Red Rum: A Rosie Casket Mystery R.M. Wild (inspirational books .txt) 📖

“Sorry!” I said. “I’m working on it.”

I tossed my phone on the table and retrieved another chocolate bunny from the pantry. I chopped it to pieces as if I were trying to dismember one of those online trolls, chocolate chunks flying everywhere. I tossed three mugs into the microwave, served my guests, and then went back to my phone.

Innkeeper? More like a sin-keeper!

I’d say she should burn in hell, but she’d probably feel right at home.

My hands trembled, my heart pounding. I wanted to retaliate. But I summoned the courage to pull myself away and put my phone, face down, on the table.

I looked around the kitchen, hoping to find some kind of solace, a friendly ghost who could give me sage advice or something, when my eyes landed on the empty bottle of Red Rum sitting on the counter. The comments had burrowed so deeply under my skin that I had totally forgotten about it.

I glared at the label. Given how quickly rumors of warts on my butt and my dust-guzzling SUB (Sport Utility Broom) were spreading, I guessed the rolled-up message inside the bottle was nothing more than another nasty comment. What I needed to do was throw the bottle out to sea and hope it washed up in some ancient trash compactor.

Ignoring it would have been the healthy course of action. But it had been a long time since I had practiced any kind of self-care. I grabbed a knife, stuck it down the neck of the bottle, and wiggled it around to snag the paper.

It took me five minutes to get it out, but once it was free, I unrolled the note and spread it flat on the counter. The bottom half of the paper was soggy and red from the dregs, but the words were clear, the ink and handwriting the same as the receipt left on my windshield:

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Fire burn, and cauldron bubble.

I put the note down. Seriously? Another one? This troll’s lack of creativity was only surprising in how utterly lame it was. The lines came from Act 4 of Macbeth, the most famous—and clichéd—words ever written about supernatural wenches.

I took a picture of the note and called up Matt Mettle.

“What’s up, Casket?”

“Did you see Facebook?”

There was a hollow pop and I guessed he was sipping a beer. “Unlike you, I’ve got more important things to do than scroll around on social media all evening. Besides, the compression is lousy. Phyllis Martin gets all blocky when she goes up in flames. It’s hardly worth replaying.”

“So you did go online? You saw the video?”

“I didn’t go online. Five different guys at the barracks sent me the link. They’ve got a sick sense of humor.”

“Did one of your guys leak it?”

“Possibly. But I hope not. If so, that’s gonna be a long department meeting Monday morning—and my weakness for donuts is going to come raging back.”

“I’m sending you a photo,” I said and sent him the picture of the message in the bottle. “Someone left that note for me.”

“So?”

“So it comes from the witches in Macbeth.”

“Even I knew that,” Mettle said.

“It’s worse than cyber bullying. It’s an actual note. It’s real-life bullying. Somebody took the time to shove it inside a bottle and leave it on the deck of Herrick’s boat.”

“You touched the note, right?”

“Yes. How else would it have gotten out of the bottle?”

“You could have smashed the bottle. Did you wear gloves?”

“No. But I bet you can still get a print.”

“Maybe,” Mettle said.

“These bullies are ruining my business. Three of my guests canceled their reservations for tonight. Usually, I’m booked a few nights in advance, but now there are no bookings for the rest of the week.”

“So basically you’re telling me you finally have the time to go on that date?”

I huffed. “C’mon, Matt. I’m freaking out over here. It took me months to finally get things rolling. Now these trolls are destroying me.”

“What would you like me to do? Go around and cut every fiber optic cable in Dark Haven? Like you said, they’re trolls, Casket. That’s what they do. They troll.”

“I don’t know,” I said, exasperated.

“Do you know where that term came from?”

I was barely listening. “Huh? What term?”

“Troll. Do you know where it came from?”

“No. Why would I care?”

“It came from the early days of the internet. Legions of jerks would go around trawling for suckers they could engage in verbal sparring. The proper term is actually trawl not troll, not the kind of freak that lives under the Cardinal Lane bridge, but one of them fishing boats that drags its net along the sea floor seeing what little critters it can catch.”

I perked up. The tidbit was actually pretty interesting—and equally impressive that Matt Mettle actually knew a relevant fact.

My interest was genuinely piqued. “Where did you learn that?”

“In the academy. They made me take a class on cyber security. You feel better now?”

“A little,” I said, surprising even myself. Matt Mettle knew exactly how to distract me. Toss me an obscure fact and I was like a snake on a frog.

“If you think you can prove damages, a loss of revenue or something like that, you might be able to sue some of these turds for smearing your good name,” Mettle said. “You’d better ask a lawyer, though. My legal advice comes with the usual disclaimer: I don’t know what the heck I’m talking about. Maybe you could talk with someone at your foster-father’s firm?”

Maybe. That was the best idea he had in a long time. “Thank you, Matt. I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” he said. There was another loud pop as he took another sip of beer. “Goodnight, Casket. Hang in there. Everything will be okay.”

Nothing would be okay, but it still felt good to hear him say it.

Too choked up from the day’s events to speak clearly, I could only muster a whisper. “Goodnight, Matt.”

9

Sleep didn’t come well that night. My bedroom had turned into a sleep-deprivation chamber. Every time I closed