Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

  “We played supernatural characters, you fool! Vampires and witches can do that. But don’t do it at home. Kids play around and bad things happen.”

  “Really? Well, look at Brian, then.” She flung her skinny arm toward the corpse, who was busily wiping blue powder off his face. “Seems fine to me.”

  “Well, it’s not so fine when a sweet young girl in Des Moines jumps from the garage roof and breaks a leg trying to be me. As Clarissa, the governess, I leaped two feet off a parapet onto a mattress. It’s called acting when we make you believe it was a fall from a cliff onto a rocky shore. You’re setting a bad example with these asinine reenactments and it’s got to stop. Why do you think poor Dan beat it out of here when he did?”

  “He’s back, in case you didn’t know it. Right there!” Emma waved in our direction and fifteen hundred pairs of eyes turned to see us standing in a shaft of light at the doors to the ballroom. As if on cue, Dan stepped forward and waved. At once, a sea of cell phones and video cameras focused on Dan turning this way and that, screen royalty acknowledging the genuflecting masses.

  “Hey there, Dan! Welcome back!” Emma shouted. “C’mon up here, my darling. Your Lady in Waiting is waiting for you.”

  “That was you, Emma?” Dan called out, blowing her a kiss. Then he waved to the crowd as he trotted up the steps leading to the stage, cell phones and video cameras recording it all. I shrank back, watching my old friend flinging himself headfirst back into the limelight.

  He wrapped his arms around Margot’s bulk, kissing her on both cheeks. She slapped his behind and said, “Naughty boy, you should be doing your homework!” The crowd lapped it up, laughing uproariously.

  Emma was bouncing up and down in her vintage saddle shoes, arms outstretched, ringlets bobbing, no doubt recalling those make-out sessions of yesteryear. Dan obliged, kissing her on both cheeks, then planting a smacker on her lips, possibly recalling those long ago make-out sessions himself. The audience swooned, recording it all for uploads to Facebook and Instagram.

  “Hey, Danny, how about a photo op as Chuckie,” Emma cooed into her mic. “Everyone would love it—wouldn’t we?”

  The applause and cheers were tumultuous. Dan brushed his foot on the stage in an aw, shucks kind of way and grinned.

  “Sure, what the heck. I’m here and glad to see you all.” He waved again, to foot stomping approval.

  “Photo op! Photo op!” The fans clamored in unison, cheering and clapping. “Photo op now!”

  “Hey, hey, guys, okay!” Dan grinned. “I think I know what you want, okay?”

  To thunderous applause, Dan turned to Brian, the corpse, and accepted the Chuckie jacket and cap he proffered. I watched in dismay as my friend donned both. Margot, too, seemed to overlook her previous revulsion to reenactments and accepted the geeky glasses Emma handed her. Thankfully, Margot would not be wearing the ringlet wig, nor the plaid miniskirt.

  Dan stepped up on the Plexiglass cube as Brian wound the necktie around the closet rail. The flimsy door was then closed. Margot, with winks to the audience, cleared her throat and called out, “Chuckie? Chuckie, where are you?” The audience roared with laughter. Margot slowly circled the stage, milking the scene, calling, “Chuckie, you haven’t finished your maths.”

  Margot made a show of looking around again before finally flinging open the closet door, and I caught my breath in unison with the vast communal gasp heard throughout the ballroom.

  “Danny!” Margot screamed, stepping back. “No!”

  “No!” screamed the audience, jockeying for position, cameras focused on Danny hanging, legs twitching, the Plexiglass cube kicked over.

  Unencumbered by any recording device, I raced to the stage and mounted the steps, reaching Danny split seconds before shock wore off and other hands grabbed at the taut necktie tethering him to the closet rail.

  “Call an ambulance!” I shouted, grabbing Danny by the hips and lifting upward. “And the police! Now!”

  We untied Dan and shifted him onto the floor. I fell to my knees, pushing Emma out of the way, and began resuscitation efforts. “You fools!” I spat out between breaths. “Whose macabre idea was this?”

