Quentin Quick, Detective

A Story by Alan Coats

It was a clear, cool night. The stadium buzzed with the noise of the spectators and the noise of the bugs flying dizzily around the lights. A nervous but eager feeling was in the air of the enormous bowl stadium. Expectations were high, but the opponent was capable. The rugby team had practiced hard and shown great improvement, even from last year's wildly successful season. But no one would be so foolish as to assume that a victory was already in their grasp in this, the first game of the season. The enormous screen at the south end of the stadium flashed facts and clips from last season's title game, lighting up the dark night sky. In the midst of the sea of painted, yelling, and anxious fans, a unicorn and a turtle sat, ready for the contest.
    “Deck 2, Section 147, Row 12”, said the turtle. “Not the best seats, but for such a good price, I'd take anything. Should be quite a game!” He smiled and looked at his horned friend for a response, but received nothing. The unicorn simply stared somewhat angrily at the field, as if it had said something unkind yet confusing about his mother. The turtle looked sadly back at the field, where the players were doing some warmups before the game. Spike hadn't been quite the same as he used to be. The warm, bubbly, excited unicorn he used to know had been replaced by a quiet, brooding, irritable shadow of its former self. Not that Quentin could blame him. Just last spring, he had been the star of the United Rugby League, playing for this very team, the Stratford Sea Cucumbers. They had enjoyed great prosperity since his arrival, winning the league championship two out of three years and becoming one of the most popular teams across the country.
    Yes, life had been grand for Spike Trot, the unicorn who had come from nothing to rise to rugby stardom. He had enjoyed all of the great material things; money, women, cars, you name it, Spike had it. But the fame and grandeur didn't last for long. A mysterious car crash that ended in a woman's death, and the unicorn's subsequent reclusion from society. The reports of missing grass from the field and suspicion of Spike's green-tinged mouth. And, of course, the incident wherein he accidentally kicked the owner's wife and sent her flying across the room. Due to these and other unhappy circumstances, the team had decided Spike's excellent play was not worth the fan's outcry and team discord. Spike had been released only four months ago, after leading the team to new heights of victory.
    “Are you all right, Spike?” asked the turtle quietly. The unicorn broke from his trance-like gaze at the field and shook his head as the anger left his eyes. “Sorry, Quentin, just thinking. I'm sure it will be a great game. I've never seen the pitch looking this good. Hopefully our boys can pull out a victory, get the season going on the right track.” He smiled shakily, and began typing something on his phone, a process that was made somewhat more difficult by the fact that his hooves were not designed specifically for pressing small buttons. The turtle was somewhat relieved. At least his friend had been doing better than before. He had recently gotten a job as a yoga instructor at the local gym, and seemed to truly love it. It took his mind off of what had happened, and he seemed to be heading in a quaint new direction. Quentin was pleasantly surprised he had been able to convince his friend to come, but they had managed to keep him undercover thus far, thanks to the turtle's knowledge of disguises as a detective for the Straford Police Department. The unicorn did, however, create a bit of a stir whenever he attempted to sit down in the stands.
    The players left the pitch briefly to gather in the locker rooms and receive a brief pep talk. “What do you think Scheibenheuer is saying, Spike?” asked the turtle. “Oh, probably the same old thing as always. Don't give up, play your best, hammer the other team into the dust at all costs. I hope he's telling them to watch the left side. They've got some strong players, if they're not careful some big runs could open up.”
    After a couple of minutes the players came back out onto the field and stood before the fans. Stratford's war hymn, “The Battle Cry of the Sea Cucumber” was played to much fanfare. Some players even started to tear up, overwhelmed by the emotion brought by such lines as “Oh pickle of the sea, we fight for thee”. Everyone returned their purple and green hats to their heads as a stage rose from the field.
    Various officials and dignitaries walked onto the stage, along with several massive men who carried an enormous gleaming trophy, covered in jewels and ribbons. The carriers could hardly contain their excitement. This week they had learned the alphabet, carried the URL championship trophy, and were scheduled to have a pizza party tomorrow night! Life could only get better from here.
    Among the VIPs were the president of the United Rugby League, the mayor of Stratford, and former players, including Jeff Jefferson, rugby legend. Jefferson had played around 40 years ago, and had played for Stratford for 15 seasons. During that time, he had led the team to several titles, doing things on the pitch that had never been done before and hadn't been done since. Jefferson had also led the Canadian national rugby team to several World Cups, earning the title of “best player in the world” along the way. Spike was a good player, but compared to Jefferson, he was simply a weird horse-thing. Since Jefferson had retired, the team hadn't been the same, with 40 seasons that were mediocre at best.
    “Welcome, everyone, to tonight's game, the Stratford Sea Cucumbers against the Baytown Fighting Moose!” boomed a cheerful voice over the loudspeaker. “Before we begin the game, we have before us Jeff Jefferson, to present last year's URL championship trophy to the coach of the Sea Cucumbers, Hans Scheibenheuer! But first, some highlights from last year's glorious season!”
    All eyes turned to the screen, as incredible feats of rugby talent came to life. Goal after goal was scored, most by a certain unicorn. He charged down the field, nearly impossible to bring to the ground. Opponents either fled in fear of his pointed horn or made frightened attempts to trip him up. Spectators in the film watched in joyous awe and cheered Spike's name at the top of their lungs. The screen went black.
    A shot rang out.
    The fans gasped and turned as one to the stage, where Jefferson lay, bleeding from a wound in his head. His frail body was cradled by Scheibenheuer and the team's medical staff, as they yelled for an ambulance. The stadium was in chaos, as police tried to calm the screaming fans, who were fleeing for the exits. Spike was motionless, with his jaw hanging down around his knees. He looked upon the scene with horror, with tears flowing from his wide eyes into his white mane.

