MINUTE MYSTERY

Flash Fiction for the Mystery Lover in a Hurry
March 2007

MysteryAuthors.com accepts regular contributions of flash fiction. For submission guidelines click here.

Featured Flash:

THE DISPOSABLE SOCIETY
By Will Farrell

Seeing the yellow Jeep near Wendell Grove's apartment building was no surprise. Wendell was famous for it. He was the billionaire who lived a blue collar life, same as his employees and his customers. Not that a photo of any of them in shirtsleeves, driving a middle class ride, was worthy of a national magazine cover.

That Wendell's daughter had reported him missing a week ago did not make the sight of the Jeep a surprise, either. Since I'd been looking for him, I'd seen the vehicle on every street the guy had been known to frequent. What few people seemed to know was that he owned a fleet of yellow Jeeps. He had them parked around town in locations where he might need them. When one developed mechanical problems, he simply junked it. Not quite the middle class approach to transportation, but typical of the Wendell I had come to understand.

Rather than burden himself with the trappings of his wealth, the man used his fortune to shed the nuisance work that plagued the rest of us. He never did laundry; he discarded soiled things and took what he needed from the tons of clothing that moved through his stores. He had several apartments. When one needed cleaning, he simply lived in another until the work was done.

I came to admire his approach. He was a refreshing change from the narcissistic, celebrity millionaires who reveled in rubbing everyone else's nose in their money. He enjoyed his wealth without becoming obnoxious. Still, it made trying to find him difficult. Given his ever-wandering residence, I had to wonder if he was really missing, or whether he’d simply gone to new digs without telling anyone.

There was nothing in any of his offices or apartments to suggest foul play. In fact, the apartment I was staking out now seemed to be lived in. Food was delivered, and garbage went out: beer and tuna cans, empty condom wrappers, an undershirt. The only sign of a problem was his daughter's insistence that Wendell was in trouble. Still, she did her insisting over the phone... from out of state.

Now, however, the yellow Jeep was bringing me closer to an answer. Unlike any of the others, this one was moving.

I stayed still long enough for the driver to stop and get out of the car. To a mixture of my anger and disgust, I recognized the man. It was not Wendell.

Rudy Kedberg worked at City Hall, somebody's assistant and everybody's lackey. I wish I could say I was surprised to see him, but this case had been developing a distinct odor.

Rudy's eyes popped when I grabbed his collar. His legs almost went out from under him. A short interrogation was on my mind when Moe Gaines drove up. The distinct odor became a full stink.

Moe was a cop on the night shift. I had no reason to dislike him, other than instinct. The brute waddled like a hippopotamus, but was in my face a second after his car stopped.

"You were supposed to be downtown today." There was cheap beer on his breath.

I cuffed Rudy. "Says who?"

He looked at me, at Rudy, at what I was doing to Rudy, then at the sky. He seemed to be at a complete loss for words.

I tried to help. "I suppose you want to tell me it's not what it looks like."

"It's exactly what it looks like. And you better talk to somebody before you do something stupid."

"Fine," I said. "But the weasel is going in a cage."

Rudy cried most of the way downtown. He was booked, charged, and locked up before the meeting started. In the sheriff's office sat Moe, the Sheriff, and no less than the Mayor, all with their best funeral faces on. Moe found his voice.

"You really stepped in it, Dura."

The Sheriff waved him quiet. "You told me you were doing research today."

"I lied. You guys been giving me the runaround all week. So, who killed him?"

I looked at the Mayor, but stopped short of naming his wife. There had been talk of her and Wendell. If he had been murdered, she looked good for being involved in some way.

"Nobody killed anybody," said the Sheriff.

"So why is Rudy the stooge chasing around to make it look like Wendell is in circulation?"

"Detective Dura." The Mayor used his high school principal voice. "Mr. Grove is unharmed and taking a holiday."

"In whose basement?"

"In a hospital."

Moe laughed. The others stared at him. "Sorry. I never heard Lynemore called a hospital."

Lynemore was a place of straitjackets and hollow stares.

"That's where he is?" I asked.

"It's for his own good," said the Sheriff.

The other cop laughed again. The Sheriff tried to shush him, but Moe said, "Come on, the guy's in a bath of his own drool and waving his arms around like a monk...."

"Detective!" shouted the Mayor. "This isn't for your amusement."

"No," said Moe. "This is for nothing." He pointed at me. "He's smarter than you. He'll figure it out. So stop screwing around and tell him."

The Mayor glanced at the Sheriff, who looked at his shoes. "Understand, Detective, that we had to protect our town. Mr. Grove is a man of no fixed associations. He disposes of things as soon as they show the slightest wear. Clothes, cars, wives."

I nodded. That was about the only thing I had learned.

"Well, he was about to dispose of us. The town would never survive that."

"He was leaving," said the Sheriff. "His warehouse is fully depreciated, and his back office operations are going to India for a fraction of the cost."

"He’s building a new warehouse upstate. It's almost finished," said the Mayor.

"He's our only big industry," said the Sheriff. "Picture our businesses boarded up, none of our citizens making any money. You've seen similar stories on the news."

I had seen such things. Modern business moves quick, and when it goes it leaves nothing behind. Wendell leaving town would ruin thousands of lives. Still, what was happening was monstrous.

"So, you just kidnap the guy until he comes to your senses, is that it?"

I almost missed the subtle nod from the Mayor, then slight movement in the outer office.

"You misunderstand," he said. "No one's been kidnapped."

The door opened... to Rudy.

"What's that weasel doing out?"

My question was lost in the commotion as Judge Stinson came into the room, followed by a woman I didn't know. Rudy smiled at me as the Mayor circled.

"I didn't want this, Dura," said the Sheriff.

"It's all perfectly legal," said the Mayor.

Something like a bulldozer crashed into me from behind. My head in a daze and one ear jammed to the floor, I heard a jumble of words. The mayor explained his theories on guardianship and power of attorney while the judge read the commitment order. The cheap beer smell from the bulldozer on top of me mingled with the smell of another kind of alcohol, emanating from the woman who said, "Hold his arm."

Then there was a pinprick.

THE END

When not spinning fascinating tales, Will is busy developing a commercial web site. This is Will's second published story. He can be reached at willscratchbeard@yahoo.com.