TANSTAV part 12

Chapter Four part 2

"Who are you?" the troll lady inquired in Jotun.

"Tristan Wormwood, detective; your brother sent me here to look for your husband." I just barely avoided another vicious jab for my eyes by the flamingo I was holding.

Mrs. Skald's enormous hand flew to her mouth. Then she snapped at the pernicious, plastic birds, "Go back to your places! This is a guest!" I released them, and they reluctantly did as they were told, giving me a few parting hisses. Then, in what seemed to me to be a very hurried manner, she brought me inside, closing and bolting the front door behind her.

"What's the rush?" I asked.

"Nobody outside you and our family knows Gunnar is missing. We would prefer to keep it that way. He hates being in the papers."

I gave the hallway a cursory glance. The house was as large on the inside as on the outside. It was also unnaturally tidy, looking as if it had been swept, mopped, and dusted almost every day since it had first been inhabited. It reminded me of another place, one I would prefer to forget. I shoved the memory away, and ordered myself to concentrate. I looked at the gold-framed pictures on the walls, the fancy glass chandelier on the ceiling, and other such obvious displays of wealth.

"Does your desire for anonymity have anything to do with the fact that your husband is a senator, Mrs. Skald?"

The woman looked surprised.

"How on earth did you know that?"

Managing to keep my eyes from rolling, I said, "His picture is on the wall; I recognize him from the newspapers."

Her eyes strayed to the photograph I meant, and then she rumbled with soft (for a troll) laughter.

"Oh, yes. I should have realized."

I was being expected to find a missing politician. It was all I could do not to express my disgust. Don't get me wrong, I know that not all politicians are bloodsucking, greedy, unscrupulous rats. At least, I’ve heard they aren't. But, as I have mentioned, I have bad experience concerning politicians. I was not overly enthusiastic about having to retrieve one, especially since he was probably just off with another woman, or something. Though why he would leave so early in the morning, and leaving behind one of his slippers, was beyond me, unless it was just an oversight.

Mrs. Skald and I sat down in a pair of fancy armchairs in the living room. The fabric was red velvet, with golden threads woven in so as to create a pretty, swirling pattern over the furniture.

"When was the last time you saw your husband?" I asked as I made myself comfortable.

"Early this morning. We got up at the usual time, and as I fixed breakfast, he went outside to get the paper. I saw him going down the path through that window-" she indicated which one- "-and I remember turning my head to glance at the clock. I was worried that he would miss his appointment with his secretary. When I turned around again- Gunnar was gone."

She choked down a sob, and quickly dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. I got up, and went into the kitchen.

"Where exactly were you standing?" I asked.

"By the stove-right there, I think," she sniffled. I stood where she had indicated. I scanned the area- there was a frying pan still on the stove, with pieces of bacon and eggs on it, burned to ashes. I presumed they had been forgotten due to the sudden disappearance of Senator Skald. That confirmed that she was probably being truthful. I looked up, towards the window she had mentioned. I could see the cement path-and the stupid flamingos-very clearly. I returned to the living room.

"Did-does Senator Skald have any enemies?" I asked, reseating myself.

"He does have some political rivals, but-"

"Anyone who'd want to harm him?"

"Well, you could examine his list."

"What list?"

"He made one of all the people he didn't like, or who didn't like him. It was his enemies list. He kept it in his study; I'll go get it."

Hmm, an enemies list.  I rather liked the sound of that.  I don’t have that many enemies, but there are a few people who hate my guts.  With some of them, the feeling’s mutual.  I decided that I would have to write one for myself.  You never know when it might come in handy.


Just in case, I accompanied Mrs. Skald upstairs. I was taking no chances on her destroying evidence, or something like that. But the troll lady didn't seem to have that intention. Either she was innocent, she had a more sinister plot planned, or she was just stupid. Regardless of which it was, Mrs. Skald gave me the list. It was on ordinary paper, written by numerous utensils, proving he'd added to it at different times of life. And, of course, it was in Jotun. But I can read that, so it was no problem. I sealed it in another baggie, which I stowed in another pocket, bid Mrs. Skald goodbye, and left, being sure to stay on the concrete path, and trying to ignore the flamingos, who glared at me as I passed by. I had two more calls to make before I could go home: Doctor Higgins's place, and Galveston, Texas, home of the most securely guarded prison of the monster world.