    That night, Spike and Quentin went back to the apartment they shared. Quentin brewed some coffee, as Spike sat in silence on the sagging couch, staring at the floor. Quentin brought in a bowl of the warm fragrant liquid for his friend. “Didn't you know Jefferson before you joined the team, Spike?”
    The unicorn sighed. “He was like a father to me. When I was young, he took me out of my poverty and put me in a special school for rugby players. He taught me everything he knew. He put in a good word for me with Scheibenheuer. If it weren't for him, I...I don't know where I'd be.”
    Quentin placed a small foot on his friend's strong back in sympathy. "You know," said Spike in a trembling but confident voice, "I've been thinking a lot lately. Since I discovered it a few years ago, yoga has become a source of endless pleasure for me. And I think I'd like to help other people enjoy that pleasure too. I've been thinking about opening up some sort of yoga resort, somewhere. Maybe Nebraska."
    Quentin was puzzled. "I'm not sure it's the most inspiring place on Earth..."
    Spike stared at him intensely. "Nebraska is the source of all things beautiful. With the wind blowing through the grass, the smell of the corn, the way the earth stretches away with infinite flatness in all directions...it beckons the soul, just like the art of yoga."
Suddenly, the phone rang, splitting through the awkward silence created by this rare but strong fixation with the majestic landscape that is Nebraska. Quentin waddled over and clumsily picked it up between two of his feet, somehow managing to keep it from sliding between his slippery limbs. “Hello?”
    “Hello, Detective Quick? This is Lieutenant Mushtashe. I suppose you've heard about the Jefferson murder?”
    “Yes, of course. I was at the match, actually.”
    “Well, we require your assistance in bringing the criminal to justice. Come down to HQ tomorrow morning and we'll fill you in."
    "Oh..um...okay, then. I'll see you there." He put down the phone and looked nervously at Spike. "They want my help with solving the murder."
    The unicorn stared coldly at the turtle and said quietly, "I must help you find the low-life that did this. I will not accept no for an answer."
    Quentin tore his eyes away from the frightening figure and said, "Um...very well, then."
    They heard a knock at the door.
    "Ah yes," said Spike, "I'd almost forgotten." He walked wearily to the door and opened it.
    Standing on the front porch were two very peculiar people. The first one was a man approximately the size of Egypt. Despite his massive girth, he had a timid disposition, and looked around nervously. He was dressed all in black except for a flower handkerchief in his front pocket, and had done a poor job of putting on makeup. He also wore a black leather glove. The other person was short and squat, and seemed to be female. She stared straight in front of her with the attitude and facial features of a frog. She was dressed shabbily, mostly in black with ugly brown sandals that, she thought, looked rather nice on her. They took attention away from her voluminous midsection, vital for those wild nights at the library. Exactly once every 7.3 seconds, she hiccuped.
    "Butch, Winifred. How good to see you." Quentin could only assume the short one was Winifred. She nodded jerkily and continued to look straight ahead. Butch flashed a nervous smile at Spike and Quentin. "This is a lovely home. I simply adore the curtains." he said shyly. "They're silk, aren't they?"
    "Um, sorry, I don't recall..."
    "Well they're just fabulous. And is that apple tart I smell cooking? Oh, I should come over here more often!"
    Spike interrupted. "Quentin, these are two of my finest students from the gym, Butch Biggs and The Winifred."
    "I'm sorry, who?"
    "The (hiccup) Winifred." she said in a way that made Quentin decide to accept this unusual moniker and to stop asking questions or else.
    "They've just come tonight for some extra lessons, they were having trouble with the Frowning Oyster Manuever." Spike continued. "We'll just be in my room, won't bother you a bit. Although, Winifred, I need a few private words with Butch here. Just make yourself at home, don't worry, Quentin won't bite."
    He let out a merry neigh and left with Butch. Winifred plopped down on a nearby chair and began to twiddle her thumbs with alarming ferocity.
    With such a character as The Winifred, awkwardness is already present. Creating conversation with this type of person only goes downhill. You cannot hope to learn anything pleasant, and if you start to discuss any topic, chances are you will never want to discuss that topic ever again. Thus, Quentin wisely sat to himself and read the newspaper. The Winifred did not bother him at all, in fact he got quite used to her rhythmic hiccups after a while. Then Spike called her in. After that, Quentin could only assume from the banging noises and occasional horn toot that they were struggling with the Cloudy Bullfrog, or whatever it was.