  “Mine!” a voice pitched in fury screamed. “Mine, and I’d do it again!”

  I looked up to see Brian, the corpse, smears of blue powder still streaking his face, shaking his fist at Danny. “I hope he’s dead!” he shrieked, his eyes crazed. “He made my life a living hell.”

  “You kicked the cube!” Emma cried. “You set him up to be killed!”

  “Damn right! When I was nine years old I almost hung myself trying to be Chuckie. I could have died, but post-traumatic stress syndrome is almost as bad. The nightmares. Day-mares. I can’t look at a necktie without passing out. He deserves to die!”

  Kicking and screaming, Brian was wrestled into a chair and secured by two hefty fans until police arrived. EMTs showed up, and I let them take over while I comforted my sobbing sister.

  “I had no idea, none. Brian’s one of our most stalwart fans. I guess Dan showing up set him off. It was just too much for him. I’ll never forgive myself.”

  Dan did not survive. In real life, bodies stay dead. I knew it was already too late when I lifted his lifeless body down from the railing. His death was hard on everyone, not least Emma, who suffered a nervous breakdown. As his “Lady in Waiting,” Emma admitted she’d made it her mission to lure him back to the fold. But Dan had been right after all. That much adulation couldn’t be good for the soul. It turned out to be the death of him.

  TARNISHED HOPE , by KM Rockwood

  “Don’t forget the meeting,” Cora said as she maneuvered her housekeeping cart next to mine and reached for a towering stack of towels.

  “What meeting?” I put a supply of coffee packets on my cart. Nothing sends tips in the wrong direction faster than not replacing coffee packets in the rooms.

  As I straightened up, a stab of pain snaked from the small of my back down my right leg all the way to my toes. I had one pain pill left, unless I could score a few more from Rico, who usually had a supply.

  “Mandatory meeting at the end of the shift today. Didn’t you see the notice on the bulletin board?”

  “Guess not.”

  “It’s been up for two days.”

  Why today? I rubbed my aching back. My head throbbed. The quarter hour of overtime pay for the meeting would be welcome—a single mom working as a hotel housekeeper couldn’t afford to turn money down—but I had things to do.

  Cora and I finished stocking our carts for the next morning and hurried into the starkly furnished staff lounge that doubled as a meeting room. We slid onto a bench next to one of the new girls. They’d taken to hiring recent immigrants. Most of them wore hijabs. They didn’t talk much, but their English was good enough when they did. Everybody said they worked harder and complained less than the rest of us.

  Geraldine, the housekeeping supervisor, came in, a clipboard in her hand. Her starched uniform was a little too small. Love handles bulged at her waist and the buttons over her bosom strained.

  If my uniform looked like that, she’d have been on me in a minute. I always wore the optional apron—it covered a multitude of sins.

  She cleared her throat and swept her eyes over the staff. “Good afternoon. I have some good news for us.”

  We could use some good news. Business had been slow lately.

  “You’ve all heard about the fire at the Crystal Dome hotel out by the airport?”

  I’d heard about it on the news. I hadn’t thought much about it.

  “I’m sorry for their misfortune.” She smirked. She wasn’t sorry at all. “But their loss is our gain. We’ve acquired a last minute convention. It starts Monday morning and runs five days. People will start arriving throughout the day tomorrow.”

  She checked her clipboard. “I know this is short notic
e, but we can handle it. There will be schedule changes for most of us. All leave is canceled. If that’s a problem for you, see me privately and we’ll see what we can arrange.”

  Cora dug her elbow into my side. “That might mean an overtime shift or two for us. I could use the money.”

  I nodded. I could, too. Between putting money aside for my handicapped son and for pills from Rico, things were always tight.

  “It’s an education convention,” Geraldine continued.

  A sigh rose from the assembled crowd. Teachers were notorious low tippers. And even the bigwigs on expense accounts weren’t free spenders.

