his hands and knees, scouring with a wire pad after Brenda checked his work, again with a sweep of her lily-white hands.

A huge stone fireplace with a raised hearth took up a corner. Gina eyed it, afraid they might have to clean it out, but it looked like it hadn't been used in ages.

The siblings plumped down on the bench against the wall when they'd finished the counters and floors, proud of their work. Brenda was in front with customers, telling them how fresh her ingredients were, so they took a break for a few minutes and admired the immaculate surfaces. That was the last time they rested that day.

When Brenda came back to the kitchen and saw them sitting, she turned into a light-complexioned version of Vanessa. Her shrill screech was even more annoying than Vanessa's nasal whine.

“What are you brats doing sitting there? When you finish a task, you come to me and find out what your next one is.” She took them each by an ear. “Do you understand?” She shook them so that Gina thought her ear would be pulled off.

Brenda pulled a stool next to the sink. Dismay tore at Gina when she climbed up and saw the deep sink filled with greasy, gray water and full of crusted baking pans.

To Gina's amazement, the old witch sat Henry at the counter and put a plate of cookies in from of him. “You're too thin,” she said. She took his hand and felt his fingers. “Much too thin.”

When he finished the cookies, she gave him a piece of coconut cake, thick with white frosting, and a tall glass of chocolate milk.

Gina muttered to herself as she scrubbed away at the sink until time for the shop to close. She smiled when she peered through the beads and saw Brenda flip the sign over and lock the front door. At last, their day of labor was over. They could go home to their own beds. Even with Vanessa there, it would be better than this labor camp.

But Brenda phoned Vanessa and it didn't sound good. “Yes, there's plenty more they could—you think I should keep them? Where will they sleep?… Well, that will be all right, I guess…. Oh no, there's lots more to—maybe a week, would that be okay? Oh, then I'll wait to hear from you.”

Gina and Henry stared at each other. They had to stay here a week? Maybe more? They'd be dead by then.

Brenda gave Gina some stale bread and a glass of water, but fed Henry leftover bon bons and fudge. She then handed them two threadbare blankets and locked them both in a bare pantry off the kitchen for the night. The stone floor was cold, hard and slightly damp. They huddled together for warmth and comfort.

In the morning, a pattern was established that lasted for the rest of the week. Henry stayed locked in the pantry, fed every two hours or so. Sometimes it was actual food with vegetables and meat, but a lot of it was pastry and candy, even milkshakes and ice cream. Gina had thin gruel for breakfast and lunch, with stale bread for supper, and always water to drink.

Every evening, Brenda would unlock the pantry door, open it just a slit, and have Henry stick his hand out so she could feel his fingers. “Not fat enough,” she muttered every night. Then she shoved Gina into the pantry and locked it tight.

One night, when they'd been there over a week, the two of them whispered together, trying to figure out what was going on.

“Why does she want me to be so fat?” said Henry.

“I can't imagine. Maybe she wants you to match her?”

“She licks her lips when she feels my fingers. It's disgusting.”

“I see her eye that big fireplace while she does it, too. She had me stack firewood on the hearth today.”

They couldn't see each other in the inky darkness, but they grabbed each other's hands.

“Do you think—” started Henry.

“—she wants to—” said Gina.

“—eat me?”

“Is that what happened to all the missing children?” hissed Gina.

They clutched each other tight and sobbed for a good ten minutes.

“OK,” said Gina. “Let's think. She wants you fatter. If you don't get fatter, she won't eat you.”

“How can I not get fat when she feeds me all that stuff?”

“Don't eat it, silly.”

“She checks all the corners with a bright flashlight every time she comes in here with more food. At lunch today I didn't finish all my fried chicken and she sat here until I poked it down.”

“I'm surprised you haven't thrown up yet.”

“I've felt like it!”

Gina thought for a moment and picked at the cold floor beneath her. An idea began to form. “I wonder if any of these stones are loose.”

“Let's find out,” said Henry, sounding happier and more energetic than he had since they'd arrived at the Gingerbread House Candy Shop.

They picked at the spaces between the stones on the floor until late at night. Then they started in on the walls. When Gina was halfway up the outside wall, she drew in a sharp breath.

“What is it, sis?” whispered Henry and scooted over to her.

“I think I found something. Help me.”

They both picked at the loose grouting around the loose stone until they were able to remove it. As near as they could figure, a window had once been in the wall. It must have been sealed with stones, but there was an opening between the stones and the boards where the window had been.

“There's plenty of room to hide your food here,” said Gina.

“And you can help me eat it at night.”

Gina could tell there was a smile on Henry's face.

They wrapped their arms around each other and slept on the hard floor, hope in their hearts at last.

