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

only reason she was staying with me was that she couldn’t read the comments. While she listened intently to Eldritch’s stories, I didn’t bother telling him she didn’t speak English.

Meanwhile, Captain Herrick leaned back in his chair and lazily poured the contents of a hip flask into the hot chocolate he had swiped from me after I realized I had made too many mugs for the evening.

I needed something to settle my nerves. One drink couldn’t hurt. I had been sober for well over a year now.

“You mind if I take a sip?” I whispered.

He looked up from his mug. “Well, well. If ain’t the lobster calling the pot trapped.”

“It’s been a rough week.”

“It’s been a rough year,” he said and passed me the flask.

I poured less than a shot’s worth into my rooibos tea. Hopefully, the alcohol would be enough to sand the edges off my anxiety without stirring long-buried demons. The oily swirl floated on the surface for a moment, sank, and reddened the tea as if I had pricked my thumb over the mug.

I took a sip. The concoction was sweet, yet burned my tongue worse than tea straight from the microwave. I coughed and winced as the sting struck the fleshy stalactite hanging in the back of my throat.

“Is this Red Rum?”

“It’ll knock you on your tush and make you beg for help,” he said.

I took a deeper sip.

He grinned. “I say you get a wicked bazz on.”

I had let myself get so tired, so busy, so completely run down, (and so completely sober) that the booze hit me faster than a runaway locomotive. First, a lightheadedness made me feel as if I was levitating, and then a full-on buzz twanged my nerves.

I drank more, and quickly.

“Whoa, ease up, Betty Ford. This rum is meant for sippin, not inhalin.”

I set down my mug and wiped the blood-red mustache from my lips. “You got any more?”

Captain Herrick looked at my empty mug and then poured me another thumb’s worth. “Dang, girl. You’re gonna drink up my reserves. Once my stash is gone, there ain’t no more, not unless you can convince old Peter to start brewin again.”

That was exactly the plan—if only I could find him. I threw the drink back hard enough that some of the boozy tea splashed out and wet my jeans. I suppressed a burp and put the mug down so hard that Eldritch paused in his story and looked over.

“You okay, Red?”

I stood, emboldened by the booze and stumbled over to the German guest. “Lemme tell you the truth,” I slurred. “This guy only knows half the story. Lemme tell you what really happened the night my sister disappeared.”

Eldritch looked to Captain Herrick. Captain Herrick shrugged.

“You see, my sister Chrissy, she was a bit of slut,” I said, teetering in front of the fire. “She was planning on running away with an older dude, a real winner of a guy, a guy even worse than our friendly Captain over there, what’s his name?”

Eldritch looked at the German guest. She was wide-eyed and pressing herself back into the couch cushions as if she were trying to minimize her presence in the room.

I looked at Eldritch. “Oh, c’mon, Stan, Stan the Man, don’t act like you’ve never seen a drunk person before. Don’t tell me you didn’t drink yourself silly up in that tower and whip out your ding-a-ling and piss into the wind when you were too lazy to go downstairs.”

“Red, please. I think you—”

“I think you should sit down and lemme finish my story. You ain’t the only one who can tell stories,” I burped. I half-spun, half-stumbled to face my guest. “And don’t you act like you’ve never dealt with witches before. You Germans used to hang them up in the town square. We New Englanders weren’t the first. We learned it from YOU.”

The woman stood. “I think I vould like to go home.”

Captain Herrick suddenly stood and tossed what little rum was left in his hip flask into the fire. The flames exploded behind my back and singed my sweater.

“Okay, you’re officially flagged,” he said. “I got a stake in this business too and I ain’t gonna let you act like a red-tushied monkey who’s eaten too much of the tingly banana.”

“I vant my auto,” the German said. “I vant to leave.”

“Understood,” Eldritch said. “I will give you a ride back to town.”

Captain Herrick grabbed my arm and led me to the stairs, but I pulled back. “Wait a minute, you silly kraut. I ain’t even told you what happened. Not the truth at least. My sister Chrissy wanted to get married for cryin out loud. At seventeen. She stole her mother’s wedding dress. And I ain’t afraid to say it: I’m glad she’s gone. I got another sister. A REAL sister. One whom I shoulda been lookin out for!”

Captain Herrick dragged me up the stairs. “You’re done for the night, my sweet cherry pie.”

Eldritch fetched the guest’s coat from the foyer closet and helped her out the front door. “I’m sorry you had to see this tonight. She’s been under a lot of stress lately.”

“From the bit I understood, you are a vonderful storyteller,” the German said. “But the redhead…not so much. Sie ist der Kuckuck.”

Before the angle of the ceiling eclipsed them, I caught a glimpse of Eldritch picking up my phone. In my bumbling rant, it must have fallen out of my pocket.

I could have sworn his face went blue as he swiped my screen alive.

Who the heck was he calling?

“Which room is yours?” Captain Herrick said.

I half-nodded, half-dribbled spit down my chin as I motioned toward the first door on the left. The whole hallway was stretching and compressing like I was trapped between a remake of Vertigo and Psycho. Worse, I was so tired, my head was as heavy as a pot full of lobsters.

Captain Herrick kicked the door open and tossed me toward the bed. I went reeling across the room, shouting