Hot Heads

By Stephen R Drage

When the local policeman's bike is stolen, Steve, an aspiring pre-teen detective, is intent on solving the crime. Meanwhile, his dad, plans to win a gardening contest, and organize a bowling match to win a donated pig, who the local children call Patch. The pig charms most of the local populace but a small contingent, including Dirty Ronnie – an evil vagrant hobo – aims to win the pig for it's nutritional value. Steve and his friends embark on a mission to solve the bicycle crime, help his father win the competition, and rescue the doomed pig.

Steve concludes that it must fall upon his friend Sarah, who has become quite attached to the pig, to win the bowling competition and save the animal, but his dad's bowling extravaganza is fraught with problems, as are his attempts to construct a fish pond to win the garden contest.

Tempers begin to flare and the village is divided as false accusations fly and rival factions begin fighting over the pig, the garden contest and the village fate festivities. Things get worse the night before the event when Steve's dad is arrested for bike theft, and the pig mysteriously disappears.

Of course, it all turns out well in the end, despite the bungling misguided efforts of our armature detective.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen R Drage
• Release date: Jan 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9780988920521

Stephen R Drage

Stephen R. Drage is a freelance author, entrepreneur and award winning public speaker.Stephen grew up in England but now lives in Atlanta, GA

Book preview

Hot Heads

By

Stephen R Drage

Copyright © 2014 by Stephen R Drage

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition

http://www.mudlane.net

Also by Stephen R. Drage.

Mud Lane

Mountain Misery

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DISCLAIMER

This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance the characters have to real people is purely coincidental.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Again, for Anita. Without her patience, encouragement and faith this book would not have been possible.

CHAPTER 1

Saturday 20th August

Following our return from holiday, a disaster-filled diary of grief-stricken hardship, bad weather and misfortune, I expected life in Mud Lane to return to the mundane normality of a rural English village. Little did I know that the events about to unfold would breed a web of suspicion and devious lies, set neighbor against neighbor, and threaten to tear apart the delicate social fabric of our fragile community.

Not that one, they’re poisonous! said Mr. Ricketson. He had reached to snare the branch of an elderberry bush with the hooked handle of his cane and was alarmed when he spotted me removing a small bright red berry from a cluster of nearby foliage. He should have been paying more attention, because I had already picked and deposited several handfuls into the well worn-wicker basket he was using to collect them.

Before retirement, Mr. Ricketson had spent many years spreading grief and misery as a schoolteacher in a nearby village, and the benefits of his profession, coupled with a lifetime of study, were now obvious to me.

My ignorance of the natural world was quite unusual for a boy who had lived all his life in the rolling hills and rural woodlands of the small English village of Great Biddington. I had not previously considered the benefits of accurate plant identification, but now the knowledge that exotic and dangerous poisons existed right under my nose piqued my interest.

Poisonous? I retorted, exhibiting new interest in the potentially dangerous berries. But the birds are eating them.

Birds don’t have the same digestive system as humans, Mr. Ricketson replied as he carefully began removing my recent contributions from the basket. Again, I had reason to marvel at the benefits of a good education.

Chucky Billings would have known about the poisons. Chucky was a child of the land, able to derive supreme pleasure from the simple joys of watching lambs playing in the field behind his house or horses running in the early morning mists while he took his dog Spot for a walk. But Chucky wasn’t part of Mr. Ricketson's elderberry picking excursion. Chucky was not the one who had knocked over Mr. Ricketson’s dustbins.

It had been my old friend Benito, who had the unexpected collision with the two galvanized steel bins at the bottom of the Ricketson’s driveway as he tried to leap over them at full running speed. And although I was merely an amused spectator, now we were both suffering the punishment for his careless deed, having been sentenced to help Mr. and Mrs. Ricketson collect elderberries. It was a devious arrangement between Mr. Ricketson and my father – one seeking cheap labor, the other some peace and quiet. I had hoped that during last weeks excruciating holiday in Wales, the dustbin incident and subsequent penalty would be forgotten. But this was not to be the case, and upon our return we were immediately enlisted for the task. This bothered me because our summer holiday from school was almost over and we had planned to spend the last few days relaxing rather than working.