The next day, after her latest task, Gina decided to move things along.

Brenda told her to bait the rat traps behind the shop, next to the trash bins. She fastened a chain around the girl's ankle and secured it to the back door so she wouldn't escape.

“Be damn sure you don't get any of that poison in the kitchen,” Brenda said. “I don't want any dead customers.” She left to whip up some divinity while Gina took great care to put the poison into the traps without getting any on herself. She didn't want to end up dead, either. But she knew someone she did want dead.

Two days later Brenda doubled over with a terrible stomachache in the early afternoon. She flipped the sign to “closed” and shoved Gina into the closet in the middle of the day. Gina heard the lock turn in the door, then heard Brenda tromp up the stairs to her apartment over the shop.

Gina and Henry worked at the loose stones, unafraid of being overheard. They were able to dislodge three more, enough that Henry could squeeze into the space and work at prying the plywood loose. Meanwhile, Gina got three more stones removed. It took until dusk, but they were finally able to crawl out of the pantry.

“Now what?” asked Henry. “I don't really want to go home.”

“I don't think I do either.” Gina grinned. “I fixed it so we can get back inside.”

Henry gave a frightened glance at the window of his former prison.

“No, not there,” said Gina. She led him around to the back, where she had left the door unlocked after emptying wastebaskets earlier.

The next morning, after Gina and Henry washed up at the sink, Gina flipped the sign back to say “Open.”

“Let's run the shop,” she said.

Henry grinned. “Let's.”

Vanessa never returned for them. They figured their father might have gotten killed overseas. Or maybe Vanessa told him they were gone when he returned.

Brenda kept to her bed, wasting away on a diet of arsenic. Gina had a lawyer draw up papers deeding the shop to them if she should die and Brenda, too weak to protest, signed them.

The shop was a huge moneymaker. Henry's thumb was a little heavy on the scale. Gina substituted some ingredients that may not have been the freshest, but still tasted all right, and kept the prices where they were, doubling, then tripling their profit margin.

By the time Brenda passed away, and after they sold the shop, they had enough wealth to fly to Acapulco, where they stayed for several years. They eventually opened a bar on the beach in California, when they were old enough to get a license. Henry poured the drinks a little light and Gina made some errors making change, always in their favor. They never thought about returning home.

Han and Greta

By Blu Gilliand

Many of the original fairy tales have a dark side, but this one is really twisted: missing children, strange adults luring kids with candy, and even a hint of cannibalism. It just jumped out to me as the perfect foundation for a dark noir story, and I'm pleased with how it turned out.

The house was brick, which was a surprise considering a carpenter lived there. It seemed to Grimm that it would be in the union by-laws: Woodworkers must live in wood houses. Support the brotherhood and all that. Putting bread on a bricklayer's table? Hell, it almost came off as lazy.

He knocked on the door, which opened before his knuckles had time to make contact twice. A woman stood there, a nice-looking woman with distress seeping from her eyes. Her hair, blonde, flew away from her head in places, like she'd been running her fingers through it instead of using a brush.

“Detective Grimm?”

He flashed his ID, nodded. She squinted at the big, shiny badge.

“Please come in. My husband called you. He's in the kitchen.”

She pointed at a room to the right of the foyer. Her hand was full of a drinking glass; the glass was half full of something amber eating away at a couple of ice cubes. Scotch, Grimm guessed. And here it was, not even lunchtime yet.

“Do you think you can find them?”

“That's the plan,” he said. She nodded, took a long pull off the glass.

“Drink?”

He shook his head and walked into the kitchen. The carpenter sat at a table, his hands clasped around a steaming coffee cup like he was trying to choke information out of it. The table was a rough slab of hard oak. Probably he'd built it himself.

About time he did some work around here
, Grimm thought.

“Sir?”

The man looked up. “You Peter Grimm?”

Grimm flashed his ID again. The carpenter motioned to the chair across from him. “Have a seat,” he said. “I'll get her to get you some coffee.”

“She's already offered Scotch,” Grimm said.

“It's not even lunch, she's boozing,” the carpenter moaned. “What's that gonna help?”

“Not passing judgment,” Grimm said. “Just letting you know she offered.”

The carpenter sighed, took a sip of coffee and looked up at Grimm. His eyes were the red-rimmed, exhausted eyes of a man who's gone three rounds in a staring contest with Hell.

“My children,” he said. “Someone took my children.”

* * *

Grimm asked her to join them at the table, as she was the one who'd last seen the kids. She brought pictures of them to the table. They were twins, cuter than their names, lucky for them. They were his, not hers. She was the second wife.

“Tell me what happened.”

