Read Online Bubbles All The Way by Sarah Strohmeyer - Free Book Online
Authors: Sarah Strohmeyer
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search of flesh, who in his right mind would hire a felonious pharmacist to sell trees?
I got my answer as soon as I stepped out of the car, heard the bell ringing and saw the lanky elf in a red suit and white beard waving at cars, hoping to solicit their Christmas tree business.
Ern Bender: Anorexic Santa Claus.
“Christmas trees,” he droned, clanging the bell in a funereal rhythm. “Ho . . . ho . . . ho. Christmas trees. Cheap.”
A few cars honked. Most sped up. No one stopped.
Somewhere a boom box blared Bing Crosby, in case the scene of an emaciated Santa on parole hocking trees at a used car lot wasn’t depressing enough. I pulled my faux rabbit fur coat tighter and bent my head to the biting wind. I remembered that I hadn’t bought a tree yet. If I were a nice person, I would buy one from Ern.
Or not.
“Mr. Bender?” I said.
A car zipped by, splashing me with December grime. Ern continued ringing, oblivious. He sported the hollow cheeks and sallow complexion of a person who doesn’t take those admonitions to eat five vegetables a day seriously. A fake beard did little to hide the tattoo on his neck. If I had a little kid, I’d no more let him sit on Ern’s lap than let him play blindman’s buff with the Crips.
“Mr. Bender!” I yelled.
You’d think he’d be thrilled to see a customer so entranced by his bell skills that she’d rushed right up to introduce herself. But Ern was far from thrilled.
Ern was drunk. Or, at least, that’s the way he smelled.
He drove his thumb over his shoulder. “Get your tree back there. I don’t sell ’em. I bring ’em in.”
I covered my nose to dilute the whiskey fumes wafting my way. “I don’t want a tree. I need to talk to you, Mr. Bender. About Debbie.”
He didn’t miss a beat with the bell, not a ding or a dong. “I don’t know a Debbie.”
“Yes, you do. Debbie your wife.”
“Ex.”
“Okay, ex.”
“Ho . . . ho . . . ho.” He rang the bell. “Christmas trees. Get your Christmas trees. Cheap.”
Another car swerved and splashed frigid black water onto my leopard-print tights, making my legs officially soaked with black muck. Cripes. The Mahoken Sewage Council was a trip to Disneyworld compared to this. I vowed that if I stuck with Ern for ten more minutes, I could treat myself to a long, hot bubble bath tonight along with a juicy Nancy Martin Blackbird Sisters mystery and a cup of hot chocolate.
Sidestepping another splashing car, I hollered, “Mr. Bender, I believe your wife has been murdered.”
Finally, the ringing stopped. Ern tossed the bell aside so that it landed in the gutter with one last clang, and swaying slightly, he regarded me with rheumy eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Bubbles Yablonsky. I’m a”—I thought twice about introducing myself as a reporter—“I’m a hairdresser down at the House of Beauty. I was there when your former wife had an allergic reaction and died.”
Ern reached into his pocket and pulled out a small dark brown bottle. It looked more like cough syrup than liquor, probably an addiction leftover from his pharmacist days. “They told me it was an accident.”
“Who?”
“Cops.” He took a quick swig, closed his eyes and savored before recapping the bottle. “They didn’t say nothing about a murder.”
“Yes, well.” I wasn’t about to launch into a dissertation on the qualifications of Lehigh’s finest. (It was the Keystone State, after all.) “I have a different opinion. I think she was intentionally, well, poisoned, for lack of a better word.”
He pondered this. “Was it strychnine? Is that what they used?”
“No,” I said, thinking, What the hell was he talking about? “Not strychnine.”
“ ’Cause that’s an awful death. Thirty minutes of muscle convulsions, painful muscle convulsions. Off. On. Off. On. Until the heart gives up. Instant rigor mortis, though, so that’s helpful. If you need to dispose of a body, that is.”
“Right.” I
I got my answer as soon as I stepped out of the car, heard the bell ringing and saw the lanky elf in a red suit and white beard waving at cars, hoping to solicit their Christmas tree business.
Ern Bender: Anorexic Santa Claus.
“Christmas trees,” he droned, clanging the bell in a funereal rhythm. “Ho . . . ho . . . ho. Christmas trees. Cheap.”
A few cars honked. Most sped up. No one stopped.
Somewhere a boom box blared Bing Crosby, in case the scene of an emaciated Santa on parole hocking trees at a used car lot wasn’t depressing enough. I pulled my faux rabbit fur coat tighter and bent my head to the biting wind. I remembered that I hadn’t bought a tree yet. If I were a nice person, I would buy one from Ern.
Or not.
“Mr. Bender?” I said.
A car zipped by, splashing me with December grime. Ern continued ringing, oblivious. He sported the hollow cheeks and sallow complexion of a person who doesn’t take those admonitions to eat five vegetables a day seriously. A fake beard did little to hide the tattoo on his neck. If I had a little kid, I’d no more let him sit on Ern’s lap than let him play blindman’s buff with the Crips.
“Mr. Bender!” I yelled.
You’d think he’d be thrilled to see a customer so entranced by his bell skills that she’d rushed right up to introduce herself. But Ern was far from thrilled.
Ern was drunk. Or, at least, that’s the way he smelled.
He drove his thumb over his shoulder. “Get your tree back there. I don’t sell ’em. I bring ’em in.”
I covered my nose to dilute the whiskey fumes wafting my way. “I don’t want a tree. I need to talk to you, Mr. Bender. About Debbie.”
He didn’t miss a beat with the bell, not a ding or a dong. “I don’t know a Debbie.”
“Yes, you do. Debbie your wife.”
“Ex.”
“Okay, ex.”
“Ho . . . ho . . . ho.” He rang the bell. “Christmas trees. Get your Christmas trees. Cheap.”
Another car swerved and splashed frigid black water onto my leopard-print tights, making my legs officially soaked with black muck. Cripes. The Mahoken Sewage Council was a trip to Disneyworld compared to this. I vowed that if I stuck with Ern for ten more minutes, I could treat myself to a long, hot bubble bath tonight along with a juicy Nancy Martin Blackbird Sisters mystery and a cup of hot chocolate.
Sidestepping another splashing car, I hollered, “Mr. Bender, I believe your wife has been murdered.”
Finally, the ringing stopped. Ern tossed the bell aside so that it landed in the gutter with one last clang, and swaying slightly, he regarded me with rheumy eyes. “Who the hell are you?”
“My name is Bubbles Yablonsky. I’m a”—I thought twice about introducing myself as a reporter—“I’m a hairdresser down at the House of Beauty. I was there when your former wife had an allergic reaction and died.”
Ern reached into his pocket and pulled out a small dark brown bottle. It looked more like cough syrup than liquor, probably an addiction leftover from his pharmacist days. “They told me it was an accident.”
“Who?”
“Cops.” He took a quick swig, closed his eyes and savored before recapping the bottle. “They didn’t say nothing about a murder.”
“Yes, well.” I wasn’t about to launch into a dissertation on the qualifications of Lehigh’s finest. (It was the Keystone State, after all.) “I have a different opinion. I think she was intentionally, well, poisoned, for lack of a better word.”
He pondered this. “Was it strychnine? Is that what they used?”
“No,” I said, thinking, What the hell was he talking about? “Not strychnine.”
“ ’Cause that’s an awful death. Thirty minutes of muscle convulsions, painful muscle convulsions. Off. On. Off. On. Until the heart gives up. Instant rigor mortis, though, so that’s helpful. If you need to dispose of a body, that is.”
“Right.” I
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