Friday McDaniels and the Case of the Missing Nutsack

Part 9: Friday, You're On Your Own, Buddy

Friday burst through the door of the office, "Wednesday!"

Friday breezed passed Carol's desk and opened the door to Wednesday's office. He flicked the light switch on. The floor, littered with books, various papers, and upended chairs, looked as though someone had come in here looking for a fight. Or information. Possibly both. Whatever happened, it didn’t settle the upset in Friday’s stomach. He didn’t have to search long before he found the answer. A manila envelope sat on top of the pile of debris on the desk with Friday's name etched on top.

Friday snatched it from the desk and tore it open. With shaking hands he unfolded the letter and read:

Dear Mr. McDaniels,

If you want to see your brother again, you will forget all about Peachtree's Premium Nutsack. Let the matter rest and I will return Wednesday when I’m finished with the nutsack. If you do not heed my instructions, there will be dire consequences for Wednesday. 

Friday balled up the paper and threw it on the floor. Sweat prickled his forehead, his breath caught in his throat. He left Wednesday’s office and went to his own where he poured himself a double shot of scotch. He didn’t bother putting it back in its hiding place, rather left it open on his desktop. He took a seat, shot the drink back in one swallow, and closed his eyes, taking in deep breaths, trying to get his brain to function. 

Why didn’t he know what to do now?

Probably because you spend all your time at Griffin’s instead of on assignment, he could hear Wednesday’s voice in his head.

Well, that just wasn’t true at all, thought Friday. He grabbed the bottle, swigged straight from it, and stood. There had to be someone to talk to, someone who could help it out with this situation. Surely Wednesday didn’t solve all the cases on his own…

Friday pulled his keys from his pocket and went back to Wednesday’s office. He went to the bookshelf, pressed on The Origin Of Species, and a small section of bookshelf slid to the right revealing a safe door. He unlocked it, opened it, and pulled Wednesday's case notes from inside. He locked it back up and pressed on The Undiscovered Self and the shelf slid back into place. Before he left the room, he picked up the wadded up letter, straightened it out best he could, and slipped it in the folder with the case notes.

When he emerged back into the main office he stood a moment, considering. The message button on Carol’s phone wasn’t blinking, but he pressed the button anyway, hoping that even an old message would spark something in him to get him moving in the right direction. Without knowing a thing about Candystripe, he didn't know where to find his brother. Or where to even start looking.

Rananda's voice came from the other end. Friday found himself smiling at the sound, "Friday, this is Rananda. I've changed my mind. Can you meet me at my house when you get this? I have some information for you."

Knowing that someone listened to this call hastened Friday's exit from the office. Did Candystripe hear that message, or did he just intercept Wednesday who might have been making his way to Rananda's himself? Friday wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer to that. 

                                                                                *****

Friday walked up the steps of Rananda's house, soft TV voices floating out through the opened windows. He rapped on the door three times, waited. He didn’t want to relive the drama of the other day. Crickets chirped from the bushes and the yards lit with fireflies. Somewhere down the block kids played baseball in the dark. Friday could hear the crack of the bat and the hollers of children. He knocked again. Still no answer.

He tried the handle, done with politeness. He didn’t have time for that. The door swung open easily and he stepped inside.

"Rananda?" he called.

In the living room he saw her lying on the couch, right arm raised above her head, sleeping. She was really out, too. Her head bent to the side, gaping mouth, a small dribble of drool on the side of her lip. He tried not to smile and told himself to be gentlemanly when she woke—to let her gather her bearings before he said anything. 

He bent and shook her gently. Something was wrong. He touched her arm—squeezed. Her arm was cold, frigid even, and the sleep look on her face didn’t look quite right anymore. And there was no breath, no rising and falling of her chest as she drew breath and expelled it.  

"No." he whispered—as if that could change things.

He tried shaking her again, hoping that he was wrong. He wasn't. He looked at her face, innocent, peaceful in her death slumber. Tears pricked the corners of his eyes and he shook them away. He took a deep breath, exhaled, repeated. When he finally found his feet he stood and pulled out his phone. He punched some numbers and listened.

"Friday, this better be damn important," a voice came at the other end, "because the Missus isn’t going to be happy if it ain’t."

"There's a body."           

Silence.            

"It's Rananda Tippertoe. 214 E Ash."          

"Homicide?"           

"I can't say for sure but she had information for me about the sack of nuts. Wednesday's missing and I need to find him. I think he's in danger."            

"Okay. Hold tight, I'll send some men. I'll be there soon."