by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021
Fidelity looks at her with big, grave eyes. “You promise you won’t get angry?”
“Promise.”
She takes a breath, then speaks very quietly. “I went looking for the ghost.”
Lyla stares at her.
“Bethany said there was a ghost in the woods. She said he was old and skinny with big blue eyes. I didn’t believe her, but then I saw him. I mean . . . I think I saw him, but it could have just been in my head. I saw him standing in the woods, and I thought I heard him say something . . . something bad. Then he ran away, and I went after him, and . . . I guess I got lost.”
“What did the ghost say?”
Fidelity closes her eyes. “He said you aren’t my real mom.”
I don’t want to know the truth. I never want to know the truth. But the truth finds me. And it won’t leave me alone . . .
“Is it true, Mommy?” She opens her eyes, and Lyla sees something in them. A spark of fear that brings back memories.
“Of course it isn’t true,” she says. “And you know what else? There’s no mommy in the world who loves her daughter as much as I love you.”
Fidelity throws her arms around Lyla’s neck. Lyla holds the little girl close, remembering her fingers around Rose’s neck, the rasp of her fading breath . . . and then Rose’s neck becomes Carl’s neck, his hands clawing at the air. It’s a dream, she tells herself, getting into character. It’s only a dream.
“I love you, Mommy,” Fidelity says, and it is a dream. Just a bad dream, sunk deep in the darkest water, soon to be forgotten.
* Hush, which includes “The Gift,” was edited by the wonderful Jonathan Santlofer, who gave the authors involved one directive: all the stories should involve a lie or the act of lying. I thought it was a great assignment. In the fiction I like to write, lying is either a means of survival or the thing that does you in, but usually it’s both. What fascinates me most are characters who lie to themselves and do it so effectively that the truth, when it reveals itself, is like a bomb going off, destroying the false world they’ve worked so hard to create. “The Gift” involves a Hollywood actress whose path intersects with that of a storefront psychic when her young daughter goes missing. But really, it’s about lying. I hope you enjoy it.
Sue Grafton was the author of the famous “alphabet” series, beginning with “A” Is for Alibi in 1982 and ending with “Y” Is for Yesterday in 2017, when she died. Her introduction of her series private detective, Kinsey Millhone, was one of the most significant events in the history of American detective literature as it was instrumental in opening the door for women to write in the hard-boiled genre. A beloved author, both personally and for her books, she was a fixture on the New York Times Best Seller list for two decades, as well as one of the bestselling detective novelists internationally.
IF YOU WANT SOMETHING DONE RIGHT . . .
Sue Grafton
Lucy Burgess waited her turn at the Rite Aid pharmacy counter. The pollen count had soared and she’d gone to the drugstore to pick up Burt’s allergy medication, his bronchodilator inhaler, and a new brand of antihistamine he’d seen on TV. What a baby. Apart from his being an alcoholic and chronically unfaithful, he was becoming tedious. He was constantly misplacing his personal belongings—cell phone, car keys, glasses, wallet—making it her responsibility to locate the lost items. Really, there was no excuse for his being so disorganized. He was a high-profile divorce attorney who battled for his clients as though his life depended on it. He said that in the fight-or-flight stakes, he was all fight, which was what made him such a dangerous opponent. He claimed his stress levels were what kept him on top of his game.
His high blood pressure did actually worry the doctors, and the asthma he’d suffered all his life was hard on him, but the rest of his ailments were ridiculous. Burt was highly suggestible, but she hadn’t realized how paranoid he was until the trip to India came up. This would be their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, and for years he’d promised her a trip to India. They’d reserved a large stateroom on an elegant cruise line that would take them from the Bay of Bengal around Cape Comorin to the Arabian Sea. Burt had set aside the time—two full weeks in August—which he hadn’t done in years. She thought everything was fine, but then he’d started kicking up a fuss. First he worried about exposure to infectious diseases. Then he fretted about the filth, the vermin, tainted food, and the risk of contaminated water.
