Grimm Tales

  Grimm Tales: Crime Fiction Takes on Classic Fairy Tales

  Edited by John Kenyon

  Introduction, Copyright 2011 by Ken Bruen

  Joseph and Jasmine, Copyright 2011 by Patricia Abbott

  You Dirty Rats, Copyright 2011 by Absolutely*Kate

  The Flying Trunk, Copyright 2011 by Jack Bates

  Coal Black, Copyright 2011 by Eric Beetner

  Sing a Song of Sixpence, Copyright 2011 by Nigel Bird

  King Flounder: A Monologue, Copyright 2011 by Loren Eaton

  Henry, Gina, and the Gingerbread House, Copyright 2011 by Kaye George

  Han and Greta, Copyright 2011 by Blu Gilliand

  Gato, Copyright 2011 by Seana Graham

  Mary, Copyright 2011 by Eirik Gumeny

  Candy House, Copyright 2011 by R.L. Kelstrom

  The Master Cat, Copyright 2011 by John Kenyon

  The Bacon Blues, Copyright 2011 by BV Lawson

  Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution, Copyright 2011 by Evan Lewis

  Interview with the Pram Driver, Copyright 2011 by B. Nagel

  Divided We Stand, Copyright 2011 by Sean Patrick Reardon

  Taking Back, Copyright 2011 by Sandra Seamans

  Cover Copyright 2011 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

  The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  http://www.untreedreads.com

  GRIMM TALES

  Crime Fiction Takes on Classic Fairy Tales

  Edited by John Kenyon

  Contents

  Editor’s Note

  Ken Bruen—Introduction

  Patricia Abbott—Joseph and Jasmine

  Absolutely*Kate—You Dirty Rats

  Jack Bates—The Flying Trunk

  Eric Beetner—Coal Black

  Nigel Bird—Sing a Song of Sixpence

  Loren Eaton—King Flounder: A Monologue

  Kaye George—Henry, Gina, and the Gingerbread House

  Blu Gilliand—Han and Greta

  Seana Graham—Gato

  Eirik Gumeny—Mary

  R.L. Kelstrom—Candy House

  John Kenyon—The Master Cat

  BV Lawson—The Bacon Blues

  Evan Lewis—Skyler Hobbs and the Magic Solution

  B. Nagel—Interview with the Pram Driver

  Sean Patrick Reardon—Divided We Stand

  Sandra Seamans—Taking Back

  Author Biographies

  Editor’s Note

  This anthology is the result of considerable work by many talented writers who ran with an idea I got while reading to my son. When he grabbed his collection of illustrated (and sweetened) fairy tales for the umpteenth bedtime, I discovered a valuable skill: I could read these tales with one part of my brain and think about something completely different with another. While recounting the exploits of Puss in Boots, I began to wonder about how the story could be recast as crime fiction.

  With that idea in mind, I started to dabble with an idea or two, but found I needed motivation to push me through the process. I decided a writing challenge was in order. I put out the call on my blog, Things I’d Rather Be Doing, asking my fellow crime writers to adapt a fairy tale as a crime fiction story. Sixteen fellow writers answered the call, and as I read compelling story after compelling story, I realized that it would be a shame for these stories to languish alone on blogs scattered across the Web. They deserved to be together and to be read.

  That’s where the kind folks at Untreed Reads got involved. They agreed that these stories deserved a wider audience and we began to assemble this collection.

  Thank you to all of the writers involved, particularly Patti Abbott, who offered advice during this process. Thanks to Jay and K.D. at Untreed Reads for their faith and assistance, and thanks to Ken Bruen for reading through the collection and offering an inspiring introduction.

  Introduction

  Ken Bruen

  Nothing new under the mystery sun?

  Wrong.

  Thanks be to Jaysus.

  Wonderful concept—put the crime story spin on fairy tales. This seems so wonderful an idea that you wonder why it never happened before. Ever imagined what would have come down the dark pike if The Brothers Grimm were more Brothers Coen and wrote mystery?