It was a glorious summer day, with a pale washed-out blue sky and a slightly warm breeze that added crispness to the morning air as it gently fluttered the leaves of the bushes that grew in tight formation along the side of the dirt road.

I stretched to reach a stalk full of the ripe round berries. The sun’s rays easily penetrated my thin shirt and warmed the flesh beneath. This feeling was something to be cherished and not at all like the miserable, cold and damp climate that was more typical of an English summer.

Do you think those poisonous berries would work on the vicar? asked Benito innocently. He had found a comfortable area thick with soft grass, and was slouching in a semi-horizontal position against the trunk of a tree. He waved a hand in front of his face to discourage a fly from feasting on a tomato stain, the remainder of his breakfast that now adhered to his shirt front. He nibbled on a long stem of grass as he gazed wistfully upward trying to spot some more pictures. So far he had found fairly good likenesses of a ship, three sheep, and Mrs. Snaggins in the white billowing clouds hanging motionless in an otherwise clear sky. He probably should not have spoken. Had he remained silent, the Ricketson's might have forgotten about him for a few more minutes. As it was, Mrs. Ricketson moved around the bush for a better view of my motionless friend and said, Are you feeling better yet, Benito?

We had been walking down the dirt track that continues on from where the paved surface of Mud Lane ended opposite Mrs. Snobbit’s house. It was uneven with deep worn wheel furrows created during the long muddy winter, now hardened and dusty in the sun’s heat. Intermittently, Mr. Ricketson would stop and point to a grouping of shrubbery with his long stick and instruct us to retrieve the small clusters of blackberries. Shortly after we began our assault on a particularly large dome-shaped clump of elderberry bushes, Benito decided that he was suffering from some form of intestinal malady that prevented him from assisting with the work. He staggered off with his arms folded over his belly and a sour expression on his face, eventually slumping against the tree where he now reclined. I had seen him do this many times throughout the school year, but it was uncommon for him to be afflicted with the complaint during the summer holiday.

It still hurts, said Benito, and let out a loud groan for added effect.

Perhaps he ate some of those poisonous things, I said, just to see what would happen to Mrs. Ricketson.

Oh my, do you think he could have? asked Mrs. Ricketson, speaking to her husband directly, now suddenly concerned that the boy might be genuinely ill.

Did you, Benito? asked the old man in his well-practiced school-teacher voice.

Well, I don’t know, hesitated my playmate, realizing that this latest development might represent an opportunity to prolong his theatrical performance and possibly avoid doing any work at all. I’m not sure, he groaned again. I was eating a few blackberries and one or two of those poison things might have been mixed in with them.

Benito moaned, a horrible drawn out affair that lasted several seconds. I thought he was overdoing it a little. Fabricating a bout of intestinal discomfort to avoid work was one thing, but this was something else entirely. This was no ordinary stomach ache – this was a cowboy outlaw left squirming in the dust with the good guy’s bullet in his belly; this was a pirate shortly after an introduction to the sharp end of a hero’s cutlass; this was the Sheriff of Nottingham with one of Robin Hood’s arrows planted firmly in his abdomen.

Both Benito and I had been eating blackberries constantly since this laborious journey started. The bushes were a tangle of thorn-infested twigs, which made the picking process a delicate maneuver, but the berry was sweet, full of juice, and free. Occasionally, in our haste and carelessness, we accidentally ingested a few that had yet to fully ripen, and although these had a definite sourness to them, they could not produce the symptoms Benito now exhibited.

Elderberries were not generally eaten, at least not by humans. I imagined that Mr. Ricketson would know of some native creature that could dine quite happily on them, but I saw no use for them as nourishment. They had some value as a potential weapon, as they could be thrown at an opponent. Elderberries were soft and easily squashed, thus leaving a purple-black stain on flesh or clothing. The best results could be obtained if you were clever enough to trick your victim into sitting on a bunch. I made a mental note to take some to Squeaky Norrington’s birthday party tomorrow.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Ricketson continued to show concern over Benito’s health. Putting the basket of berries down on a grass mound, she walked over to Benito and placed her palm on his forehead in a manner that mothers everywhere had perfected with such accuracy that professional thermometer manufacturers now used it to calibrate their products.