    The very next morning the 17th National Stratford Bank sat at the corner of two busy streets, gleaming happily. Customers walked in and out, making deposits and withdrawals but never seeming to have as much money as they thought they did.
    The time was approximately 8:13.
    Helga Johanssen, a diminuitive restaurant owner, waited in line. This is, more or less, what went through her head for the next several minutes or so.

    Why is this taking so long? I need to get back to The Beached Whale, the lunch rush is gonna be crazy. Tuesday lunch is always ridiculous, the construction foreman from down the street always come in with their sawdust and sweat and such. That on top of our regular customers. That reminds me, I wonder if Mr. Fitzgerald from the barber shop down the street will come in today. Oh, he's so scrumptious with his mustache and his brawny muscles and his glasses! Could this line take any longer? Anyway, back to Mr. Fitzgerald, where was I... Oh yes, the overalls! The overalls just make me...oooh! I've been plumping my hair with a certain vigor lately, and I have a lovely brooch on today! Oh he's certain to notice me today, certain to say more than "I want me some Cod Nuggets with extra tartar sauce, and gimme some of them fries too. Just a water to drink, the doctor's got me on some weird diet." Oh, his voice is like music to my ears! What is holding these people up today, I have much more important things to do...and see, heehee...than these simpletons! If that bell rings one more time, so help me I will...hello, who's that? And why is it carrying a firearm? And that burlap sack? And the ski mask is unnecessary in this weather... Is it..my word! The bank is being robbed! Perhaps if I lie on the ground I won't be harmed! Oh, where is Mr. Fitzgerald to save me now! Oh, cruel, cruel world!

    Quentin and Spike sat across from Scheibenheuer in the small room at the police headquarters. The coach sat looking about nervously, wringing his hands.
    "We just have a few questions for you, Coach Scheibenheuer, we'd like to clear this up quickly, but we'll need your assistance." said Quentin calmly. "Obviously you are not being considered as a suspect, however, you may be able to help us out."
    The coach looked somewhat relieved, and cleared his throat. "I don't understand why anyone would do such a thing. Perhaps an old rival, but he hasn't played in ages. He'd never hurt anyone. He just helped fund that children's hospital, you know, the one over on Cheshire? Such a great man..."
    "Coach, did you notice anyone acting strangely in any way before or after the murder? Was anything out of place?"
    "Not that I know of. I've been pretty focused on the game lately, I haven't been very aware of such things. Everyone else was much the same way, we've been preparing for this since the end of last season."
    "Yes, of course."
    "And," the coach continued, looking at Spike, "I'm awful sorry about the way things turned out, Trot. It wasn't my decision, you know that."
    Spike smiled. "It's quite alright, coach. Actually, I think it's good that it worked out the way it did. I've found out a lot more about myself as a unicorn." Scheibenheuer exhaled happily, visibly calmed by the fact that something in the room with a large pointed horn was not angry at him.
    "Is there anyway I could get something to drink? I'm awful parched..."
    "Certainly, coach, I'll get it for you." Spike offered. "A orange mocha frappucino with double soy, right?"
    The coach laughed. "You know me like a book, Spike." The unicorn smiled and left.
    "Coach, do you know of anyone getting in an argument with Jefferson?"
    Scheibenheuer frowned. "I can't imagine that anyone would. He was nicest man you ever did meet. Always had a kind word for everyone, smiling all the time. You'd have to be a pretty sick person not to like him. If a disagreement ever arose, he would shut it down quick rather than get in a fight over it. Very laid-back, friendly type of guy."
    Quentin nodded. "What had he been doing in the past few days?"
    "Just hanging out around town, seeing old friends. I think he helped out with a charity food drive or something. Stuff a guy like him would normally do."

