Hi. Nathaniel P. Osgood III here. You wouldn’t think that this place of nursery rhymes would be violent. After all, these folks are pretty mild people. But there’s a lot of it going around. Cock Robin, the three blind mice, Jack’s crown, and the blackbirds pecking off the Queen’s nose, for example. And that was just last week.

    But there is another form of violence that I want to talk about. Spousal abuse. Oh, yes, it happens here, too. Consider Mrs. Pumpkineater. Peter kept her cooped up in that pumpkin all day. I don’t know about you, but that seems to me like a pretty cruel thing to do to a person. I never really understood why he couldn’t keep her anywhere else. Would she run away? If so, what would prevent her from doing so if he kept her in a pumpkin shell?

    Now, these questions may not be of interest to you, but there are people here where I live who want answers. That’s where I come in. I’m a private investigator who makes a living by minding other people’s business. But I don’t do it for the intellectual stimulus. Nor do I do it for free. This case was no exception.

    My office is located in the heart of Nurseryland, next door to The House That Jack Built. As you might expect there is a lot of excitement there most of the time with cats, rats, forlorn maidens and cows with crumpled horns milling about. But the rent is cheap and I don’t mind putting up with a little noise so long as they keep to themselves.

    I was reading the morning paper, as is my wont, when the little man appeared. I hadn’t heard him come in, and sat up quickly, startled by his presence. He had mousy brown hair, large ears and a nose that was too big for his face. A little put off by his sudden intrusion into my morning ritual, I scowled at him and grunted.

    "Mr. Osgood?" he asked.

    I nodded.

    "My name is Kindergarten. Horatio Kindergarten."

    Was that supposed to impress me? I wondered. The name meant nothing to me other than that he was probably of German extraction. I didn’t know or care. I waited for him to state his reason for coming to see me.

    "I’m in the real estate business," he said at last. "I own several rentals in the neighborhood. Most of them are—er—unusual."

    "For instance?" I said

    "Well," he said. "There’s a shoe, a gingerbread house, and a pumpkin."

    I smiled at the man. "You believe in recycling, I see. What can I do for you?"

    The small man relaxed and nodded questioningly at a chair. I gestured for him to sit down. He removed his hat, placed it on his knee and leaned back. "It’s about one of my tenants," he said hesitatingly.

    I waited for him to continue. He was clearly uncomfortable. Finally, he took a deep breath and looked me in the eye.

    "Well, I have no evidence. But I think one of my tenants is abusing his wife."

    "Beating her?" I asked.

    He shook his head. "I don’t know. Quite possibly. What I do know is that he’s keeping her prisoner in her own house." He sighed. "The pumpkin house."

    "What do you mean?"

    The little man shrugged. "About a year ago I rented the pumpkin to a Mr. and Mrs. Pumpkineater." He smiled wanly. "Funny, isn’t it? Pumpkineater? Wanting to rent a pumpkin?"

    I gave a perfunctory nod. Irony was not my long suit.

    "Anyway," he went on. "This man, Mr. Pumpkineater, came to me and wanted to rent the pumpkin house. He told me his wife was unhappy living in a thatched roofed cottage, didn’t like yard work, and adored quaint homes. She saw the pumpkin house and thought it would be perfect for them. She was threatening to leave him if he didn’t move. In fact, I think she had left him at one time."

    I made a few notes. "What kind of a person is Mrs. P.?" I asked.

    Kindergarten shook his head. "I don’t know. I never met the woman."

    I threw him a puzzled look. "You only talked to Mr. P.?"

    "Peter," he offered. "Yes. He said his wife was shy and left the business end of the marriage up to him. He signed the lease. There was no need for her signature."

    "Let me get this straight," I said. "You rented this pumpkin house of yours to a Mr. and Mrs. Pumpkineater. But you have never met the wife?"

    He nodded.

    "What’s her name?" I asked.

    He shrugged. "I’m not sure. I think he said it was Melinda. Does it matter?"

    "I guess not," I said. "But if I am going to look into this it would be helpful to know her name. Mrs. Pumpkineater is quite a mouthful."

    The man smiled sadly. "I don’t think it will help. No one in the neighborhood has ever seen her or talked to her. She stays inside that pumpkin all day. Doesn’t even come out for the paper."

    "That’s odd," I said.

    "I think so," Kindergarten agreed. "That’s why I am here. I think he may be abusing her and she’s afraid to come out of the house." He shuddered. "She’s probably just a bunch of black and blue marks."

    "Why don’t you go to the police?"

    "Oh, I couldn’t do that," he said. "I have nothing to go on except my suspicions. If I’m wrong, they would probably get angry and move out. I wouldn’t want to lose a tenant." He sighed. "It’s not easy to rent a pumpkin, you know."

