BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO'S GOT THE BUTTOM

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON

Characters:

 Jane:   Emma,  Jane’s younger sister:    Sandra: Emma’s daughter :   Thomas and David, Jane’s sons:

Carolyn, Thomas’ wife:    Jennifer, David’s wife

The button had been in the family for a hundred or more years,  proposed to be a button from the coat of Theodore Roosevelt, attested to by a reputable museum in the Midwest, confirmed by a Smithsonian anthropologist.  It was a cherished relic handed down from mother to daughter.  Until  Jane produced two sons and no daughter.  Jane’s sister, Emma proposed the button be given to her daughter, Sandra. Thereby keeping it in the maternal line.  Jane refused, leaving it to her oldest son, Thomas.

Years passed! Sandra, an avid antique researcher and would-be collector, discovered the value of the button.  She set out to get it. Always clever with her sewing projects she took up purse making. Purses from old denim jeans, upholstery remnants, discarded tote bags.  All of which needed buttons for closure.

Buttons she requested from Thomas’ wife, Carolyn.  Carolyn,  more interested in her watercolor than purse craft, readily produced a small collection of buttons.  Greedily examining the scanty collection Sandra said, “I’m looking for old or old looking buttons for my period purses . You have any idea what happened to Aunt Jane’s buttons?”

Carolyn shook her head. “I think we gave all those buttons—a cookie tin full—to David’s wife for some kind of crafts project in her after school day care.”

Mess, activity, exuberance of a dozen of children welcomed Sandra at Jennifer’s after school program. “Good lord,” Jennifer said, “I have no idea where the buttons are or when we used them. Maybe to make Thanksgiving table decorations.  Or valentines.  Who knows?   Can’t you just buy some buttons? That thrift store over near Walmart has them in a box, near the door.  You can scoop out a handful that cost you nearly nothing.”

“My problem is,” Sandra said, “I am making a purse for a woman who wishes to remain anonymous. She requested a special button which she said Aunt Jane used to have,”

Jennifer broke into  laughter . “That old button  she kept on a card. I know which one you mean.” Sandra felt relieved until Jennifer added, “It’s the one we gave to the theater group at the community college. They needed it to repair a turn of the century jacket for a play.”

“When?”

“Jennifer shrugged, “Two or three years ago, I think.” Sandra’s spirits sagged.

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON?

A BOMB IN THE SCHOOL

Hendricks High School was on alert. Under the appearance of routine nerves were on edge. Under pretended control chaos reigned.

Today a special pep rally was scheduled to send the boys basketball team off to the finals of the state tournament.  A day of abandoned celebration for students; a day of trepidation for staff and faculty.

The day began  badly—with an unscheduled faculty meeting—short and to the point. Principal Carol Collins presided with more than her usual officiousness.  “Coach Bilbrey had  found a note in his mailbox this morning stating a bomb will go off during the pep rally.”

From the back of the room someone called. “Ms Collins, we will cancel. Won’t we?”

Carol Collins resented not being called Dr. Collins since she had finally gotten the DED from the local University. “Indeed not,”  she said curtly.  “That is exactly what whoever did this dastardly act wants. We will not give in to this. All faculty and staff will be on duty, checking students as they enter the gym, collecting backpacks and checking loose clothing . Planning period teachers will report to the gym to help in a thorough search of the premises.”

The faculty was of three minds: those into school spirit agreed;  those scared of the consequences questioned;  those few resenting lost time from their academic classed objected.

When the meeting was over,  teachers , most adamantly opposed stood near the  back of the library. Three of the most vocal were:   Ellie Harris, AP Chemistry,  Carl Jones, AP Calculus , and Susan Morrison, AP English. “Much as I detest this pep rally tomfoolery, “ Ellie said, “I can’t see going so far as a bomb threat.  And making one is stupid. If you get caught it’s jail.”

“You never know what motivates them. Ever since Columbine they are more common. And every time it’s some disaffected or mentally disturbed person.” Susan said.  “Who knows what kind of sick person is out there.” She shrugged.” Or should I say in here?”

Carl Jones raised an eyebrow. A faint smile appeared. “Maybe he or she or you or me is not sick at all. Maybe just the sanest.”

MURDER IN A ROMAN LAUNDRY

MURDER IN THE LAUNDRY (Rome)

Scene: Rome 102 A D

In front of Didius’s Fullonica on a narrow side street off the Vicus Sacra a sizeable crowd had amassed. Three Vigiliae kept the crowd well back from the entrance.  All laundry activity was suspended.

Behind the laundry were two tomb-size vats.  One half full of urine.  At any hour of the day from well before dawn until long after sundown men lined up to relieve their full bladders. The other vat was nearly full of days old urine, turned to ammonia, ready for transfer to laundry tubs.  Also in that vat was the body of Didius.

Didius, the proprietor, owned the laundry and the slaves who did the work—carrying pails of cured urine from the vat to tubs, diluting it with water. After which they agitated clothes by stomping on them, as if crushing grapes, before stretching them over racks under the bleaching sun.

Didius’s business was good, twice and three times the volume of other laundries. Partly because of its location, mostly because of Didius promotion genius.

Slave workers were lined up, questioned gently at first, then under torture. To no event.