  “But not teachers. This is a for-profit business. A group called Charter Schools America. I believe they have some schools right here in the city.”

  Tears pricked my eyelids.

  Indeed, they had schools here in the city.

  When they first opened, I signed up my son, Peter, for high school. Peter was bright, but he always struggled in school. He qualified for special education. Emotional disturbance. Maybe autism, I now thought, but at the time it wasn’t diagnosed. The intake counselor assured me that they had a psychiatrist on the staff. Not just a psychologist, but a medical doctor who could prescribe meds. Peter would receive individual attention and close monitoring. It sounded good.

  It was the worst decision I ever made.

  Cora nudged me.

  Geraldine was droning on. “No vacancies . . . banquets . . . breakfast buffets . . . a lot of work, but good for business.”

  “And,” she said with a flourish, “the Presidential Suite is rented out.”

  Wasn’t that often the Presidential Suite was rented out. It was ridiculously expensive, with three bedrooms, four baths, a formal dining room, a reception room, a sauna, its own exercise room.

  “The occupant is one Harrison Detwilder, the renowned child development expert. You may have seen his television show.”

  I hadn’t.

  After learning I’d scored an extra shift on Monday, I changed out of my uniform, took my coat from the locker, and wrapped my white scarf around my neck. Sometimes I’d find myself crying unexpectedly, and I’d discovered I could pull up the scarf to hide the tears on my cheeks. I didn’t used to cry like that. But now, I found that the pain in my back, combined with everything else, could overwhelm me.

  The employee exit went through the garage. I looked around for Rico, a valet parker and my supplier. I didn’t like to think of him as a drug dealer. That sounded so sleazy. But that’s what he was.

  He came walking from the valet parking area, whistling and tossing a set of keys in the air and catching them in his hand. His dark hair was slicked back and his skin was pale. He’d always been thin, but now he looked emaciated. And he had an open sore on his neck. I wondered if he was sampling his own wares a bit too freely.

  When he saw me, he stopped, grinning. “End of the month, huh? What d’you need?”

  Rico knew I took oxycodone for my back pain, but he always asked. The doctor at the clinic said she couldn’t prescribe any more than she already had. And no matter how I tried to ration the pills, I always ran out at the end of the month. Monday, I could stop by the clinic and they would give me a renewal. But the pain wouldn’t wait until Monday.

  I squinted at him in the harsh overhead light. “You got oxies?”

  “You’re in luck. I just got a supply. How many you want?”

  “How much are they?”

  “Thirty-five, just like last month. I try to keep the price down. ’Specially for you.” He tilted his head and winked.

  Outrageously expensive, but I had no other choice.

  I closed my hand on the pharmacy bottle in my pocket. It contained the one remaining capsule and the hundred dollar bill I’d taken from the small stash under a loose floorboard in the closet of my one-room apartment. “At least two.” That might get me through. But I’d be on my feet for that extra shift on Monday. And I wouldn’t get to the clinic until after work. “How many have you got?”

  He shook his head. “Enough. What did you have in mind?”

  An idea was forming in my head. “How about ten?”

  “Ten? That’s a lot. You want to be careful.”

  “Some extra to have, just in case.”

  Rico sighed. “Don’t usually work that way. People tend to take all they got.”

  “I know. But I’m pretty good about making my prescription last for most of the month.”

  “That you are,” he agreed. “You got three hundred and fifty dollars?”

  “Not with me.”

  “What’ve you got on you?”

  “A hundred.”

  “I’ll give you three. You can pay me the five when you bring the other two fifty.”

  “I’m good for it.”

  “I know. But I’m not letting them go until I get the money. Business is business, you know.”

  “You’ll hold onto them for me?”

  “Yeah. Until tomorrow night.”

  “Make that Monday night. I don’t work tomorrow.”

  “Okay. Monday night. Usually, it’s first come, first served. But just for you, I’ll keep them back. After Monday night, though, they’re gone.”

  I handed him the hundred. He gave me back three little capsules, which I slipped into the pharmacy bottle and snapped the lid shut.

