A Honeybun and Coffee(4)

By: Sam Cheever

As quickly as she could she pulled out the pieces with ink on them and jammed them together until they formed the name, Alastair Honeybun.

Angie thought this must be a joke and tried to move the pieces around to form a more reasonable name. But try as she might the pieces wanted to fit together into Alastair Honeybun. Rolling her eyes she picked up the phone book and searched frantically for the name in the residence section.

The good news was that there couldn’t be many Alastair Honeybuns in the phone book. Finding an A. Honeybun in Westbridge, about ten minutes away if she ignored all posted speed limits, Angie punched in the numbers and waited for the phone to be picked up on the other end.

As she waited, tapping her foot and biting the nail of her long suffering right index finger, Angie thought about two things at once. First, it was the middle of a work day and A. Honeybun most likely wouldn’t be at home. And secondly, how was she going to tell the man, a complete stranger, that she was calling to warn him he was about to be murdered?

Angie had lifted the phone away from her ear and was getting ready to set it back into the cradle when she heard a muffled sounding voice on the other end.


Angie jerked the phone back to her ear. “Hello. Is this Alastair Honeybun?” She felt silly just saying the name.

“Dat’s me.” The man sounded awful. A series of violent sneezes followed his brief response.

Angie frowned. “That sounds like a bad cold. I’ll bet your throat is killing you isn’t it. Have you tried drinking hot tea with lemon in it?”

A long silence greeted Angie’s helpful comment. Then he finally asked, “Who are you?”

Angie jammed the tortured nail back in her mouth and spoke around it. “Thorry. Ummm. You don’t know me but—” How the heck was she going to tell him why she’d called? Finally she decided straight up, brutal truth was best. “I’m calling to warn you that two men are coming to kill you.”

Another long silence, filled only with heavy breathing of the clogged nasal passage kind. Then he finally said, “Real funny. Who put you up to this? Is this Bob’s girlfriend? He’s such an asshole. I gotta go.” An extended round of coughing was cut off in the middle as he hung up the phone in her ear.

Angie pulled the phone away from her ear and looked at it with disbelief. “Dangit!”

Drumming thoughtfully on the countertop Angie considered what to do next. Or if she needed to do anything next. Surely she’d done all she could for the ungrateful wretch. It would serve him right if she just went back to work and left him to deal with things on his own.

But he was weak and wimpy and he didn’t know he was a heartbeat away from certain death. He hadn’t seen those two men. Angie shivered violently. He had no idea what was coming his way.

She briefly considered calling the police but realized they’d respond just as Alastair Honeybun had. They’d think she’d lost her cookies.

Angie left her apartment. Even as her mind told her she should just go back to work and forget about it, her body headed down a different track and she found herself climbing into her burnt orange Edge and gunning it backwards out of the small parking lot onto the street.

ALASTAIR HONEYBUN LIVED in a really nice neighborhood, with beautiful older homes, mature trees in the yard, and perfectly manicured lawns. His house was small, but very elegant in red brick with white and black accents. His yard was cut short and outlined by perfect flower and shrub beds. This didn’t surprise her at all. The image of a white-haired older gentleman who puttered in his yard as a hobby was reinforced in her mind.

She knocked on his door and thought about the fact that he hadn’t really sounded old on the phone. The cold was probably just throwing her off.

A guy with the name of Alastair Honeybun had to be old.

The sound of shrill barking greeted her insistent knocking long before she heard footsteps on the other side of the door. She suddenly felt as if someone was staring at her and waved at the peephole in the door, smiling.

She figured he’d open the door just to find out who the ditz on his doorstep was.

The door finally slid slowly open to reveal a mass of vibrating blankets with close cropped, red hair. The blankets sniffled and shuffled toward her. “Whadya want? I’m not interested whatever it is. I’m dyin’ and I just wanna be left alone.”

A small, black and brown sausage type dog wriggled past the blankets and hopped around excitedly on the small front porch. He barked happily, wagging his entire backend in greeting. The little dog raised himself up on two stubby back legs and put oversized front paws on her knee. Angie reached down to pet the dachshund’s head and tried to peer under the blankets at its owner.

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