  Wonder no more. The answers are here in this splendid varied anthology, and not a dud among them. I know how that sounds.

  You have a collection of stories, it’s almost mandatory that a few are…um…not up to the mark.

  John Kenyon not only came up with this inspired concept but to add sparkle to quality, he includes one of the finest stories his own self.

  Some of the writers here were new to me, but by God, they’re on all future TBR lists. I read the book out of sequence, figuring this would truly be an acid test. It was and worked like…well, a fairy tale.

  Magical.

  Illuminating.

  First up for me was Jack Bates’ “The Flying Trunk.” A gem.

  To B. Nagel’s with the sly title of “Interview with the Pram Driver.”

  The stories all display not only marvellous invention, turning the whole concept of fairy tales on its mysterious head, but breathing new vibrancy into a genre that has become, if not familiar, certainly stale.

  Sandra Seamans made me want to read it aloud, it was that immediate.

  BV Larson, of course, provides the skilled fascination you’d expect.

  To Seana Graham…“How I Came into My Inheritance.” Literally lit me up in the way that only the best fiction can.

  BUT…the absolute star, the shining light, was Patricia Abbott. Her stories have enchanted me for a long time, but this is her stardust one.

  Ask any editor how they feel if one of the stories in their anthology is nominated for an award.

  Get your tux out, John—Patti is Edgar bound.

  Ken Bruen,

  Berlin, March 2011.

  Joseph and Jasmine

  By Patricia Abbott

  My story comes from the fairy tale“Hansel and Gretel,” of course. But I wrote some of it earlier as unused background material on a novel set in Detroit. I wrote bios (although none appear in the finished ms) for each of the people that died over the course of the book. In this case, a young boy was the victim. I added a sister for the challenge to make it fit the Hansel and Gretel theme. It was nice to see him survive this time.

  “You two be okay while I run to the store?”

  Joseph’s mother stood in the doorway of her father’s house, an unlit Basic seesawing from her red lips. One hand was propped on the doorframe, the other scratched her head with her Zippo. Joseph thought the day was probably coming when her hair would catch on fire. But it hadn’t yet, ’cept for the one time she’d lit her fag on the front burner of the stove. Both kids came running when a funky smell filled their house. “Singed fringe,” she called it, flaking off the ashes and wrinkling her nose.

  Janice wasn’t allowed to smoke in Poppy’s house. Or be here, come to that. Had her own place a mile or so away—nasty stuff had happened t
here in the past. Jasmine got the scabies disease for one thing and nearly scratched her scalp skinless. Another time, a man broke in while Joseph and Jasmine were home alone asleep. He took some stuff, maybe touched Jasmine where he oughtn’t. Janice claimed she’d never seen him before, but Joseph thought otherwise. Knew the smell of his Gendarme cologne for one thing. The court put Joseph and Jasmine in their grandfather’s care after that.

  “Man’s too old,” Janice complained from her seat in court, half rising, but that old judge didn’t care to hear her. Told her to be still if she didn’t want to pay a fine. Janice’s mouth opened and shut like Nemo’s a few times, but she kept silent.

  She was allowed to visit them, chaperoned by a social worker, twice a month after that. Sometimes, Janice didn’t show up. Being it was Detroit, other weeks it was the social worker who forgot or got laid off between visits.

  On those days, Janice stood on her father’s porch, moaning and groaning, waiting for someone to turn up.

  “Nobody should put hisself between a mother and her babies,” she shouted in through the screen door where Joseph and Jasmine waited side by side on the sofa.

  Their grandfather rubbed his chin and rocked a little harder. He could be quiet for longer than his daughter could squawk. “Wait her out,” he explained. “Learned that a long time ago.”

  Poppy was at the hospital today, seeing his doctor. “You kids stay inside,” he’d instructed them. “Don’t open the door to that daughter of mine.”

  Janice had a sixth sense ’cording to her father. Knew when to turn up.