TANSTAV part 2

Chapter One cont.

My new client was a troll.  He stood about 8 feet tall, average for his species, and had fur the color and thickness of granite.  He also had big orange eyes, a bulbous nose, and a craggy mouth surrounded by a thick beard. The troll was wearing, oddly enough, a business suit that contrasted with his rugged appearance.  Also odd for his species, as they are normally imperturbable, gentle giants, he was agitated.  The troll was breathing loud and fast, leaving me to conclude that he had run here, and his ham-like hands were trembling so hard that he either had arthritis, or was terrified out of his wits.

"Meester Vormvood?" he asked in a deep, gravelly voice, made all the thicker by his accent.  I gave a curt nod; I was feeling rather annoyed by the fact that I needed a new door, thanks to him.

"Oh, thank heavens!  I am deeply in need of your help!  It is a disaster of vich I am speaking!"  By now, he had punched several holes in my ceiling by throwing his hands up in the air. 

"Whoa, hey, relax!" I cried, jumping up onto my desk and catching them before they could do any more damage. 

"How about you sit down, please," I said in near-perfect Jotun (the language of trolls; I'd taken a course in high school, and I was pretty good, though my voice is nowhere near deep enough to fully imitate the guttural rumblings that a troll can reach), "and tell me what's troubling you."

The troll looked rather startled.  After all, gargoyles typically do not speak Jotun.  But he sat down (the chair creaked ominously under his weight), and presented the case, speaking his own language, now that he knew I could understand it.

"My name is Sigurd Jorgensen, and this morning, as of 8:30 a.m, my brother-in-law vanished from outside his home, and has not been seen since.  Apparently he went out to get the morning's newspaper, and never came back in.  All they found of him was this-" Mr. Jorgensen reached into his pocket, and produced a slipper the size of two large watermelons, the kind that would only fit on the foot of a fully-grown troll.  I deduced that the pocket, which did not look large enough to accommodate such a slipper, had to be one of those new expensive, expands-from-the-inside-can-hold-a-car models that I will never be able to afford, which is a shame, because they are totally awesome. 

"It was found lying on the sidewalk, right next to the newspaper."  The troll sniffled, and blew his nose loudly.  I was surprised that he should have such tender feelings for a relative by marriage.  I have one sister-in-law and two brethren-in-law, and they are all complete pains in the neck.  But maybe his family was more connected, and more affectionate, than mine.  Not that that would be much of an effort.

"May I come inspect the scene of the crime?" I asked.  "There may be some clues there." 

"Of course, Mr. Wormwood!" cried Mr. Jorgensen.  You could tell he had been waiting for me to ask.  I was getting up, when my phone began ringing.  I could tell it was somebody important, because it made the loud, obnoxious sound of somebody blowing a raspberry.  With a sigh, I stretched out a claw and picked it up off the desk.

"Hello?" 

"Wormwood!  Get down here!  It's an emergency!"

"Good to hear from you too, Chief," I sniped.  Don't get me wrong; I'm sure Chief Ishida is a wonderful person, really deep down.  After all, he is married, and has three kids.  But he's always seemed to me to be a bit, well, neurotic.  Obsessed with success, workaholic, virtually no sense of humor.  Know what I mean?

"Don't you use that tone with me!" Ishida bellowed.  I imagined his face turning bright red, and then exploding.  It's never actually done that, but thinking about it cheered me up to no end.

"Can't it wait?  I have a client, and-"

"NO!!  There's been an explosion in eastern Idaho, and I want you to go with a team and find out what happened!"

I groaned.  Eastern Idaho today meant sunshine, which hurts my eyes, and also teleporting, which causes major nausea in me.

"On my way, boss," I muttered, and then hung up.

"Sorry," I told Mr. Jorgensen in Jotun, "but I have to go.  Emergency case.  Please leave your address, and the address of your brother-in-law, and I'll be over as soon as I can."

He looked disappointed, but did as I requested.  Then he left.

With a sigh, I looked up at the shattered remains of my door, splintered top of my doorway, and gaping holes in the ceiling.  I could see that I needed to make the door bigger, and wondered how much all of this was going to cost me.  Well, no time to think about that now.  I picked up my desk, moved it in front of the doorway to discourage burglars, and then flew out the window (remembering to open it first).