He feels very warm, she said. Maybe we should head home?

It’s the end of August – and we’re in a heat wave, said Mr. Ricketson. We’re all very warm.

I didn’t think Benito could possibly be warm. His family was from Italy, and were genetically designed to be able to tolerate triple-digit heat.

Yes, but what if he’s really ill? countered Mrs. Ricketson’s motherly instincts.

Mr. Ricketson did not respond well to this.

In all my years as a school teacher, if I had sent home every child who complained of a stomach ache, half the county would be illiterate. He swished his cane through the air and looked as if he was reliving some fond old memory involving the beating of an innocent child. Benito saw this and, understanding the animated suggestion, staggered to his feet.

In the distance I could see my brother, Pete, approaching with his motorcycle. The usual balanced stance, as he stood up on the footrests and tried to hit every bump, was gone. Nor was he crouched down over the petrol tank, squeezing the last mile-per-hour out of the small overworked engine as he made a speed run along the smoother grass beside the dirt track. The characteristic un-silenced engine, with its unpredictable and intermittent popping sounds as the bike backfired, was also missing. Only the faint squeaking sounds of something mechanical and the would-be rider's grumbling cut through the still morning air, as Pete pushed the broken-down vehicle towards us.

We all suspended our berry collection and stood watching my disgruntled older brother approach. He leaned forward in a struggling stride as he pushed the bike along. His head was down watching the rough dirt pass below the bikes engine, and he was sweating and breathing deeply from the exertion.

Hello, I greeted him. Did your bike break down?

He just looked at me, probably wishing he had enough remaining strength to inflict some harm on a defenseless younger brother. He took two more deep breaths before replying.

No.

Mrs. Richardson missed the sarcasm and joined the conversation.

Then why are you pushing it? Her cheerful and relaxed disposition just irritated Pete more.

I’m just getting some exercise, he replied.

This answer seemed to satisfy about three-quarters of Mrs. Ricketson’s curiosity, but none of Mr. Ricketson’s as he recognized Pete’s cheeky retort for what it was, and his hand instinctively tightened round the old cane again.

Pete was standing now, leaning his weight on the bike to keep it upright, the kickstand, like every other non-essential part of the vehicle, having been removed to save weight. He put his right hand on his hip and made a painful face, and I wondered if the bike's engine failure was somehow the result of an accident.

What’s wrong with it? I asked.

Mrs. Ricketson looked puzzled, finding my question inconsistent with her understanding of the bike's lack of operability.

I don’t know, said Pete, the frustration in his voice indicating that he had tried every obvious repair procedure that could be done in the middle of a field. It looks like either the petrol or the electrics.

Oh, I said, not knowing how else to respond.

Oh, said Mrs. Ricketson, finally understanding the finer points of Pete’s so-called sense of humor.

His breathing had now returned to normal, and as he wiped his hands – soiled with oil stains and road dirt – on the front of his jeans, he said to me, Come on, help me push it home.

I can’t, I said, looking at my two handlers. Me and Benito have to pick elderberries for Mr. Ricketson.

Oh, said Pete, remembering the fun he had witnessing the incident with our neighbor's two dustbins and his unbridled joy at seeing us get caught.

There was an uncomfortable silence, which was finally broken by Mrs. Ricketson.

Why don’t we all go home. Pete shouldn’t push that bike alone, and we really should get Benito back to his mum in case he gets any worse. She was speaking to her husband, who was watching the prospect of a productive morning picking berries get disrupted by Benito’s sudden illness and my brother’s mechanical breakdown. What he didn’t know was that Pete had as much practice pushing a non-functioning motorbike as Benito had faking various illnesses. While he thought about a response, Mr. Ricketson looked into the basket and shook it by it's long hooped handle, trying to assess the quantity of berries gathered.

All right, he finally agreed, studying the contents of the basket I’ve probably got enough. And with that we all set off for home.