“We went for a walk,” she said. “In the woods yesterday. They love to explore. He was working, and they were bored, so I took them out. We followed a trail, one we always follow. It goes down to the river. They kept running ahead, going around bends where I couldn't see them. I'd holler for them to stop, to wait. They did, but they kept getting further and further ahead. They got so far ahead I couldn't see them or hear them. I kept yelling, but they were gone.”

“Did you see anyone else around?”

“No. I followed the trail all the way down to the river. They weren't there. I came back up the trail, yelling the whole time. It was dark when I got home. I could barely talk.”

“Did you check the woods around the trail?”

“Some,” she said. “I was afraid to go in too far and get lost. There's not a lot around here. I keep telling him we should move, this is no place to raise kids, but he wouldn't listen. We should be in the city.”

“The city,” he said. “With the gangs and the guns. My kids were safe here.”

“Really?” she said. “You still say that?”

“You always say they're going to get lost. They know these woods like their own hands. Only you make them stick to the trail. Before you, they are all over the place. They still know the woods. I know they're not lost. That's why I know someone took them.”

“Has there been any contact from anyone? Ransom notes or demands?”

“Nothing,” he said.

He thought for a moment. Looked at the photographs. They were ten, with bright, quizzical eyes. He didn't think they were lost, either. He turned to her.

“Take me to where you last saw them.”

* * *

What he really thought was that they were hiding from her. He guessed this because of the way the two parents approached the situation. She was annoyed, angry, a little embarrassed. He was distraught, angry, a little desperate. It seemed to him that the kids were trying to prove a point, and she knew it, and didn't like it one bit.

She walked ahead of him, refreshed glass of Scotch in manicured hand, leading the way. The carpenter wanted to come, but Grimm told him to stay. In case the kids showed up. Really, though, he just wanted to get her alone, see what else he could get out of her.

“Right here,” she said. They had just come out of a bend in the trail. Here the trail ran straight down a steep slope and curved out of sight about fifty yards away. They'd gotten ahead of her, running down a hill she couldn't navigate in heels. Gone around the corner and stayed gone.

“How far from here to the river?”

“I don't know,” she said around another gulp of Scotch. “Half a mile? A mile? A long way.” She wiped sweat from her forehead at the thought of it.

“You went all the way to the end?”

“Yes. As I told you. Went to the river, came back, hollering for those little brats. They always do this kind of stuff.” She lowered her voice, sharing a secret between the two of them. “I don't think anyone got them. I think they're hiding. I think if we wait until dark, they'll come back.”

“Well, they've already spent one night in the woods, right? So that's no guarantee.”

Another long pull off the short glass. “Yeah. I guess so.”

“Why don't you go on back and wait with him? I can follow it from here. See what I can see. Maybe they'll be back.”

“Maybe,” she said. She finished off the drink, slivers of ice sticking to the sides of the expensive glass.

“Might want to lay off the drinking,” he said. “Could be a long few days ahead.”

“Well, thanks for the advice,” she said. She tipped the glass again, tongued the ice chips into her mouth as if to say, I'll drink what I want, when I want.

He shrugged and began walking down the hill.

* * *

Where they were, it was dark, and warm, and smelled of sugar, and they were terrified.

Greta had called the thing they were in a big birdcage. Han said it looked like a stripper cage. He'd seen them in a video, this rock band wailing away while girls danced in a couple of cages like this hanging above the stage. They sat in it, side-by-side, backs pressed against the cold steel bars, every movement causing the thing to pendulum slowly back and forth.

“Stop moving it,” she hissed. “It's gonna fall.”

“Maybe it would break,” he said. “We could get out.”

“She would hear it and come in here,” Greta said. “Come and get us.”

“She's not going to do anything,” Han said.

“She's going to eat us,” Greta said.

Han wanted to say “No, she's not,” but he couldn't. Because that's what the lady had told them she was going to do.

Your mommy doesn't know it, but I'm going to fatten you up and eat you up.

She's not our mommy!
Greta had cried, but the woman had turned from them and gone into the other room, where the sounds and smells were coming from. Pots and pans rattling. A squeaky oven door opening and closing, opening and closing. Pounding and scraping and the whirr of a blender, all of it underscored with the lady's flat, toneless singing:

He hugged his sister closer. “Don't worry. I'll save us.” But he was only ten, and he didn't know how.

In the other room, someone knocked on the door. The other sounds stopped. They heard the woman plunk something down on the counter. She opened the door and poked her head inside, a shaft of light slicing through the darkness to illuminate her doughy face, mismatched eyes and horrible crooked nose.

“Not a word, my pretties,” she said. “Be so still and so quiet now.” She held a finger, impossibly long and many-jointed, to her lips and smiled, showing blackened teeth as pointed as shark fins. She slid out of the light and pulled the door tight.

