The Fat Man_ A Tale of North Pole Noir - Ken Harmon [44]
The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come’s explanation of events aggravated Cane’s dying. His breath got raspier and hurried, and he fidgeted and thrashed in his bed. His eyes were wide with fear and he mumbled something, but I couldn’t catch what.
“He’s been carrying on like this since I arrived,” Ghost said. He turned to Cane and cooed, “Settle still, there, Master Cane. Think of tranquil waters and kittens or something. Try and spy the light, ducky. Spy the light.” Ghost then turned to us, lowered his voice and said, “Of course, in his case, I believe, for him, the light means the roaster is preheated and ready to begin never-ending poach, poor sot.”
“Maybe I can lower the temperature for him some,” I said and moved to Cane. Gone was the elf who was going to take over the world. Everything about Cane was gray: his hair, his skin and his eyes. He was trembling and searching for a sight or sound of comfort. “Cane,” I said in the friendliest voice I could muster, “it’s Gumdrop Coal. Do you remember me?”
Cane’s eyes told me that he knew who I was, but my presence wasn’t helping. He probably thought I was there to finish him off. “I’m going to offer you a chance for a little redemption, Candy,” I told him. “Now that I have witnesses, just tell me if you cooked up this plan, killing Raymond Hall and framing me, to take over Kringle Town and become Santa. Just give the nod and you’ll feel better for it.”
Cane nodded right away. But he nodded “no.”
“Pants on fire!” Ghost said. “Well, they’re about to be, quite literally.”
At first, I wanted to punch Cane, but my gut told me that someone with the bucket right in front of their boot would tell the truth. Even Cane wasn’t stupid enough to think he could lie his way out of this one. “Do you know who did do it?” I asked.
This time, Cane’s head went vertical. “Yes,” he said in a hoarse whisper. “Yes.”
“Well, out with it already, poodle,” Ghost said, giving Cane a poke with his bony finger. “Don’t think a drawn-out deathbed confession is going to stretch your life taffy. I have a schedule to keep.”
I shot Ghost a look to stifle it, and turned back to Cane. “Did someone put you up to the frame-up? Who was it?”
Cane’s eyes half-closed and he took a long swallow. He lifted his hand like it was made of stone and pointed over my shoulder. “Rosebud,” he said.
My heart stopped. It had to because it broke right then and there.
Cane’s arm dropped back to his side and he looked at me, pleading for help. He was probably the saddest thing I had ever seen, but at that moment, I would have swapped places.
“He’s lying,” Rosebud said behind me. “Gumdrop, you know it’s not true.”
“Do I?”
“Why would I do such a thing?” she asked.
I turned around. Rosebud’s face was red, but her jaw was set in granite. She looked like she expected me to believe her or that she would smack me around until I did. “Why? Because it would make a good story, that’s why. You said it yourself; you want a big story. Candy shares his ambition and you smell front-page ink. But when you discover Cane doesn’t have the brainpower to pull off such a caper and make for good reading, you whisper a little sweet nothing that he needs to get me out of the way and help him along. Ukulele Who said a dame got to Lou Who. So, you get Ralphie’s rifle, give Raymond Hall the powder and type up that little poem on your typewriter, framing me for the murder or framing Cane for the framing. You’re fixed both ways. Then you give Lou Who just enough sugar to put him in a diabetic coma. To cover your bases, you lead me to the mistletoe forest, rescue me, get my trust. Plus all the while, your story gets bigger and bigger. My guess is that Tannenbomb was to pecan me out there. I bet you thought you’d be at a typewriter right now. Or you’ve already got