Attention turned to personal and professional enemies of whom there were many. Part of Didius’s business genius rested in his unscrupulous treatment of family, friends, enemies and employees. Notable among those who without pangs of conscience would have killed Didius:  His wife, Flora, resentful of what she considered theft of her personal wealth and known for her preference of younger more virile men:  Clivus , the weaver whose business faced failure from what he claimed was Didius’s improper cleaning:  Flaucus, an ex- slave who had surreptitiously bought his freedom through a third party and set up a competing  Fullonica.

Flora was dismissed as too short, too thin and too weak.  Clivius produced proof of an out-of-town trip to buy yarn.  Flaucus with no alibi and much motive was chief suspect and might have been tried had not Fortune intervened.

Two Vigiliae, breaking the monotony of their night shift, entered the bar near Didius’s laundry. Mucius, the young son of  Senator Tertius boasted of dumping an officious man in a water trough. Goaded by the Vigiliae,  Mucius regaled the patrons of the bar with an account of the evil pleasure of the night marauding  activities of  the idle young  nobles.

As justice unfolded Flaucus was cleared of any wrong doing; as injustice unfolded Young Mucius and his gang were surrendered to their noble parents.

Fights for Survival

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura stood by the body. Peeper spoke, "This man called Patrick lacked courage; he lacked rectitude: he lacked responsibility. He deserves nothing from us."

"Without accountability he did immeasurable harm not only to us but to all the residents of the world. Justice has been done."

"We tell no one of our part in this." Peeper breathed in, breathed out, filling the bubble in his throat. "Swear on your lives," he said, "Swear on your very lives that no word of how this evil man met his end will ever be made known."

A universal "We swear!"

One by one they left the bank of the pond on which Patrick's inert body lay, face down in the backwaters free of flora and fauna-- a result of his chemical farm practices.

Patrick's death was investigated, and re-investigated, and determined an accident. His one hundred acres were willed to his nephew, Carlos. (Patrick had no children; Patrick deserved no children or no child deserved Patrick). Carlos like his uncle saw his legacy in terms of DOLLARS, as profit. He sought the advice of a local land developer. Advice -- "Get rid of the mosquitoes! Build high end houses, and you're looking at a nice profit."

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura met.

"Carlos must go." Peepers said.
"Carlos must go,' the others chanted.

Two days later Carlos's inert body, face down in the pond's breakwater was found.

Investigation said, "Death by accident."

Croaks filled the night air. Peeper, Ranie, Jakie and Aunra dared dream of the future.

Mystery Writing Challenge

A challenge was put to me by a long time friend. A weekly 500 or  fewer word mystery story. Foolish (probably) or not I agreed.

Thus my first effort. Reader, Be kind.

Persistent ringing of the phone. Number unknown. She knew it was Jake.  Had he bought a cheap throw-away? Persistent ringing of the doorbell. She knew it was Jake. He had sworn he would never give up.

Kendra Cochran, fresh from a hostile breakup with Jake swore at each phone call and each doorbell ring. Would he never accept it was over?

The doorbell rang. She buried her head under a pillow. "Miss Cochran, a voice penetrated the room. "Miss Cochran, Police. We know you're in there."

Kendra opened the door. An overweight, red faced, middle aged man in uniform, a size too small stood next to a younger trim, short haired,  make-upless woman.

"Do you know Jake Harris?"
"Yes."
"When did you last see him?"
"Four days ago."
"Have you heard from him since?"
"Everyday. several times everyday. Why?"
"Today?"
"Yes." Their raised brows prompted her to say. "I don't know for sure. My phone rings. My door bell rings. I think it's Jake. He is relentless."
"Miss Cochran, Jake is dead. We found his body yesterday. He had your name and address in his pocket."

Dead. Jake was dead. He could not be dead. He kept calling her. She opened her mouth to speak. Nothing came forth. The policewoman's hand rested on Kendra's arm. Their eyes met. "Can we come in?"

The details were few. Jake's car went off the road, over an embankment, into a ravine. Dead on impact. But Jake had no car. He never had a car-- unnecessary in the city he said, Buses and trains went everywhere; the environment deserved it, he said. "But Jake doesn't have a car."

"Last night he seems to have had a car."

"Where did it ---"

"About ten miles outside the city on Rte 214. He had an address on an index card. . Carol St in Sommersville. Ever hear of that?"

Kendra closed her eyes, shook her head and finally said, "Jake's ex lives in Sommersville."

"Ex wife?"

""No wife-- an ex live in. Five years ago, I think."

"Janice Belden, by any chance?"

Kendra's eyes widened. "Yes,' she whispered.

The police woman's smile looked to Kendra menacing. "Her name was also on the index card. Can you think of any reason why?" Kendra stared into space. "Can you think of any reason why he would have both your names on that card?  Can you think of any reason he might want to kill her?"

Kendra's body froze. The policewoman  led her to the sofa. "Are you all right?"

Kendra sucked in her breath. In a barely audible whisper she asked, "Janice is dead?" The police said nothing. "And Jake is dead?" She fell silent.

The overweight policeman said, "And you are alive, Miss Cochran, thanks to a lethal accident."

The phone rang. Kendra jumped, smiled weakly and answered. "No Jake does not live here anymore."