It's Marple, Dear

by L Mad Hildebrandt

  “Because we’ve had to deal with it for the last few years,” Emma said.

  “She’s been like this that long? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because you’ve been in Africa,” Emma griped.

  “Well,” Earl said. “Maybe she wasn’t this bad, but it’s been coming on. Each time she has one of those mini-stroke things she’s a bit more…”

  “A bit more Miss Marple,” I said.

  All three of us looked at her this time.

  “Come on, Earl,” Emma said. “We best be getting along.”

  They retreated out the door, and as it clicked shut I realized I was alone with a near stranger. Made stranger, still, by her elected identity. I slipped into the kitchen to find something to feed her.

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  “Here you go,” I said, dropping a plate on the table beside Mother. It had taken me awhile to figure out where everything was, but I’d managed to find a box of sugar cookies, and the PB and J. I sat down on the couch across from her. Her eyes were closed, and she breathed slowly and evenly. A book lay on her lap, a marble-veined hand resting lightly across the pages. Orthopedic hose and flat loafers peeked beneath her shin-length dress. She’d opened her eyes before I returned my own gaze to her face.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Raymond.” She raised a hand toward me. I took it.

  “Mary Sue,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Mary Sue.”

  She dropped her eyes to the platter. “Ah! You’ve brought the tea.” She proceeded to pour two cups of tea and handed one to me. What to do about her? I leaned forward to take the cup, but that small action couldn’t answer my question. My brother and sister had told me to play along with her delusions, but how could I do that? She thought I was a man, for gosh sakes, and she… a fictional character!

  She dropped a sugar cube into her tea and took a sip. “Ah, perfect.” She reached for a sandwich square. “And you’ve cut the sandwiches.”

  I like my sandwiches quartered. Always have. It’s a habit I got from… her, apparently. She smacked her lips appreciatively, as if it was cucumbers and honey instead of peanut butter and jelly. I bit into my own square, savoring the extra-thick grape layer.

  “I don’t believe it,” she said suddenly.

  “What?” I look into her watered-blue eyes. They pierced back at me.

  “I don’t believe she killed herself.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman in the river.”

  “Oh. The one you found?”

  “Yes. But she didn’t commit suicide.”

  “No?”

  “No. She was murdered.”

  Chapter Four

  A bang on the door knocked me out of my stupefaction. Murder? Mother had really fallen into her role as Miss Marple. And she was determined to drag me into her fantasy. I leaped from the couch and ran to the door. I flung it open, glad for any diversion from her delusions. A man, cowboy boots, hat, and dust-tan uniformed, stood on the step.

  “Afternoon, Ma’am,” he said as he reached up to pull his shades down just enough to reveal the tawny gold of his eyes.

  “Oh my God, it’s you!”

  He smiled. “Is Miz Murphy home?” The luscious baritone of his voice sent shivers to my fingertips.

  “Uh,” I said, in my usual, swift way. I couldn’t get past the tall and wide of his appearance. And definitely hunky. And he was a cop. No wonder he knew how to stand outside a car door like one. My eyes dropped to the badge on his chest. No. Sheriff. He pushed his Stetson back on his head and smiled even wider, revealing even white teeth.

  “You forgot this,” he said as he pulled a phone from his pocket. He dropped it next to my purse on the table.

  I nodded my thanks. So that’s where it got to. My face burned as I recalled the bare butt thing.

  I looked back at Mother, who hadn’t moved, except to raise her feet onto a footstool.

  “Come on in, Sheriff,” she called.

  “Hey, Miz Murph…,” he began.

  “It’s Marple, dear,” she said.

  “Miz Marple.”

  “You know my nephew, Raymond, of course?”

  “Raymond?” He pulled his dark sunglasses down again, and fixed his eyes on mine. His teeth glittered in a feral grin. “It’s good to see you again… Ray.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know who…”

  “Sure you do.” He slapped me on the shoulder, man-to-man hard, and pushed past me into the house. “Sixth grade. Mrs. Weems’ class.”