  “A fine one to talk,” Janice said. “I should get what’s handed out to him on his city pension. We all paying for it, you know. That’s why the trash still sitting in front of my house two days late. ’Cause the old ones takin’ all the money.”

  Joseph watched today as his mother lighted her cigarette and blew a plume of smoke toward the street. Lung trouble or not, the man could smell smoke two miles away. And he could smell stale smoke from his daughter’s cheap no-name sticks hours later.

  “Sorry she drug you kids into this,” Poppy once said. “Be better if….”

  By age ten, Joseph knew what came next. Be better if they’d never been born. He thought that some days himself.

  “Sure,” Joseph said to his mother now, not knowing why she’d even told him ’bout her plans to go to the store. Why was she even talkin’ about leavin’ them alone? It was not her house, and she’d left him and Jasmine alone at home back when they lived with her.

  “A girl gotta have herself some fun while she still got her looks. You the man,” she told him at age six when Jasmine was brand new. “Take care of your sister, hear?”

  House rules were different at their grandfather’s, though. No Janice, no smoking.

  “East-side rules,” Poppy said when they moved in.

  And he’d never left them alone for more than an hour before today. But Poppy was havin’ trouble breathin’. Too much smoke had snaked down his throat from all those years putting out fires.

  Over at his mother’s house, Joseph heard gunshots every night, cars with pumped-up tires and music, nasty words and fumes cut the air. They learned not to play near windows, go outside, not to turn on too many lights.

  “You lightin’ youself up like on stage,” Janice said. House rules near Gratiot Avenue were harsh.

  “Going to Mr. C’s and then Target’s,” his mother told him now. “Poppy be out of milk so I’m goin’ out to get him some.” She harrumphed and puffed up like getting a carton of milk was somethin’ special. Tapped her toe like some private music playin’ in her head.

  “Carton’s in the fridge,” Joseph started to say.

  But she knew that. Just an excuse for somethin’ coming down the pike. Soon now.

  “And you all need some other stuff, too. Old man don’t think I notice. Only a mama knows certain things. I be over to Eastland Mall. Maybe get Baby Girl some clothes. Like a new dress, Baby Girl,” she said, sticking her head farther into the room. “Like that, honey?”

  When Janice called Jasmine Baby Girl, things weren’t looking up.

  Jasmine, four, never lifted her head, occupied with deciding what charm to choose. She picked each one up and put it down again, looking thoughtful. She’d even added some game pieces of her own to the pile. There was a token from Greektown Casino, and a thing called a jack from a game Poppy said girls used to play outside. Joseph’d never seen any kids play outside on sidewalks in his time and thought Poppy misremembered it. Jasmine also used a baby tooth that fell out her mouth too soon as a token until Poppy threw it away.

  “Look at that blood there,” he told her. She smiled.

  Jasmine was too young to play Monopoly, but Joseph made the moves for both of them, playing his best on both their accounts. Jasmine was happy just moving her dog or iron or jack to wherever he pointed, pretending to read the cards, shuffling her money around importantly. Joseph always told her she’d won when he grew tired of playing. It was just a matter of time till she knew the truth, Poppy said.

  “Then you’ll have to beat her fair and square,” Poppy reminded him.

  Poppy and he played Battleship or checkers after Jasmine went to bed. “Never did like countin’ money,” his grandfather chuckled. “Lucky thing, too, ’cause never had much to count. We’ll leave money countin’ to your sister. Maybe she’ll take care of us in our old age.”

  Sometimes Jasmine slept with the stacks of pastel money next to her bed. Asleep, she breathed with wet gulping sighs. Like she’d caught her grandfather’s disease.

  “Asthma,” the old man said when Joseph first told him. “City kids don’t stand a chance of catchin’ somethin’ good.”

  Joseph listened now while his mother’s feet went down the front steps. What was Janice doin’ over here? Had that witchy instinct about when Poppy’d be gone, all right. Usually tried to get them to come over her house. Promised cookies. Rule Number Three. Don’t go over to Janice’s house. Most of the house rules concerned Janice.