    A few hours later Spike, Quentin, and Lieutenant Mushtashe stood in the 34th floor of an office building overlooking the stadium. "Our scientists have determined the shot came from approximately this area." explained the veteran policeman. "The criminal used a very accurate and expensive model, the U-143, that's not even on the market. They would've had it shipped from overseas. One shot, one kill. This guy wasn't messing around. We've also found a glove covered in what looks to be mascara." Quentin walked slowly around the crime scene, searching for evidence. Slowly. Not that he had any choice, of course. He noticed Spike walking out carrying something.
    "Wait, lemme take a look at that." Quentin grabbed what he found to be a magazine.
    "Oh, I just found it out here in the hall, I was gonna throw it away."
    "You can't just throw evidence away. Everything found in a crime scene must be examined and analyzed." said the turtle impatiently as he examined the magazine. It was the latest issue of Woman's Glamour. It announced, among other things, The 49 Newest Hairstyles, How To Make Any Man Go "Wowzers!", and The Animal Quiz: Embrace Your Inner Giraffe. Quentin placed it gingerly in a paper bag and handed it to the lieutenant for later analysis. The lieutenant had just stopped talking on his phone and wore a grave expression.
    "I'm afraid I have some bad news, gentlemen. Coach Scheibenheuer has been found dead in his home. He seems to have been poisoned."

    Later that night, Quentin went to the small cafe where Spike had earlier purchased what seemed to be the deadly drink. The turtle hadn't been able to get much out of his friend, who was on the verge of a mental breakdown. He briefly questioned several employees and even investigated the kitchen, but could find nothing. He was truly baffled. This case was getting very complicated and tangled. Other than the magazine they had nothing to go on. As he left the cafe, he caught a strong whiff of...something. Some nutty odor....what was it? He had smelled it before, it reminded him of childhood. It passed, and he trudged on, even more confused than before.

    The next morning Quentin left the apartment to investigate the bank robbery. All of this stress was quite a lot for one small turtle, however, he had been hoping for a raise soon anyway and this was just the ticket. As long as they didn't try to pay him in earthworms again. How degrading.
    On his way out he passed Spike, still lying on the couch where he had collapsed the night before. He seemed calm, his huge nostrils expanding and shrinking with each enormous breath. Quentin had made him a special velvet padded covering for his horn a few years back, which he placed over it before leaving.
    Upon arrival at the bank, he had much of the same success as at the cafe the night before. At least at first. After leaving the bank again frustrated, he noticed out of the corner of his eye a small cranny in the wall of the bank. And what was in that cranny but a jar of peanut butter! After a quick lunch to gain focus, he set to work on the difficult task ahead. Much to the surprise of many common people, turtle's feet were not designed specifically for opening peanut butter jars. He eventually got it open, exhausting himself in the process. He dragged himself up to the top of the jar and took a sniff. It was the exact same smell as the night before at the cafe! Could they be related? It was too much to hope for. He could hardly understand how a bank robbery and the poisoning of a rugby coach could be connected. The events of the past several days were still like entangled wires, but at least he could make out that some of the wires were different colors. Now, which wire to cut....

    Quentin returned to the apartment to recharge. He needed earthworms, and he needed them fast. Otherwise he wouldn't be able to get anything done whatsoever... When he arrived he found Spike packing a large duffel bag.
    "Oh hello there." said the unicorn. "I'm taking a trip. A trip...to Nebraska."
    Quentin knew how strongly the unicorn felt about such an enchanting place, and as such was worried. "This isn't permanent or anything, is it?"
    "Oh, of course not." laughed the unicorn, then became serious. "In light of recent events, I've become aware that I could really use a break. I'm just going to go up there and look around, maybe look at some real estate. I'm sure it'll be an enlightening journey. Butch and The Winifred are coming along as well, we should be able to get in some excellent yoga time. I'm looking forward to it immensely, they're coming along quite well."
    Considering the commotion coming from his room the other night, Quentin assumed that they still had a very long way to go. However, he said, "Actually, that's just as well. This case is proving to be very..." he looked at his blistered feet, "taxing. It'll be nice to have some peace and quiet to help me find this guy. Or guys. Or...I don't even know. Elephant. They love peanuts, right? But not women's fashion magazines. Usually. When are you leaving, anyway?"
    "They'll meet me here around 6:00 this evening."
    "Sounds good. Have fun! Don't get too carried away with the Swollen Dove, you know what it does to your neck."