    "So, what would you like me to do?" I asked.

    Kindergarten shifted in his chair. "Could you ask around? See what you can find out?" He looked at me pleadingly. "I don’t want to be a party to wife beating or whatever it is he may be doing. I’m a peace loving man."

    "Okay," I said. "I’ll see what I can do."

    We agreed on a price. Kindergarten shook my hand gratefully and left the office in a much better frame of mind than the one he had come in with. Now, before you write me any letters, I know about ending a sentence with a preposition. Live with it.

    I am sure you have all been to County Fairs and pumpkin farms that grow these giant pumpkins. But you have never seen anything like the pumpkin house. It is huge! I would like to know what fertilizer was used to grow this thing. It was probably the same kind that Jack used on his beanstalk. It sat back from the road behind a low running fence that only made it appear to be larger. A gravel path led up to the front door—in fact the only door. Except for a small window high up toward the top of the pumpkin there were no other windows. Some graffiti artist had drawn a face, making it appear to be a giant jack-o-lantern. Fortunately it was a happy face.

    I started up the path only to find that it was not gravel at all. It was made entirely of pumpkin seeds. For some reason I didn’t find this odd at all. Perhaps I’ve been living in this loony town too long.

    There was no doorbell, so I knocked on the door. Several moments passed and I was about to knock again when the door opened and a small man peered out at me. He had small black eyes, thin colorless lips, and was as bald as an egg—or a pumpkin if you will. All in all he looked exactly like a man who would live in a pumpkin.

    My plan was to pose as a town census taker. This would give me a reason to speak directly with Mrs. P. With a clipboard, a notepad and some official looking documents, (in reality credit card applications), I identified myself.

    Mr. P. wasn’t impressed. "My wife is not feeling well," he said. "She can’t come to the door right now."

    I made a face. "Well, Mr. Pumpkineater, it is important that she be counted in the census. For tax purposes, et cetera. But in order for that to happen I must speak with her directly."

    "But you people just took a census a few months ago, and she didn’t have to speak with you personally. I don’t understand."

    "That’s why I’m here. The person who took the census was remiss."

    "Go away," he said. I found myself looking into a closed door.

    Not a very friendly soul, I thought as I stood on his front step. What was he hiding? Was Mrs. P really sick, or was she being held prisoner in her own home? Maybe Kindergarten was right.

    I was about to try again when a thought struck me. Was there a Mrs. Pumpkineater? After all, no one has ever seen her. Maybe she didn’t exist. It was an intriguing possibility, and I decided to investigate.

    I paid a visit to City Hall. They had census records, highly confidential, that I was able to read by typing the correct password into the computer. Knowing the mentality of the clerk who kept the records, I typed in "census". Voila!

    Scrolling down the list, I came to the P’s. Passing through "Peep, Bo" "Piper, Tom (and son)" and several "Pigs" I eventually reached "Pumpkineater". There were two entries: "Peter" and "Melinda". The address was the pumpkin house. However, since they had only lived there for a few months when the census was taken, they listed a previous address. I copied it down.

    Prior to moving to Nurseryland and the pumpkin house, Peter and Melinda P. had lived in a town several miles in distance and light years in culture away from here. I was struck by the lack of activity in the town. Oh, people were out in the streets, shopping and bustling to and fro. But no one was running around in nightgowns, stealing tarts from the bakery, talking to wolves or sleeping in haystacks. The normalcy was disconcerting. How can people live like this, I wondered.

    My first stop was City Hall. Armed with the information I had obtained in Nurseryland, I approached the clerk behind the desk marked "Records". He appeared to be half asleep—or half awake—take your pick. I stood silently in front of the desk until he acknowledged me, if that is the word. A slight intake of breath followed by hand movement—evidence enough for me that he knew I was there.

    "I’m from the Nurseryland Chamber of Commerce," I lied. As you may have noticed, we private eyes are good at that. "A former resident of your fine community, a Mr. Peter Pumpkineater, has moved into town and is petitioning to open a gourmet restaurant. I am running a background check." I paused. There was no sign of comprehension from the clerk. Then again, there was no sign of miscomprehension either, so I went on.

    "I need you to verify a few things for me. You know. Age, marital status, criminal record, if any. That sort of thing."

    The clerk finally stirred to life. He sat up. He opened his eyes all the way. I was encouraged.

    "I would appreciate it if you would help me with this. I know you’re a very busy man, but this is important."

    At the word "busy" he sat up straighter. He turned to the computer.

    "How do you spell that?" he asked.

    "P-U-M-P-" I started.