Then, just last week, he’d canceled his reservation altogether, leaving her to go by herself. What kind of anniversary celebration was that? Not that she cared. Why pay good money just to hear him complain? He was probably carving out time for his latest lady-love, but how could she call him on it when she had no concrete proof?
The most irksome consequence of his cancelation was that now, in addition to her preparations, she had to make sure he’d be comfortable on his own, which included two weeks’ worth of meals, refills on all his medications, and a list of emergency numbers as long as her arm. Orderly as usual, she’d bought a slim pocket-size notebook in which she kept a running tally of all the errands she had to run. The notebook was perfect for slipping in and out of her handbag, allowing her to utilize time that would otherwise go to waste. Standing in line at the gourmet market, she worked on her to-do list, checking off the stops she’d already made.
Bank. Check.
Drugstore. Check.
The journal was divided into two sections. The first was devoted to things to be accomplished before she left town. In the second section, she kept a running list of ways to kill Burt. She’d come up with the idea as a form of idle amusement. Imagining his demise helped her tolerate his many loathsome qualities, among them his need to always be right and his tendency toward verbal abuse. He would never lay a hand on her, but he put her down every chance he got.
Under Possibilities, she’d written:
Gun? Where to acquire?
Poison? Possible, but how to administer?
Car wreck? Also possible, but difficult given ignorance of auto mechanics. Who to consult?
She didn’t write down garrote, because she didn’t have the strength.
She and Burt had no children. She was ten years younger than he. Early on he’d lobbied for a child, but thank God she’d had the sense to say no. Turned out Burt demanded her total focus. Moody, petulant, and self-centered, he was a man who’d do anything to maintain control. She suspected infidelity was his means of tranquilizing himself, because every time he launched a new affair, his temperament improved. Suddenly, he would become kinder and more attentive, much as he’d been in recent months.
The first indication of a new dalliance was his staying late at the office, where a series of soon-to-be-divorcées paraded past his desk. These women were vulnerable. He had the power to make or break them financially, which made them oh-so-eager to suck up, so to speak. His current extramarital fling had lasted longer than usual. Burt was easily bored, so most of the women he bedded disappeared within weeks, but this liaison had gone on for months. Lucy had begun scrutinizing his phone bills, looking for a pattern of frequently called numbers. She didn’t want to learn the woman’s identity, because she knew from experience that once a name and face were attached, the affront would be harder to ignore.
In the interest of keeping tabs on the situation, she searched his desk drawers at home. She checked his calendar for initials and cryptic references. She steamed open the bank statements, studied his expenditures, and then made copies of his canceled checks and all his credit card bills. She kept a record of the hotel rooms, the many expensive meals out, and the flowers he lavished on his paramour. If nothing else, he’d taught her the value of documenting items for later use as ammunition. The week before, she saw that he’d made a cash withdrawal of five thousand dollars, probably to buy jewelry, his modus operandi. Lucy was relieved. Usually, the jewelry came close to the end, like a form of severance pay.
She’d assumed she was home free until she ran into Laird Geiger, their
estate attorney, as she emerged from the dry cleaners that day—yet another item she could check off her list.
He’d greeted her warmly and bussed her on the cheek. They chatted amiably and were on the verge of parting when Laird said, “Oh, I nearly forgot. I ran into Burt last week and he said he needed to come in for a chat. Have him give Rachel a call and we can set something up. I gather he wants to bring his will up-to-date. Is everything okay?”
“Oh, we’re fine. You know him. We’re leaving on a cruise, and he wants to make sure he has all his ducks in a row. I’ll deliver the message. Better yet, I’ll call Rachel myself and get it on the books.”
“Do that,” he’d said. “I’ll be out of town this next week, but Rachel can slot you in as soon as I get back.”