  The bus ride home took forever. I skipped my usual shower, ate quickly, and hurried off to the nursing home my son had called home for the last three years. Well, called wasn’t the right word. Peter hadn’t spoken since he jumped off the roof of our apartment building in a failed suicide attempt at age sixteen. The doctors at the hospital told me Peter had severe head trauma. He might get a little better, but it had become increasingly obvious that he’d never walk or talk again.

  I spent all my spare time at the nursing home, trying to take care of him. By scrimping and saving, I managed to bring him whatever he needed that the home didn’t cover. Lotion for his dry skin, a soft warm shawl to wrap around him when he was in his wheelchair, a radio so he had something to listen to for the hour after hour he spent staring into space. And since he’d need money after I was gone, I’d have to set up some kind of special needs trust. I was saving for that, too.

  When I reached Peter’s room tonight, the only sound in the room was the whirr of the heat/ventilation system. He sat in a wheelchair. His supper tray lay on a table beside him, barely touched. A pool of greasy gravy was congealing around the ground meat patty. The scoop of dingy mashed potatoes was the same color as dirty snow a week after it had been plowed off a parking lot. The applesauce was undisturbed in its little bowl.

  The nursing assistant, carrying some bed linens, stuck her head in the room. “Glad you’re here. He wouldn’t eat anything at all when I tried to feed him.”

  And how hard did you try? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t say anything. If I made her mad, she might take it out on Peter.

  I picked up a napkin and gently wiped drool from Peter’s chin. He didn’t look at me, and his expression didn’t change. Sometimes I thought Peter recognized me when I talked to him. But it was probably wistful thinking on my part.

  “Mama’s here.” I rested my hand on his.

  His skin was ice cold. His shawl was on the foot of his bed. I sniffed it to make sure he hadn’t thrown up on it or something, then wrapped it around his shoulders, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  Peter showed no response. I picked up the spoon on his tray and put a little applesauce on the tip of it. When I touched it to his lip, his mouth opened and I could slip it in. His teeth closed on the spoon and he swallowed.

  Forty minutes later, I had managed to get most of the supper into him.

  I was so tired. My whole body ached. I couldn’t think of anything to say to him. I turned on the radio and sat beside him, holding his
hand.

  The nursing assistant came in to get Peter ready for bed. I couldn’t stand to see the diaper-changing routine, so I slipped out to the lobby. Opening my pharmacy bottle, I popped a capsule in my mouth and washed it down with water from the drinking fountain.

  Maybe Rico was right. Have extra pills, and you tended to take them.

  When I got back to his room, Peter was lying in bed, his blank eyes staring at the ceiling. The radio was off.

  I turned it on, softly, and pulled the chair up next to his bed. I stroked his forehead until his eyes closed and his breathing was slow and regular.

  Gathering my coat and scarf, I left.

  Since tomorrow was my day off, I would spend all day sitting with Peter. Maybe I would splurge and bring him a milkshake. Sometimes he seemed to like them.

  * * * *

  By Monday morning, I’d made up my mind about the oxies. I retrieved three hundred dollars from the hidey-hole in my closet and went to work.

  I was surprised to see Cora in the staff lounge, changing into her uniform. “I thought you were working the evening shift yesterday,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes. “I did. But Geraldine said I could work today, too, if I wanted. It’ll be time and a half.”

  “Was it busy yesterday?”

  “Horrible.” She eyed the foot of her white pantyhose critically. A small hole showed in the heel. “I spent half the shift cleaning up the Presidential Suite.”

  That was where Harrison Detwilder was staying.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “He had some kind of party in there, and somebody blew lunch all over. Didn’t make it to the pot in time, of course. But whoever it was couldn’t just stay in one place, either. Had to puke all over the carpet in the reception room, the dining room, one of the bedrooms. The stink was something awful. So they called the front desk to have somebody come clean it up. Lucky me.”

  “Did you get it cleaned up all right?”