The slight incline of the rough unsurfaced road leading up towards Mrs. Snobbit’s house made pushing the motorbike hard work, and I soon looked much the same as Pete had when we first saw him. Although still not feeling well enough to help us push, Benito had made a remarkable recovery from his appendicitis and was now walking in front of us, practicing his football skills by kicking small rocks at the bushes on either side of the track.

What do you want these elderberries for anyway? asked Benito. He had now taken up a stick and was using it to strike the longest of the slender branches that grew out of the hedgerows.

I use them to make wine, said Mr. Ricketson.

What kind of wine? Benito was talking out of boredom, not genuinely seeking wine-making advice.

Mr. Ricketson paused and looked at Benito. I could see that he was hoping not to have to answer this question, since Benito was more interested with practicing his swordsmanship against defenseless bushes than really participating in the conversation. The elderly winemaker thought for a moment and decided to try and help the delinquent youth.

Elderberry wine, he said.

What else can you make wine from? asked Benito.

I knew Mr. Ricketson would eventually come to regret starting this conversation, but he obviously had to learn that the hard way.

Well, throughout history wine has been made from many things. Usually grapes. It's been made for eight thousand years and was very common in ancient Rome and Greece. Over time, it has been incorporated into both Christian and Jewish religious practices. You can make wine from fruits like grapes, apples, pears, and peaches. Also berries, such as blackberries, gooseberries, or elderberries, or even things like figs and carrots. Basically, anything that has sugar in it.

Could you make it from toffee?

No, said Mr. Ricketson.

Toffee has sugar in it, said Benito.

I know it does, replied the retired teacher. But toffee is not used for making wine. We use natural things that grow on trees or bushes.

Well, how about using those red poisonous berries you were talking about? Benito’s question was a good one, but I was troubled as to why he would ask it. I hoped that it was just to annoy the old winemaker.

Why would you want to make poisonous wine? asked Mr Ricketson. I started to wonder how long his patience would hold out.

You could make it for the birds, replied Benito.

Mr. Ricketson didn’t answer.

Mrs. Snobbit was standing in her front garden wearing a cooking apron dusty with icing sugar. Seeing us approach, she had rushed out to interrogate us regarding the purpose for our mission. Mrs. Snobbit needed gossip the way Billy Tadcome needed alcohol, and I felt sure whatever she learned during the course of this interview would quickly be spread around the village in exchange for some other unimportant local trivia. Mrs. Snobbit was the high priestess of unverified chitchat, and was considered by most to be the undisputed third-party expert on all matters of scandal and hearsay. She knew everything worth knowing about the interplay of village events, the rumors and suppositions of other people’s private business, and the constantly evolving yet unconfirmed information that existed as the common social currency of Great Biddington.

Good morning, said Mrs. Snobbit, pretending to shake a tablecloth as her alibi for the predictable ambush. We exchanged a greeting and an opinion about how well the cattle were looking this year, and then the cross-examination began. Mrs. Snobbit was extremely skilled at this and had a smooth, gentle probing manner that was designed to catch her subject off guard and reveal any underlying information in their day-to-day conversation that might not be obvious to the casual listener.

Rodger Pilchard had recently become convinced that Mrs. Snobbit was, in actuality, a spy working for the Germans. He had been presented with a constructive argument that not only had the war been over for more than twenty years and that Hitler had in fact lost, but also that there were no secrets worth stealing from the small village of Great Biddington – no hush-hush war plans being conceived in the back room of the Red Lion Public house, no submarine bases deceptively concealed in the rolling hills of central England, and no clandestine munitions factories cleverly disguised as Farmer Potter's pig sheds. Despite this, Rodger would not relinquish his paranoid beliefs and would often, when meeting Mrs. Snobbit in the village, emulate a Nazi salute in hopes he could elicit an automatic response from her, thereby tricking the village gossip-monger into revealing her true identity. Ironically, this display only served to convince those who observed it that it was in fact Rodger who was the German spy.

Oh my word, she began in a sympathetic tone, this is a warm day to be out picking berries. Her statement was delivered with raised eyebrows, and the way the last word ended with a slight increase in pitch, made it more of a question.