Before he was even out of sight, Lucy could feel the chill descend. They’d had no discussion at all about their wills. Clearly, Burt was up to no good. All she needed was for him to cut her out of his estate, removing her as his executor and prime beneficiary. For the first time, she understood he must be serious about the woman, whoever she was. If talk of divorce was not far away, he’d make sure she got creamed.
That night in bed, Burt watched CSI while rubbing salve on an imaginary rash. Smelling the ointment, she began to think in more concrete terms about killing him. She propped her journal against her knees, tapping her lip with her pen as she analyzed the choices.
Hit-and-run? Hard to pull off without witnesses.
Bludgeoning? Ugh. All that bone and splattered brains? No, thanks.
During a commercial, she caught Burt peering over at her. “You’ve had your nose stuck in that thing for weeks,” he said. “What’s so fascinating?”
She closed the journal, a finger on the page to save her place. “Just some ideas I had about the silent auction for the charity luncheon next year. I wasn’t happy with the format.”
“They suckered you into doing that again?”
“I insisted. Brenda was in charge this year and completely botched the event. She was all over the place, dropping the ball right and left. Pathetic. We could have made a lot more money if she’d done as I said.”
He gave her the indulgent smile he used when he was systematically betraying her. “I have to hand it to you, kid. You may be a cold fish, but you’re efficient as hell.”
“Thank you, Burt. That means a lot to me.”
Burt had the good grace to laugh while she went back to her list. Stabbing would be nice.
On Tuesday, she drove into Beverly Hills to Saks Fifth Avenue. At the makeup counter, she watched as a saleswoman named Marcy smoothed a drop of liquid foundation on the back of her hand. She and Marcy discussed the virtues of “Ivory Beige” versus “Medium Beige.” Lucy made her selection and when she reached for her wallet, she realized her handbag was gone. For a moment, she stood perplexed. Had she set it down somewhere? Left it in the shoe department when she was buying her Ferragamos? Most certainly not. She remembered distinctly that she’d placed the bag on the glass counter near the perfume display. Someone had come along and lifted it. A wave of intense irritation swept over her as she thought how much work it would take to replace her driver’s license and close all her credit card accounts. Fortunately, she’d put her car keys in her jacket pocket so at least she could get home.
Marcy called store security and in the confusion that followed, Marcy admitted with embarrassment that they’d had a rash of purse snatchers working in the store. Lucy scarcely listened because the contents of the journal had just popped into her head. She could feel dampness forming at the nape of her neck. How explicit were her notes? The only items she could remember with absolute clarity were her name, address, and phone number neatly printed on page one. Anyone finding it could read the lengthy scribbled debate about the virtues of electrocution versus miter saws and other woodworking tools. Dear god. Marcy was chattering away, apologizing for not warning her, but Lucy was intent on the possible ramifications of the theft.
The answer came soon enough. The next day, the phone rang and a man with problem adenoids introduced himself as Mr. Puckett. He told her he’d found her purse in some shrubs and he thought she might want it back. She assumed he’d swiped the bag himself, removed all the cash, and would be angling for a reward for returning the very bag he’d stolen. He didn’t sound very bright, but neither did he sound sinister. She suggested they meet at the public library, where there was no danger of running into anyone in her social circle.
She waited in the reference department, as agreed. At the first sight of him, she nearly laughed aloud. He was such a bandy-legged little jockey, he should have been wearing silks. He couldn’t have weighed more than 122 pounds. He was in his fifties, his sparse hair combed straight back, widow’s peak kept in check by a malodorous gel. He seemed perfectly at ease as he passed the bag across the table. She murmured a word of thanks, wondering if a twenty-dollar bill would suffice, when he pulled the journal from his pocket. “The name’s Puckett,” he remarked.
“So you said on the phone,” she replied with all the chill she could muster.
He smiled, leaning toward her. “Mrs. Burgess, I’d cut the attitude if I was you. What you got here ain’t nice. Doubtless, you’ll intuit the subject matter to which I refer.” He opened the journal and read a few telling lines in a theatrical tone. Two patrons at nearby tables turned to stare.
