Tzimmes Cracked Corn (And I Don’t Care)
A Spontoon Island story
© 2022 Walter Reimer
(Characters courtesy of M. Mitch Marmel, J.T. Urie and E.O. Costello. Thanks!)

Thumbnail art by  turnbolt

17.


Willow:

I recall this one young roebuck, in his first year at Collegiate in New Haven, who I overheard bragging about the pranks he’d perpetrate. He always stressed three rules when it came to pranking.

One was “Never let them see you coming.”

Another was “Make sure you’re at a safe distance before you start gloating.”

The third was “Always wait after playing one trick before you start another.” Cheeky little guy; I used to wonder what ever came of Freddy.

Still, I like to think that I was using his advice to good effect, by engaging in a very satisfying gloat up in our rooms.

“Pardon me. Mrs. Buckhorn.”

“Yes, Lodge?”

“Mrs. Athena Meffit to see you, Ma’am.”

I frowned momentarily before remembering. “Oh! Dr. Meffit’s wife. Please show her in, Lodge.” The beaver dutifully left and a young champagne-furred skunk came in and I stood to greet her. “Willow Buckhorn,” I said as we shook paws.

“Athena Meffit,” she said. She sat down on the seat I offered and said, “We have a mutual friend.”

“Oh?”

“Rosie Baumgartner.” She grinned. “She asked me to be one of her bridesmaids.”

I started thinking about that, while I congratulated her and asked how married life was treating her. Given Rosie’s enthusiasm, there was a possibility that she might have asked every femme in the Spontoons to be one of her bridesmaids. And that brought up another topic – had Rosie chosen a Matron of Honor yet?

Athena’s expression grew serious, and I came out of my musings as she said, “We also have a mutual . . . adversary, if what Rosie told me is true.”

“Who? Andre d’Arbres?”

She blinked before she started giggling. “Oh no, not him. I meant the New Haven Embassy. They’re next-door neighbors to me and Jacob.”

I winced. “I sympathize, I really do.”

“That’s why Rosie asked me to talk to you. I want to help keep them off her and the Inspector’s backs.”

I couldn’t help grinning. “Well, the first blow’s already been struck, sort of – what?” I asked as she grew thoughtful.

“I did overhear a phone call last night. Being a doctor, Jacob gets called away at all hours.”

“And?”

“Well, I couldn’t hear it too clearly, but it seems that my neighbors had a touch of food poisoning last night.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” and I’m afraid my smile gave me away.

Athena giggled and clapped her paws. “I want to help!”

I leaned in, and gestured for her to come closer. “Right now, we just need to sit back and keep an eye on them. Give them a little time to recover and relax before we do anything else.”

“I can keep – well, a discreet lookout,” Athena said.

“Perfect.”


***


Brush:

“Thanks, Doc.” I hang up the phone, an’ th’ Inspector gives me a look. “That was Doc Meffit, Sir. Just lettin’ th’ Constabulary know what happened last night.”

Th’ Inspector points his ears at me, an’ I look at my notes. “New Haven Embassy called Meetin’ Island Hospital last night, ‘round midnight. Close t’half of ‘em down with a stomach ailment.”

“Any idea what caused it, Sergeant?”

“Nossir, but based on what th’ staff said – those who could stay off th’ thunderpot long enough – that a native gal delivered some fruit pies to ‘em earlier in the day. Docs are keepin’ an eye out, but they think just tellin’ ‘em to not take stuff from strangers’ll take care o’ th’ problem. ‘Course, there’s th’ plumbin,’ but that ain’t our problem.”

Th’ Inspector closes his eyes and lowers head, thinking a bit. He takes a breath an’ says, “I think I shall go to confession at lunchtime, Sergeant. I really shouldn’t feel any satisfaction out of . . . the misfortune of my former countryfurs.”

“Yes, Sir.” I manage t’keep my own smile off my face.


***


Vee:

I got off the phone with Willow and relayed her report to Allan. As stuffy as my husband might have been about her pulling a variety of operations against the New Haven Embassy, I could tell he was very pleased that the first one had gone off quite well. Of course, he didn’t let on; Allan’s poker face is legendary.

How did I know? I’m his wife; he never plays poker against me.

“So,” my dear husband asked, “did she let on what’s next?”

“No dear,” I replied truthfully, “apart from letting me know that she’ll be waiting a few days for things to settle down before she pulls her next stunt.”

“Good. Do you realize, Vee, that the weather in Washington is miserable this time of year?”

“Don’t I know it.”

“And here we have a beautiful tropic paradise laid out before us.”

“Swimming?”

“Swimming.”


***


Reggie:

Of course, I hadn’t forgotten about the reason that I had upped stakes and traveled right the way around the world.

Again.

I was in my best suit, a delicate tropical bloom properly ensconced in my lapel and my briefcase in my lap, seated in a small room while an officious secretary did secretary things until it was time for her to usher me into the presence of one Mr. Abner Stubato, one of the Deputy Ministers for Agriculture here on Spontoon.

I had been led to believe, based on an exchange of telegrams that had started in London and ended with a telephone call on Casino Island, that if my presentation and my offer had met with the approval of Mr. Stubato, I would be permitted into the Presence of the Althing’s Minister of Agriculture, a certain Mrs. Rapani.

Therefore, I had my presentation carefully arranged, with all T’s dotted and all I’s crossed, and my arguments marshalled as if for parade.

My ears swiveled at a soft buzz and the secretary, a quiet Siamese, said, “Mr. Stubato will see you, Mr. Buckhorn.”

“Thank you,” I said as I got to my hooves and, briefcase in paw, headed into the lion’s den.

Mr. Stubato was a feline of no fixed fur pattern who appeared to be based upon the principle of stacked circles, and when he stood to shake paws with me I noted that the tips of his ears barely reached the height of my shoulders. “Mister Buckhorn, welcome.”

“Mister Stubato. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

He gave me a businessfur’s smile and waved at a seat. “Please sit down,” and as I did so I caught a glimpse of a rather thick copy of the Gnu York City Mellow Pages strapped to the seat of his chair. “I’m told that you’re here on behalf on your family firm.”

“That’s correct, sir,” I said, and I opened my briefcase.

I’ll save you a great deal of business blather and folderol, but to sum it all up I was making an offer on behalf of F. R. Buckhorn and Sons to purchase a certain amount of kelp per annum from farmers based in the Spontoons. Note I said ‘a certain amount,’ as it would certainly be Not Done to take food from the mouths of the hard-working Spontoonies.

As I gave Mr. Stubato a smooth quality assortment of the posh chat, I gave him a copy of the presentation. The cat flipped through a few of the pages and said, “You realize, of course, Mister Buckhorn, that Spontoon kelp farmers not only supply dinner tables here, but sell their surplus to other markets.”

“Yes, Sir, I’m well aware,” I said. “And my company has no intention of harming your country’s economy. However, I feel that we can make a generous offer.”

“Hmm, well, I’ll discuss this with Mrs. Rapani, and we’ll be in touch. You’re staying at Shepherd’s?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“All right.” And we shook paws.

Nothing to do now but wait, but as I left the Agriculture Ministry, I saw a furtive rustling in the bushes. My ears swiveled as I heard at least three furs jostling around with at least one muffled yelp that I recognized as the possible result of receiving an elbow to the tummy.

Ah, my public.

I would add the rest of that, but I’m sure they adore the prospect of winning a bet, rather than having any affection toward me personally.



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