Yes, came the expected confirmation from Mr. Ricketson, as he dabbed at beads of perspiration on his forehead with a yellow handkerchief. It certainly is a hot one.

I didn’t feel that Mr. Ricketson had given anything away in this response. England was in the midst of an extended and uncharacteristic heat wave. Not only was this blistering drought causing considerable discomfort, but it was also threatening to destroy the art of conversation for an island race which started every social exchange with an hour's worth of bitter complaints about the cold, rain, frost, sleet, snow, hail or fog.

Leaning forward over the hedge to get a better look at our small group, Mrs. Snobbit continued: Did your motorcycle break down, Pete?

This was a good start. Pete had, much against my father’s stern instruction, been known to occasionally ride his stripped-down bike on the village roads. This was a practice that most people resented, as the noise was disruptive and the possible danger to other vehicles and pedestrians was worrisome. If Mrs. Snobbit were able to pass some good news around the village about Pete’s primary diversion being discontinued, she would preserve her social standing as Gossiper Supreme.

No, said Pete. Nothing else. Just no. He knew that lack of information would annoy Mrs. Snobbit and, anyway, didn’t want to give false hope to the others in her extensive circle of information traders. Mrs. Snobbit looked puzzled.

He’s just pushing it for exercise, added Benito.

Oh, said Mrs. Snobbit thoughtfully. And what have you got there, Mr. Ricketson? They look like elderberries.

Yes, they are, he replied.

And I expect your going to make some more of your lovely wine with them, said the old quiz-master.

He’s going to make some poisonous wine, interjected Benito.

Be quiet, boy, snapped Mr. Ricketson. The last thing he needed was Mrs. Snobbit spreading unfounded rumors around the village. Only last week she had circulated a story that he and Mrs. Ricketson had a difference of opinion about the location of a gooseberry bush that Mr. Ricketson was planning to plant in his front yard. On top of that, Benito’s blurted comment would surely provide the remaining clue, thus allowing Detective Snobbit to conclude he was planning to poison his wife.

Mrs. Snobbit leaned even further over the hedge in order to get a better view of the basket's contents, and continued suspiciously: And Mrs. Ricketson, will you be helping with the village fete this year?

Oh, I’m not sure yet, replied the winemaker's wife.

The village fete was a long-standing tradition in Great Biddington, and was organized whenever the community needed to raise money for something. Two years ago it was for some renovations to the village hall. Last year it was to build a fence around a portion of the cricket pitch that bordered the back of the Eagle’s Nest pub. Pauline Spinner was the landlady of the pub and her dog, Butch, had been trained at an early age to fetch a ball, so during the week-end cricket matches Butch often tried to join in. The construction of the white picket fence forever ended Butch’s participation in the sport he loved.

This year the needy cause was the church roof. It seemed to me that the church’s ability to protect its inhabitants from a downpour was always in question – only last summer the children of the village had organized a sponsored walk to raise money for some much needed repairs – and now there were more leaks. My brother had suggested to Vicar Hobbins that he just demolish the church and construct a new one that wouldn’t be so costly to maintain. The Vicar declined, going to great lengths to explain to Pete that this was not a realistic option. Eventually my brother had to agree, but added that if Vicar Hobbins ever changed his mind, there was a big oak table in the church that he would like to claim for a workbench.

Over the last month the entire village had been consumed with meetings to prepare for the fete. We were fortunate that we were on holiday last week and so missed being conscripted to assist with any of the arrangements. But my father, anxious to become involved in the proceedings still searched for an opportunity to join in.

Yes, continued Mrs. Snobbit. Norbert’s mother is going to bake some cakes and sell them in Mrs. Crippin’s tea tent.

Mrs. Snobbit was, of course, referring to Squeaky Norrington’s mum, although how a notoriously dreadful cook such as Mrs. Norrington was going to convince innocent people to purchase and eat her food was beyond me. I was particularly sensitive to this issue, since tomorrow would be Squeaky’s birthday party. After receiving the invitation, I had struggled with my conscience for several hours, carefully weighing eating Mrs. Norrington’s cooking against the chance to play with Squeaky’s new toys. The toys won, but it was not a decision I felt good about.