  “Oh say, Joseph.” His mother’s head was back in the door. Here it was. Joseph knew it. Flexed his muscles, waiting.

  “You and Jasmine run over my house and wait there till a package be delivered. You know—’cause I’m doin’ all this crazy-ass stuff for you. Goin’ shoppin’ and all. Gettin’ Baby Girl a fancy dress.”

  She waved away a stray stream of smoke threatening to enter the house. “Just gotta sit at the house and wait for the man. Probably take fifteen minutes. Even got some DVDs you can watch. Nothin’ much to it.” Her eyes were black slits. “When the package come, just open the door wide ’nough to take it. No reason for no one to come inside. Hear?” She took an audible breath. “Don’t care for no strangers in my house.” Her tone had gone from wheedlin’ to angry in a flash. It could do that though.

  The clickety-clicks on the steps were a sign she’d more than shopping in mind. High heels. Poppy owned the only car in the family so his mother must be taking a DDOT bus to wherever she was going. Or perhaps her lover-man had a car waiting at the corner. Anyway, no milk would be coming their way today. No clothes for Jasmine. Just Gendarme cologne for men all over her. A nooner, but it wasn’t noon.

  Nodding, Joseph rolled the dice, preparing to move his race car to Ventnor Avenue. A car pulled up outside, its engine loud, music: soft jazz.

  “Hear me now, boy. Get movin’,” Janice said, sidling out the door. He nodded.

  * * *

  Outside on the street, Jasmine waved a fist full of Monopoly money he hadn’t seen her take.

  “How we gonna play the game next time, girl?” he asked, as a fluttering green bill caught him smack in the eye.

  Left eye tearing, he led the way along desolate streets, ignoring what Jasmine did with the bills because it was too late to stop it. One or two got caught in her hair. Maybe he could make new bills out of colored paper. Or probably they could get another game at Salvation Army. Lots of games had money to it, didn’t
they?

  Jasmine didn’t talk at all so he couldn’t ask her why she was throwing the bills in the air. Lots of the things she did were strange, unknowable. Twice he had to stop her from running into the street to grab one. She hated to lose the gold ones.

  “Why’d you bring the gold ones then?” he asked, but seeing the look on her face, added, “Guess we can find our way home easy enough now.” They turned and looked at the path behind them.

  She grinned. Her teeth were perfect except for the space where that Monopoly token fell out too early, leaving a gap. His were crooked pegs and he wore glasses. Good thing he wasn’t a girl, Janice always said, squinting at him.

  Jasmine was going to be real pretty. But “not talking,” which she didn’t, was maybe gonna hold her back. Poppy had her hearing and other stuff checked out.

  “She’ll talk when she gets a mind to,” the old man decided.

  When you tried to talk to Jasmine, she just smiled that big half-moon smile. When she cried, tears spilled down her check, but she made no sound. Joseph thought if he could see inside her head there’d be wondrous things in there instead of the sights he saw in front of him now. Maybe she saw things in colors he couldn’t even name. She was full of smiles for no reason he could see, so it had to be somethin’ like that. Some entirely different world lay in front of her.

  They arrived at their mother’s house fifteen minutes later. He’d forgotten what a mess it was: missing steps, ripped-off shutters, paint gone from the rotting wood, chimney falling over, busted drain pipes. Inside it looked like she’d been sleeping on the sofa by the front window instead of in her bed. Why? He flopped on the sofa and looked outside, noticing he could see the whole street from there. The window was propped the right amount for surveying the lay of the land. Curtain tucked back just so. Maybe a lookout—like in a cowboy movie.

  Jasmine and he were watching Die Hard 2 when he heard a car pull up. He could make out two faces in the passenger side windows. Meant at least three people were in that car, counting the driver. Scowlin’ faces that didn’t look like they had a mind to deliver a package. Looked like they were scopin’ out Janice’s house, in fact.