  I shook my head, perplexed. Come to think of it, he did look familiar. Sort of. But then, most people in town did. I had lived here until I turned eleven. Then, on my birthday, the hammer dropped. I came home from school to find my bags packed, and Mother and Dad sitting in this same room. She in the green Lazyboy, or maybe its predecessor, and he on a ladder-back kitchen chair by the door. They hadn’t looked at each, and definitely not at us kids as we came in the door.

  “C’mon, Applekins,” Dad had said, grabbing two suitcases. “Gotta go.”

  “Where are we going? A trip? What about Mother? And the twins?” Three years younger than me, they’d busted into tears as Dad ushered me out.

  “Mother!” I called, trying to dig my heels into the step. I knew something was wrong, I just didn’t know what.

  She didn’t answer.

  She sat there, ramrod straight back, skin taut over her cheeks and line-tight lips. She looked angry. At me?

  “What did I do?” I didn’t understand, as Dad shoved me into the Jeep and climbed in after me. He explained on the way to the airport. Splitting up, he’d said. But I still didn’t know what that meant. We left the Jeep in long-term parking, the keys under the seat. “She’ll come for it,” he said. I didn’t care. I never wanted to see it again. But, she must have, because it sat unused in the lean-to garage. For years. The few times I came to visit I peeked in at it. Dust encrusted, and bug infested.

  I tried to remember the kids in my class. The ones I’d left behind when I took that last ride in the Jeep. “Sixth grade?” I spun about to gaze at the sheriff, trying to recognize him.

  “Oh, for goodness sake,” Mother plopped her feet to the ground and the ottoman rocked precariously. “He’s Ildefonso Zonnie. Can’t you remember your best friend, Raymond?”

  “Lonnie?” My heart leaped, frog-like, in my chest. He HAD been my best friend, until the day Dad stole me away. The few summers Mother had me home, he’d been gone, spending time on the rez with his Pop’s family. I’d never seen him again. Until now.

  “I haven’t seen you since…” I recalled our first and only kiss. Eleven years old, both of us, behind the restrooms at the park. I squeezed my eyes shut and felt the heat burn my cheeks.

  “I know,” he interrupted. He always did that, I remembered. Interrupt me. But then, so did I. Conversation interruptus. It had been like that. Comfortable. But I still couldn’t equate the skinny, long-haired kid of my youth with this handsome, and very masculine, man.

  “How’s Diana, um, your mom?” I dropped my gaze to his boots to stop staring goo-goo eyed at his face.

  “Fine. Mom and Pop are divorced now. She’s gone back to her maiden name, Montoya, instead of Zonnie. Says it’s better to drop the Navajo name since she’s not one of us anymore.”

  “Excuse me, you two.” Mother stood abruptly, apparently miffed at being left out of the conversation. “You can catch up at the pub if you’ve a mind. But, I believe the Sheriff is here to speak to me.”

  “Uh. Yes, Ma’am.” Lonnie winked at me, then took a seat on the couch. I pulled a chair in from the kitchen and sat by the door. Like Dad. I squirmed a bit, then kicked the memory to the back of my mind.

  Lonnie pulled a small pad and pen from his chest pocket. He flipped it open, then leaned forward, elbows planted on his knees. “Now that you’re out of Old Timers’ I need to ask you some questions.”

  She sat back in the green chair, and looked pointedly up at the top of
his head.

  “Oh. Sorry.” Lonnie tugged off his Stetson, and set it upside down on the seat next to him. He dropped his sunglasses inside the hat. Full head of silver-sprinkled, black hair, I noticed. But, not shoulder-length anymore. Now he wore it short. Not crewed, or anything. Long enough for a girl to run her fingers through. He glanced my way, and of course, I blushed. And he grinned. Jeez.

  The cat chose that moment to glide into the room and jump on my lap. He pumped his claws, making himself comfortable, and curled up. But, he kept one eye open as he purred over-loudly. “Sure. Pretend you care,” I muttered.

  “Let’s begin with your reason for being at the river,” Lonnie said. “Why, exactly, were you down there?”

  “Because it was unseasonably hot,” she said. “And it’s cool by the river. It’s shady under the trees.”

  “Unseasonably hot?” My incredulous tone was as obvious to my ears as it had to be to theirs.