    "No, not that. His first name."

    "P-E-T-E-R" I said. In case you are wondering, I wasn’t at all surprised.

    The clerk duly entered the information, squinted at the screen, and grunted.

    "Age. 38," he said. "Marital status: divorced."

    "Divorced?" I repeated. "Are you sure of that?"

    The clerk sighed impatiently. "It’s right here."

    "I believe you," I said. "But we in Nurseryland were under the impression he was married. Is there a copy of the divorce papers in the file?"

    The clerk scrolled through the file, stopping when he came to the divorce papers. I read over his shoulder.

    Decree of Divorce. Melinda Pumpkineater vs. Peter Pumpkineater.

    Reason for divorce: (Mrs. P.) "I don’t want to be a kept woman."

    Divorce uncontested. Granted by order of the Honorable Prescott C. Fitchmeyer, Presiding Judge.

    It was signed, dated and certified.

    I stood up straight and whistled softly. The clerk looked at me with a questioning frown. I thanked him and left.

    On the way back to Nurseryland I mulled the case over in my mind. My hunch had been correct. There was no Mrs. Pumpkineater, or at least she was not living at the pumpkin house. Why is Peter lying about this? I would have to pay the man another visit.

    Peter answered the door promptly this time. Upon seeing me, his face turned to a disapproving scowl. "I thought I told you…" he started.

    I held up my hand. "Mr. Pumpkineater," I said. "The jig is up." This was an expression that had always intrigued me, (in the same league as "follow that car"), and I was happy to have found an occasion to use it.

    He eyed me warily. "What do you mean?"

    I put on a scowl of my own and looked him in the eye. "There is no Mrs. Pumpkineater at this address," I said. "In fact, I have it on good authority that there is no Mrs. Pumpkineater at all. Only an ex-Mrs. Pumpkineater."

    He stared at me with his mouth open. I waited for him to say something. When it was apparent that he hadn’t opened his mouth to talk, I went on.

    "You are perpetrating a fraud on this fine community, a violation of ordinance number 39641-k Article 6 of the Nurseryland City Charter." I was betting he would take my word for this.

    "But I..." he started. I cut him off.

    "It states that falsely reporting marital status, age, religious and/or political affiliation is an act of fraud, punishable by fine and imprisonment, or both."

    "I meant no harm," he said meekly.

    I relaxed. Having successfully hoodwinked him, I was ready to get an explanation. "I’m a fair man, Mr. P.," I said. "If you can explain to me why you lied about your marital status, I may be able to keep it out of the records."

    He brightened at this, stepped back and motioned me inside. I took a moment to look around the interior of the pumpkin. Words cannot describe it. Well, that’s not true. But they are words you wouldn’t want to hear. Suffice it to say that whatever he was paying in rent was too much.

    He offered me a chair, (beanbag), and I settled into it. He sat in another chair facing mine, smiled wanly and crossed his hands in his lap.

    "It’s quite simple," he started. "My wife, Melinda, wanted a divorce. I didn’t want to give her one—I loved her. Still do, in fact. But I knew she would leave whether I agreed to a divorce or not." He paused and dabbed at his eyes. I watched with a touch of sympathy. I’m not as unfeeling as I may appear.

    "When the divorce was final, I was besieged by well-meaning friends wanting to fix me up with eligible women. I went on more blind dates than Mister Magoo."

    I saw where this was going, but said nothing.

    "Finally," he said. "I couldn’t take anymore. I decided to move here where no one would know me, pretend that Melinda and I were still living together, and not have to deal with the single scene." Peter shrugged his thin shoulders and sighed. "I’m too old for that. Besides, I still love Melinda and hope that someday she will come back to me."

    Given the living arrangements, I found that very unlikely, but I let it pass.

    "I see," I said. "So you ‘manufactured‘ a wife to keep peace and quiet in your life."

    "That’s right," he said. "Is that against the law?"

    "No," I assured him. "But why live in a pumpkin shell?"

    "Privacy," he said. "Not too many people come to see me. And I’m not bothered by door to door salesmen." He grinned. "Besides, with a name like mine it seemed the thing to do. Old widow Shoemaker lives in the shoe down the road. And my cousin, Tyrone Outenhouser—well, he’s thinking of moving."

    I said my goodbyes and left. I had decided not to tell Kindergarten about the missing wife. It would destroy Peter’s privacy. I told him that she was an invalid, and Peter was taking care of her lovingly. I discounted his bill ten percent for the lie. It was the least I could do.

    That night after dinner I had a healthy serving of pumpkin pie for dessert. The occasion seemed to call for it. Call me sentimental. That’s just the way I am.