A short time later, Quentin decided to go for a short walk. He needed to get his thoughts together and a nice little stroll down to the stop sign and back, maybe an hour or so, would do him an incalculable amount of good. Their apartment was in a less pleasant side of downtown, with all sorts of back alleys and side streets it was better not to look down. However, on this certain day, he happened to take a glance down one of them, after first making sure that it did not have the usual strange sounds and violent yells coming out of it. His eye caught a crate, one of the wooden types that has things like "Classified" and "Top Secret" and different languages on it. He ambled over to it and peeked over the side. What was inside made his small eyes grow to the size of dinner plates, and he nearly popped into his shell out of instinct. Inside the crate was a U-143 rifle, with a handprint on the barrel that looked very much like mascara. What a pleasant surprise! Quentin could hardly maintain his joy. And there, in the box, several white hairs! He sniffed one of them.

Suddenly the world exploded into the strangest array of colors imaginable. He was falling down an elevator shaft with surfboards at the bottom, and it was most unkind of the the hyena-men to laugh at him with their feet like that. A hammer made of feathers beat him senselessly as he rode across the candycane fields in a motorcycle, his exhaust pipes spitting marshmallow fluff. This was quite an interesting turn of events.

When he woke up a few hours later, he checked his watch. 5:30 PM. Then there was still time! He called the lieutenant and hurried back home as fast as his little legs would take him.

When he arrived, he found several police cars in front of the house. "What's this all about, Quick?" asked Lieutenant Mushtashe.
"Lieutenant, I've solved the bank robbery, the poisoning, and the Jefferson murder all at once!" shouted the turtle, out of breath from the long walk back.

    He led the policemen around back, where he found Spike, Butch, and The Winifred packing Spike's car with several large bags in addition to their regular belongings. They looked up, alarmed.
    "Lieutenant, arrest these....beings...for murder and bank robbery!" shouted the turtle.
    Mushtashe was puzzled. "I haven't got a cause, Quick. Can't arrest 'em if I don't have anything to stand on."
    "Well, I do, sir. In the room from which Jefferson was shot, I found a mascara-covered glove and a woman's magazine. That glove matches the one Butch Biggs is currently wearing and places him at the scene of the crime. He also bought that magazine from a local bookstore a week ago, which he must have read while waiting for the game to begin."

Butch looked irritated but defiant. "That don't mean nothing."

Quentin ignored him and went on. "I also found a jar of peanut butter at the bank, and smelled it near the cafe where Spike Trot got the drink that he gave to Coach Scheibenheuer, which later killed him. I've matched up the fingerprints and it was used by The Winifred. She was using it to get rid of her hiccups! Her description and strange...habit...match with what witnesses at the bank saw!"

"But this you still don't have anything on me!" said Spike haughtily.

Quentin sighed. "In the crate where I found the U-143 rifle, I also found this!" He held up the silvery hair, in a plastic bag to protect him from its effects. "It sent me into a hallucinogenic trance. Only one creature's hair has that effect-a unicorn's!"

The policemen all gasped simultaneously. Spike's eyes shifted from side to side. Suddenly, he and his minions jumped into the car and started, attempting to speed away. The policemen climbed into their cars to chase after them, but there was no need. With a bang, the culprit's tires burst and they were left motionless on the side of the road, where they were quickly arrested. After searching the trunk, the police found bags of cash from the bank, which they traced to The Winifred. They also found U-143 rifles, which they traced to Butch Biggs.

"I don't get it." said the lieutenant. "Why would they do that? Well, I guess Butch and The Winifred I could understand, but why Spike? He had so much to live for."

"Simple." said Quentin. "He planned to use the money to start up his own yoga resort in Nebraska. He just picked the wrong way to get a hold of the money."

"But why kill Jefferson and Scheibenheuer? They didn't do anything."

"Spike was promised a huge bonus if he had won the league title this season. He would've been able to open the resort and have plenty of money left to spare. However, due to certain loopholes in his contract, when he got fired, he was left with next to nothing. So, he tried to cripple the team and its future in the URL for what they did to him. Sadly, he may have succeeded. But he didn't want to get his hands dirty. So he hired The Winifred to poison the drink and rob the bank, and Butch to shoot Jefferson. He left his hair in the crate with the rifles he had shipped illegally from overseas."

And so, crime solved, Quentin walked off into the sunset. He had found the answer to yet another baffling mystery, but had lost his best unicorn friend.