  “In the village, my dear.” Mother turned her watered-blue eyes on me. “We’re having an early summer here in St. Mary Mead. But then, it’s different at the coast, so you wouldn’t realize it.”

  I took a deep breath, but held in the sigh, instead letting it out in a controlled whew. Could she really see an English village in our dusty, desert town?

  Lonnie caught my eye and shook his head slightly, lips downturned. Just leave it, his expression said in a language we’d shared years ago. “So, you were there to escape the heat. No other reason?”

  “Yes. Well, I’d taken a lunch basket.”

  “A lunch basket?”

  “Wicker. With a blue cloth inside. I thought I would eat lunch down there. But that was quite interrupted.”

  “Quite,” I said.

  Lonnie tossed a stop it expression my way. “Because you noticed the body,” he said.

  “Yes,” she agreed. “It was Mrs. Wilson.”

  Had I heard right? Wilson! Wasn’t that the doctor’s name at Old Timers’ Town?

  “I’m sorry to make you go through this unpleasantness, but can you describe exactly how and where you found her?”

  “That’s quite alright, young man. These old eyes see much more than people realize.”

  He nodded, and I rolled my eyes. He flipped a page in his little book. “Go on, Ma’am.”

  “Well. She was under the bridge. Just where the eddy pushes all the bric-a-brac. From where I sat, at the picnic table, I could see a patch of yellow moving in the water. At first, I thought it was a seaweed, or grass.” She looked at me. Her hands moved rhythmically, in a washing motion, and I could tell she was more upset than she let on. “It was the color of autumn wheat, you see.”

  I nodded, but didn’t interrupt. I doubt she’d ever seen autumn wheat. Not here, and certainly not in England. I began moving my own hand, in time with hers. The cat’s purring intensified as I stroked his back.

  “I got up to take a closer look, and it was her. The doctor’s wife.” She spoke quietly, her tone at odds with my own, perverse excitement. Why, he hadn’t seemed upset in the least! My overactive imagination had him shoving his wife into the mud at the bank of the Rio Grande until she drowned.

  “You didn’t move her?” Lonnie flipped his book shut.

  “No.”

  “No one else moved her?”

  “I was alone.”

  He nodded. “Thank you. I guess that’s it for now.”

  “That’s it?” I leaped up as he rose. The cat jumped from my lap and stalked into the kitchen. “What about Mrs. Wilson? Did she drown? Who killed her?” I lowered my voice. “Was it murder?”

  “I can’t tell you that right now.” Lonnie shoved his Stetson on his head, and his shades on his nose. “It’s still under investigation.”

  “You think Jennifer did it.” Mother still sat in her chair, a wise old woman expression across her face. “Well, don’t you believe it.”

  “Mrs. M.” Lonnie shook his head. “Don’t get involved in this case.”

  “She’s just a little girl. She’s…”

  “Mm-hmm,” he said, eyebrows raised. I could barely make out his eyes through the dark lenses as he turned them my way. “And I need you,” he poked my shoulder for emphasis. “Raymond. Make sure she behaves herself.”

  Mother cleared her throat. “This reminds me of the time…”

  Chapter Five

  My head spun. Within twenty-four hours, I’d gone from near-famous author to unemployed mom-sitter, and from Mary Sue to Raymond. Mother had become Miss Marple. Angel’s Rest was really an English village, and my siblings weren’t really my brother and sister, but acquaintances who ran the local mercantile.

  The one thing I could be sure of was that my mother had found a dead body down by the river. I had time to think about these things while I cleaned up the tea and sandwich dishes. Afterwards, I came back into the living room and paused at the door. The T.V. blared, tuned to a, no doubt comforting, early twentieth century music channel. A big band swayed and a girl’s voice trembled.

  Mother still rotated her hands endlessly, and I worried about the strain she was under and whether it might cause another mini-stroke. How many of these could an eighty-year-old have? If she did have another one, who would I become? Poirot? But, no. That would mean she thought of me as an equal, and in her fantasy I was merely a nephew… even if an important one. A snarky thought crossed my mind. Her delusions made me, the castoff child, into a named character, while my siblings became nameless.

  “Mother,” I said, as I crossed the room to a black game table. I picked up a deck of cards and walked over to the couch. I handed her the deck as I sat down beside her. Maybe she could occupy her hands with them?