Greta began to cry.

“It's someone,” Han said. “Someone come to help us.”

But it wasn't.

* * *

“Surprised to see you here,” the old crone said.

“I'm surprised to be here,” the carpenter's second wife said. “But I had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“That they're gone. My husband called someone. A detective. He's out there now, snooping around in the woods.”

“He didn't follow you, now did he?”

“No, I sent him the other way. Down the path to the river.”

“Good, good. Well, there's nothing to see here, anyway.”

“You finished the—you finished it?”

“Told you I would,” the old woman said. “They're sleeping now, in the arms of Mother Earth.”

“What does that mean?”

“Dead,” the old woman said flatly. “Dead and buried and gone, gone, gone.”

“Where?”

“You don't need to know. And you don't need to be here. Scoot on back to your house, now. Enjoy your husband, without the troublesome noise and interference of the children. Enjoy his money and his attention.”

“What are you doing in here?”

“Baking,” the old woman said. “I have a sweet tooth.”

“Don't you like anything but gingerbread?”

“Oh yes,” the old woman crooned. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Got a drink?” The carpenter's second wife held up her empty glass.

“Milk,” the old woman said. The carpenter's second wife rolled her eyes. “Sorry, but it's all I drink. Goes good with the sweets.” She bent and opened the oven. The door screeched. She brought out a baking sheet covered with gingerbread.

“How about a bathroom, then? I've had three of these—” Again, she shook the glass. “—and I need to go.”

“No bathroom,” the old woman said. “Go use your own. Get back, before that detective you so stupidly led into the woods gets back and wonders where you are.”

“Excuse me?”

“You are a fool,” the old woman said. “And you are keeping me from my sweets. Now get out.”

“I paid you good money.”

“Yes,” the old woman said. “You paid me good money to kill your husband's children. And that I've done. I owe you nothing more, not a drink of milk or a pot to piss in. Now go!”

“Don't yell at me, you crazy old hag!”

“What's that now, dearie?” Her voice had gone flat again, and cold as a stream in winter.

“N-nothing,” the second wife said. “It's been…a long day. I'm sorry. I'm going now.” She moved to the door, but the old woman moved faster, slamming the door with the disjointed, wiggling fingers of her free hand. The other hand had been filled with the thick wooden handle of a long, gleaming knife.

“You don't want to be yelling,” the old woman said. “This is my happy place. My gingerbread house. You don't want to come in here and spoil it.”

“No.”

“I have your money. I've done the job. I want to be left alone.”

“Yes. You will. I will.”

“Will you, now?” The mismatched eyes narrowed. “I don't know. You bring a detective into the woods. You come back here to make sure I've done the job. How many times will you come back? How many chances to be followed? To bring others here, and ruin my gingerbread house?”

“None. I promise. I won't ever come back.”

The old woman held the knife up. The sharp point twinkled in the light. “I don't believe you,” she said. She took in a great, gasping breath and tensed, ready to bring the blade down. But the door burst open, and the air filled with a popping sound, and the woman looked down to see two bright blooms spreading on her chest.

“Drop it,” Peter Grimm said.

She hissed, a horrible, sandpaper rasp of pain and anger, and took a quick step toward him. He fired again, putting one through her throat. She fell, landing on the open oven door, which tore loose from its hinges and crashed to the floor. Her head and shoulders flopped into the oven. Hair and fabric began to blacken, then burn.

“Oh thank you, thank you!” the carpenter's second wife cried.

“You're under arrest,” Peter Grimm told her. He pointed at the open window. “She was right. You are a fool. You talk too much. Maybe because you drink too much.” He took out a pair of handcuffs, tightened one around her wrist and latched the other to the refrigerator door. “You're also way too easy to follow.”

He grabbed the old woman's ankle and yanked. Her head hit the floor with a thud. The smell of burning hair made the detective and the carpenter's second wife cough. He grabbed a bowl from the counter, ran some water into it, and dumped it over the old woman's smoldering head.

“You can't prove anything,” the carpenter's second wife said.

“Here, here, in here!” Two voices, small, frightened, urgent, coming through a closed bedroom door. Grimm walked over, raised his gun, kicked the door in. Saw the cage, suspended by rusty chains from an exposed beam. Saw the two kids from the picture. The boy looked over him, into the kitchen at the woman cuffed to the refrigerator.

“You,” the boy said. “You do talk too much.”

* * *

They all went back to the carpenter's house, Peter Grimm and the carpenter's second wife and Han and Greta. The carpenter wept when his children walked through the door. He seemed neither surprised nor sad to see his second wife in custody.