Twelve Red Roses

I found this languishing in a forgotten folder on my computer today. Like most of my stuff, unfinished, but as I can't remember what was meant to happen next, if I ever knew, I don't think I'll get it completed. Sorry about the change in fonts, I can't seem to fix it. It complains about something or other in the Html when I try.

Someone was at the door. Expressing my frustration by means of a series of onomatopoeic exclamations, I shut my book with a resounding clap (it was a 400 page hardcover), rose from my chair and made for the door. Hastily putting on my “about-to-receive-an-unknown-guest” face, I opened the said portal to find an impatient courier upon the step.

“Sebastian Teach?” he snapped, daring me to be anyone else.

“That’s me,” I stammered.

“There’s a bouquet of flowers for you – sign here.” He thrust a technological do-hickey at me.

“A bouquet of what!”

“Flowers.”

I signed. He snatched the whatchamicallit back.

“Flowers?”

“Yes, flowers.”

Observing the conversation to have stagnated, the courier pitched a large, cellophane entombed bouquet at me, leaped into his van and roared backward down the drive. A little old lady with a walking frame shook her fist and hurled bloodcurdling oaths at him as he narrowly missed running her down.

I hurriedly shut the door before my ears were scorched off at the sound of her profane cursing and examined the unexpected garland. There were twelve red roses – blood red.

Who could they be from? A morbid thought hit me like an icy snowball of compacted fear and horror. A girl? Never! “Doesn’t the Post Office screen anything?” I suddenly found new meaning in these words of my sagacious friend Calvin.

In feverish anticipation I drew the customary card from amongst the carmine petals. Tentatively I read the flourished inscription – at least, I tried to. These flowers can't be from a girl, I mused, they might be an incomprehensible barrier to understanding at times, but never so unintelligible as this. There was one word – pistachio.

My mind reeled and staggered in a merry Bacchic dance. I was not used to such enigmatic mail. Voting papers were nothing in comparison.

Beneath this word was a series of numbers that resembled a phone number somewhat. Acting contrary to my nature, I reached for the phone and dialed the number.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Hello. It's Sebastian Teach speaking, I've just received twelve roses and your number was on the card so...”

There was a gasp on the other end and the sound of someone conversing excitedly in the background came thru the earpiece.

“Are the roses red?” they asked.

“Well, yes, but...”

“And violets are blue. We'll be there in half an hour.”

“What? I just want to know...”

But they had hung up. All I could do now was to wait.

They came in black cars, black suits, black glasses and patriotic ties – all twelve of them. I could swear they stepped from their cars and walked to the door in slow motion. The tallest addressed me.

“Morning,” he said in a voice that reminded me of an elephant seal (don't ask), “Ruben's the name – not my real one – but that's the one you'll call me by.”

He seemed a nice sort of chap. Grabbed me by the collar and chucked me in the car.

As we drove along we passed a red headed youth executing an amazing bicycle stunt over an elderly lady's car. You could tell he was well practiced. But Ruben was unmoved.

“The Boss wants you...."

A Question

The other day I received this email from Simeon:

If T and E multiplied by T = Book

And if F and A multiplied by E and D = Sent

Then what does T and O multiplied by I and C =

a, Boat

b, Poison

c, Phone

Answer plus reason please!!

When I finally figured it out I gave my answer and reason in the following manner:

H. and W. were walking down the street, avoiding puddles and deep in conversation.
"Let's review the facts of the case, my dear W." said H.
"Yes," replied W., "I confess that it all appears to me as nothing but a muddle."
"This morning at 9 o'clock the body of T. was found in the City Library with a book in one hand and a phone in the other. The librarian, Miss E., had the misfortune of finding the corpse and, she claims, the book in his hand was Boat Sense, an exceedingly dull book only of interest to aspiring boaters."
"Yes, yes, that's all clear."
"Well then, this is where you must follow me closely. The janitor, a certain Mr. T., - no relation to T. so far as I can gather - who came when he heard Miss E. scream, holds that the title of the book was The Sent of Poison. But this must surely be a mispronunciation, and he must have meant the book was The Scent of Poison by the well know novelist F. A. Boat."
"Which could account for Miss E. mistaking the title of the book," interjected W., "She would have seen the Scent and the Boat and being in a state of confusion, what with the dead body and all, jumped to conclusions and..."
"My dear W., it is you who are doing the jumping. You always are too keen to think the good of everybody. No, she did not mistake anything. You are forgetting, as you usually do, that in T.'s other hand he held a phone. And that the last number to be rung on that phone was a cellphone number belonging to an individual from the city. From this we can deduct that Miss E. was clearly covering for a unknown party, who for the sake of simplicity we will call X. Now, as you can imagine I saw this as an obvious clue. Elementary, in fact. And it has led me to suspect that Mr. E and Mrs. D of the Multiple Textual Omissions Society are not at all what they claim to be. It fact, from a faxed editorial sent to me by a friend, my suspicions were proved to be correct. From this we were quickly able to round up most of the gang. T. was already accounted for, the sad victim of the jealous rival for the hand of Miss E. O. and I. I found at the nearby cinema engaged in the dubious activity of throwing popcorn at the screen. And C. was cornered in the Rental Fiction section reading a work of more than usual atrocious sentimentality. The only one who was missing was the culprit himself, X. It was at that moment that I remembered that today was Monday, and not a public holiday at that. Therefore, with all haste I caught the tram to the quay and arrived just in time to see X's escape boat sinking into the inky depths carrying the murderer to a ghastly, but not altogether unjust, death."
"You astound me, H." cried W.
"That may be," replied H., "But we are still left with the question of the murder weapon. Was it the boat, the phone, or the glass of sherry left on the library table?"
"But I would have thought it was the book," started W.
"No, W. Why can you never see? It was the sherry. It was poisoned."