  “Thank you, but no.” She smiled and stilled her hands in her lap. “I don’t play cards.”

  “You don’t?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. The octagonal, wooden game table surrounded by chairs screamed card player. Mini-stroke, I realized. Miss Marple doesn’t play cards, or rarely, anyway. She may have in Christie’s early short stories, but I hadn’t been that much of a fan, so I couldn’t really say. I had more reading to do.

  I leaned back into the couch cushions and studied her. At the edge of her fantasy world, my mother still existed. She had a sharp mind. I could see it in her eyes. “You don’t think Mrs. Wilson committed suicide?” I already knew her response.

  “No, it’s too easy an answer. It’s what we’re supposed to think.”

  “You think it was murder?”

  “Carefully planned murder.”

  I took a breath. “And, do you know who did it?” If she did, was she in danger?

  “Not yet. But I will.” Her hands had started moving again in that disconcerting fashion.

  “Lonnie thinks it is murder, too,” I said. “He didn’t say so, but he didn’t disagree with you, either. You said it wasn’t Jennifer. Who is she?”

  “She’s the little girl who lives next door. Dee’s granddaughter.” Was this ‘Jennifer’ a real person, I wondered? Had Mother’s mind warped Dee Garfield into someone else? Or did she only confuse members of her own family? Maybe because we didn’t fit neatly into her fantasy. Other people just populated her world, walking across the stage like extras in a movie. Actually, I vaguely remembered a boy who lived across the driveway. He’d moved in shortly before I moved away. I thought about the ancient couple who’d lived there before that. They’d been about Mrs. Garfield’s age. “Remember those old folks who used to live next door?”

  “Yes. Dee’s parents.”

  “Mmm.” I was right. She must have moved in there when her parents passed on, Her kid was my age, maybe, but wasn’t in my class.

  “Lonnie didn’t mention a Jennifer,” I said. “Why would you think he suspected her?”

  “Because of the look on poor Mrs. Garfield’s face.”

  “Dee?” Confusion washed over me as I glanced toward the closed curtains blocking the view of her house.

  “Of course, Raymond. Don’t be obtuse
.”

  I don’t like being called obtuse, or silly, or anything else that questions my intelligence. But, I swallowed my pride for the moment. “When did you see Dee, though? We’ve only been home a few hours.” I didn’t mention that I’d been with her the whole time.

  “It was her expression, you see…”

  “But, when did you see her expression?” I persisted.

  “When we arrived.” Mother propped her feet up on the footstool again. She leaned back in her chair and sighed as though tired of trying to convince a child. “She must have heard us as we got to the cottage.” My mother lives in a hundred-something-year-old, flat-topped adobe. If she’d settled on a Spanish or Middle Eastern hero, instead of English, it might be more believable. Maybe a female Don Quixote, tilting at windmills.

  “And you saw her then?”

  “Yes. She peeked out the window, you see. She had the most frightened look. She might feel that way about her son… but I don’t think so. It has to be Jennifer.”

  ❃ ❃ ❃

  A sea of old ladies filled the living room. I’d only been gone a few minutes, and here they were, milling about and chatting all at the same time. They were all in their late seventies, maybe eighties, like my mother. They clucked around her like worried hens.

  “Raymond!” They all stopped as a woman I didn’t recognize called a greeting. Jeez. Not a full day had passed since I’d been renamed, and even strangers used it. Mother’s dementia sucked at me like quicksand. They tossed ‘hellos’ my way, and I pasted on a smile and said “hey” back.

  Dee Garfield grumped at me from across the room, twisting her face into a scowl that shouted ‘go away.’ “Come on ladies,” she said, and donned a superior, cat-loving expression.

  One woman held back as they took their places at the game table. “Mrs. Montoya!” I ran forward as I recognized her, and flung my arms around the old woman. Maria Montoya, Lonnie’s maternal grandmother, lived across the street.

  She pushed me back to arm’s length and looked at my face, then dropped her gaze down to my feet and back up. “Still a tiny thing,” she said.

  “Tiny! I’m no such thing.” At five-foot-nine, I’m not small.