“Please keep your voice down.”
He dropped into a whisper. “Excuse me. I must’ve forgot myself in my haste to communicate.”
She held out a hand. “I’ll have that now.”
“Not so fast. You got a real problem here, judging by what you’ve wrote.”
She tried to stare him down. “There’s a very simple explanation. I’m writing a play.”
“You ain’t writing a play.”
“Well, I’m thinking about one.”
“You’re an amateur at this, right?”
“I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“You’re gonna blow it big-time. Just my opinion as one who would know.”
Voice low, she said, “Not to contradict you, Mr. Puckett, but I’ve done years of community service, and my planning skills are highly regarded. Once I’ve made up my mind to do something, I never fail.”
“Mrs. B, it’s dirty work whacking someone. Much trickier than puttin’ on a charity lunch. Murder’s a serious crime, in case you hadn’t heard.”
“You’re a purse snatcher. You’re a fine one to talk.”
“Correction. You left said reticule on the counter at Saks. Thinking it was lost, I sought to return the alleged bag to its rightful owner. In casting about for some means of identifying same, I inadvertently disinterred some data that would suggest you’re formulating a plan that might be expeditionary to your hubby’s untimely end.”
One of the two nearby library patrons gathered his belongings and moved to a table some distance away.
Lucy said, “You made copies, I’m sure.”
“Strictly for my own protection. Any individual who’d ponder such acts might decide to eliminate a person like myself, who now has advanced and intimate knowledge of same. I hope you don’t mind my asking, but what’d hubby do to generate such rage?”
“Why is that any of your business?”
“Because I’m in possession of certain tangible information that I’d be distressed to see fall into the wrong hands, namely his. Such an unfortunate turn of events might result in a failure to activate.”
“I’m sure we can come to an understanding. I’m willing to pay you . . . within reason . . . if you’ll return the journal and any copies you made.”
“You misunderstand. My taking your money in return for this here would constitute the corpus delicti of the crime of blackmail. You’re hoping for a corpus of another kind, or so I surmise.”
“I wish you’d just say what you mean.”
“I have a suggestion.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Her sarcasm seemed to go right over his head.
He said, “Keeping my remarks entirely famatory, every matrimonial association is defeasible, am I right? So why not take that route? I’m talking divorce here, in case you’re not getting my drift.”
“Thank you for the clarification. Divorce has a cost attached that I’d prefer not to pay. California is a community property state. Most of our assets are tied up in real estate. Burt’s ruthless. If we divorce, I’ll be crushed underfoot.”
“So what I hear you saying is that you and him are engaged in a parcenary relationship of which you’d like to see his participation shifted to the terminus.”
“Precisely. He’s a drunk and he’s had numerous affairs. He’s also on the verge of changing his will. He had a chat with our estate attorney, who happened to mention it earlier this week. I pretended I knew what was going on, but that was the first I’d heard of it. If Burt cuts me out of his will . . .”
“Lady, I’m way ahead of you. You’re hoping the turd will expire before such changes are made.”
“Close enough.”
“I think you might find me a valuable ancillary to your ruminations. Once we come to an agreement, you show me a picture of the man you want severated, and I’ll handle it from there.”
“Severated?”
“You know, like his head from his neck.” He drew a line across his throat.
“Decapitated? That’s vile. I couldn’t live with myself.”
“I don’t mean to sound misapprobative, but you’re favoring a claw hammer. I seen it on your list.”
“It was the only thing I could think of at the time.”
“If you wouldn’t take unkindly to some direction, I have at my disposal a certain pharmaceutical substance which if mixed with a certain foodstuff or perhaps inculcated into a common household product changes from inert to extremely ert. It’s like a certain particle of speech that in itself may not look like much, but in conjecture with its opposite can have a deleterious effect.”
