"Well," Inspector Andrew Clue said with deep deliberation, "the post mortem
revealed that how the Native American victim died was from being force-fed
massive amounts of Bran Flakes. Obviously it was the work of a cereal
killer. The body was found in one of his tepees; therefore, I've concluded,
with some reservation, that his suffering was intense.""What was the victim's occupation?" asked the inspector's eager young apprentice who heretofore hadn't had A. Clue to guide him, "And what was the motive?"
"He was a masseuse," answered the inspector, stroking his chin. "He probably rubbed someone the wrong way."
"Ms. Flaker, you're just the woman I've been searching for. I find the sound of your voice very exciting!" he said, with what Flammie assumed was desire - as indeed it was, but not quite the kind she imagined. "Wait right here until I get what I need from the bedroom."
While thoughts of seduction, conversion, sainthood, and fame inflamed Flammie's brain, Bertie searched frantically for his tape recorder and a few fresh cassettes. Flammie was indeed what he needed to launch his study of the region's peculiar dialect, the better to prepare himself to write the definitive study of what he'd taken the liberty of calling "Hillbonics: The Grammar, Syntax, Vocabulary, and Pronunciation of West Virginia Dialectical Variations as a Subset and/or Digression of the Standard English Vernacular," the publication of which would establish his integrity as a linguist, guarantee his appointment to a full professorship at a prestigious Ivy League College, and impress his older brother who -as a successful used-car salesman - was forever belittling Bertie's academic interests.
As Flammie waited, her patience giving way to nervousness when Bertie seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time in the bedroom, she ate the rest of the fig newtons and contemplated how best to begin the seduction. After unbuttoning the top three buttons of her blouse and kicking off her shoes, she struck what she believed was a provocative pose in the open doorway, the better for the sunlight to glint off her artfully lacquered curls.
At that moment, Bertie - clutching his recorder - emerged from the bedroom, gaped in Flammie's direction, and muttered, "Omigod!" with what Flammie assumed was wild desire, but what was in reality a warning to Flammie to move aside as an enormous hog raced across the porch and toward the open door. Not heeding the warning - indeed, not knowing it was a warning to be heeded - Flammie was struck full force from behind by the desperate Petunia and knocked into Bertie, who fell beneath Flammie as Petunia galloped over them both and sought refuge under the bed. When Flammie came to, confused though she was, she was certain the earth had moved. Seeing Bertie beneath her, she thoughtfully asked, "Was it good for y'all, too?" but Bertie, still unconscious, was not the one who replied, "In God's name, Flammie, what have you done?!"
Flem, who had just now arrived with Sofie Mae and was already upset about the pig poop damage to his upholstery, couldn't believe his eyes!
Meanwhile, perched on his deer stand back on Widow's Peak, Samuel M. ("Slam") Dunkin watched his brother Kix pilot the patrol car down the precipitous mountain road and reflected that his brother had all the luck-an exciting job, a nice car that he didn't even have to make payments on, and the affections of the widow Marvella Maypole. Slam, whose life had been plagued by series of bad luck incidents, had never gotten over being fired from his job as basketball coach by the Widow's Peak school board who wanted to use the money they'd save by firing him to hire a math teacher. Slam had tried to explain that most of the kids would never even have any need for math-not having any money to count-but they'd always play basketball, but the school board just wouldn't listen to reason. He still bore a grudge against all the surviving members of the board-too bad about Maynard Maypole's mysterious cave-in accident, Slam chuckled to himself-and always kept his deer rifle loaded just in case he ran across any of the rest of them.
Just then, Slam heard-or thought he heard-something crashing through the trees on the north side of the peak. Suddenly, he recalled the stories Kix used to tell him about the Peak's Pike, a giant ghost fish with a taste for human flesh, that was rumored to rise from the lake and scale the peak while looking for its next victim. Slam tried vainly to dismiss the image from his mind-as a child, he always used to wet the bed when Kix told him those stories long ago-but the tell-tale dampness creeping down his legs told him that some things cannot be so easily dismissed.
He looked down over the edge of the building. There were small things moving around down there, Cars, people and the like.
And the time his sister told his one and only girlfriend that he still wet the bed on occasion. She wouldn't even look at him at school the next day and he knew it was over. Too bad she was the only girl he had ever really cared for. Life had been cruel to him and he really couldn't see continuing it.
He chanced another peek. Man, it was a long way down. The breeze up here was getting a little stronger now.