Mrs. Snobbit continued: And Toby Lawson is going to set up a bottle stall; the pub won’t donate any bottles because they’re already supplying the Dart Board. She paused, enjoying a rare moment of inspiration. Why, Mister Ricketson, you could give poor Mr. Lawson some of your wine.

The bottle stand was a simple affair. A few playing cards were removed from a full deck and affixed to a table using drawing pins. Bottles of wine and spirits were then placed on the cards. Contestants paid a small fee to select a card from another deck and if their card matched one with a bottle standing on it, they would win the bottle. Mr. Ricketson said he would think about donating some of his precious brew, but would have to return home and check his inventory levels before reaching a decision.

And are any of you entering the 'beautiful garden' contest?

I knew from listening to the adults that this event had been newly introduced this year. The judges would drive round the village on the morning before the fete opened and visit the participating homes. The winner would receive a basket of groceries donated from Binford’s Shop, but the real prize was the honor and respect the winner would receive from the rest of Great Biddington. Mrs. Pilchard, an avid rose grower, would certainly mark off an area of her garden for entry in this prestigious event. But the competition within Mud Lane alone would be difficult, since the Maudly-Creechom’s with their private gardener and inexhaustible supply of money would also enter.

I was once again brought back to the reality of the hot dusty lane by the soothing tones of Mrs. Snobbit. And did you hear that Constable Smith's bicycle has gone missing?

We all admitted that we had not, which seemed to make the old lady happy.

Yes, she continued, he parked it outside the shop, then he went to buy an ice cream and when he came out, it was gone.

Again we reaffirmed our ignorance of the event. Having rested adequately from the exertion of pushing Pete’s bike, we were now ready to continue on our way, so we excused ourselves and moved on before Benito said anything else to Mrs. Snobbit that might cause damage to anyone’s reputation. As we walked off, Mrs. Snobbit, reluctant to terminate the conversation called after Pete and I, And how was your holiday in Wales?

Terrible, we both answered in unison. I did not relish being reminded of the holiday and the days spent in cold, wet clothing undergoing the most extreme form of physical exertion.

Mr. Ricketson bid us farewell and thanked us for our help, although he looked at Benito with a strange expression when he said thank you. They left us and went inside the old cottage, which they had purchased following Mr. Ricketson’s departure from the county school system. Since moving into the thatched stone dwelling, he had become quite good friends with my father, and I was afraid that his passion for producing homemade wine would infect my Dad; after all, Dad had been a sailor for many years – an occupation that shared a notorious association with the consumption of excessive amounts of alcohol. Following our disastrous holiday in Wales, mountaineering was already losing favor in Dad’s life, and we all wondered what interest or hobby he would settle on next.

Once back at home the primary concern became fixing Pete’s motorbike. It was a mechanical miracle that it ran at all, considering it was a gift from Dad, who didn’t give anything away if there was any chance of it being repaired, recycled or sold. In a moment of extreme weakness, our father had donated the malfunctioning vehicle to Pete, knowing of his love of motorcycles, yet doubting Pete's ability to fix the problems it had with the lights and exhaust system. Pete simply removed the pieces that didn’t work, and everything else that he thought did not belong on a sports model. He had somehow managed to get it running, which infuriated Dad. The bike has subsequently broken down so often that Pete had now become quite an expert on the maintenance of this particular model.

Pete leaned the vehicle against the outside wall of his shed, which happened to be an old disused toilet, and Benito and I watched with interest as he began removing parts. He disconnected the spark plug and balanced it carefully on the cooling fins of the engines cylinder head. It slipped off twice, causing him to ask Benito to hold it in place.

Like this? asked Benito. The discomfort in his midriff had disappeared along with Mr. Ricketson, and he was now back to his old mischievous self. But mischief was not something only Benito possessed, and my brother pushed the kick-start down to generate a spark at the end of the wire that Benito now held delicately between thumb and forefinger.

Aaaarrrggghh! yelled Benito, dropping the wire and shaking his hand vigorously as he endeavored to remove the remainder of the electricity from his arm.

Well, the electrics are OK, Pete said casually, taking no notice of Benito’s suffering. Next, he