Come the thaw in February, it was time to reconsider. Big streaks and patches of black water appeared in the reservoir. A sudden freeze closed them up again, catching the mortal remains of Peter Havermeyer Turkott III, partly above the bluish surface of the ice, where he was spotted by a fisherman setting up for the chilly delights of midwinter angling.
Well, he was dead; that was sure at last for everyone, dead as Jacob Marley and, like Scrooge's partner, returned for the enlightenment of those left behind. Questions? Of course, there were questions, but thanks to a full teaching schedule—Wallace really thought he owed the dean an apology for early complaints about the new teaching directives—Professor Ivery had an alibi supported by dozens of undergrads and a clutch of first-rate graduate students.
Still, the police couldn't help be interested; who else had they to consider? Turkott had been Wallace's enemy, though he spent a good deal of time explaining that the bitterness of academic disputes was strictly nonviolent.
"Until now,” said the lieutenant, a skeptical soul, but there was nothing he could do about it. Wallace was an enemy with an alibi, and there seemed to be no handle on Turkott's killer. Just as well, too, because Wallace was clearly an accomplice after the fact, implicated up to his elbows, and after nearly three months, he could hardly use panic as his excuse.
By the end of the semester, when the investigation was clearly bogged down with every avenue explored leading to the same dead ends, Wallace found himself in a curious situation. He stopped tensing up at the sight of every police vehicle. He no longer had an aversion to opening the trunk of his car, though he still insisted on parking as close to buildings as possible and always near a light.
Thanks to his self-command and intelligence, he had avoided disaster. Turkott, that thorn in his flesh, was gone, and Wallace was the last combatant standing. He was relieved, but not wholly pleased, for campus life had lost some of its savor. The common room bored him; department meetings were beyond tiresome. There were days when he could have confessed to missing Turkott, who'd added a pleasant edge to every academic discussion.
And there was something else, a thought that had only gradually insinuated itself into his consciousness as his anxiety about discovery waned: someone else knew what he'd done and might be a danger to him. On the accepted theory that Turkott, killed by a mysterious stranger, had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, Wallace's new fears were nonsense.
But he didn't believe the official line for a minute. That he had been implicated at random, by coincidence, offended his sense of importance. His car had been chosen, he knew it had, because the red BMW coupe was distinctive with the litcrt vanity plate. Anyone hiding a body would have picked a less conspicuous vehicle, unless—and here Wallace felt a little shiver—unless it was a deliberate attempt to implicate him. Or threaten him.
Wallace was amazed that he had not considered this earlier. At first he had been so anxious to avoid scandal, so annoyed at the inconvenience, even so triumphant about his enemy's demise, that he had not considered himself a target except of Turkott's posthumous malice. Sloppy thinking.
He realized with a mix of dismay and excitement that his life had changed forever. He had an enemy, a real, not an academic, enemy, someone clever and ruthless, whom he had, inadvertently, protected by confusing the time line and removing evidence.
The killer was someone on campus; Wallace was sure of that. Perhaps in the department, perhaps in one of his seminars, even in the office. Someone hated him and he would have to watch everyone, ponder every word, every gesture, and collect every bit of gossip, every hint of displeasure. Now Wallace began to see the difference between his old “enemy” Turkott, who had produced stimulation, not anxiety, and this new unknown menace.
Was it Edgar, the Americanist, whom he had opposed on certain general education requirements? Wallace sometimes felt under observation when Edgar was in the same room. Or maybe Saul, who, rumor had it, had enjoyed a fling with Turkott. There was something about the way he greeted Wallace, a false bonhomie that jangled the nerves. Wallace was short with them both and scuttled out of the office if they were ensconced there.
Come to think of it, even Marylin was not impossible, was she? The administrative assistant was a big, strapping woman, twenty years younger than he was. Capable of putting a corpse in a trunk? Oh, he thought so.
He had to consider the students and ex-students, too, for Wallace had to admit that there had been a couple of unfortunate dissertation committees. He began to write flattering recommendations for every candidate, especially for former doctoral candidates now on the job market. If they lived in the area, he made particular efforts because it might be anyone, and who knew what the killer wanted?
On bad days, when everyone looked suspicious, when the undergrads seemed like malicious mobs and his graduate students like so many Machiavellian schemers, he sometimes thought about the police. About making a discreet call some quiet afternoon to the campus police headquarters. About expressing his fears. About asking for help.
But “why” they would ask, and then he'd have to tell them about the parking lot and the blue tarp and the terrible effort to heave Turkott, his junior by several years and heavier by several dozen pounds, over the guard rail into the dark water. He wasn't sure he could do that, and, besides, after nearly a year wouldn't it be too late to find the dropped threads of DNA or whatever it was that cracked such cases?
By the next December, Wallace had lost so much weight that the department chair asked if he might not want a leave, perhaps move his sabbatical up a year. It could be done. Wallace waved away the idea, though it troubled him. And he was more upset when the dean took him aside one day and paid him many compliments before launching into the merits of the latest money-saving early retirement program.
"Oh, I intend to go on indefinitely,” Wallace said in as airy a tone as he could manage.
The dean fixed him with a cold look. On reflection, he wasn't sure that he didn't dislike Wallace even more than he had disliked Turkott. “There have been complaints,” he said. “Some of a serious nature."
"This has been a difficult year,” Wallace admitted, “but things will look up next semester."
"I think I can guarantee emeritus status,” said the dean. “At this point in time.” He didn't have to add, “but not later, not if you delay."
Out in the parking lot, Wallace found himself shivering. He had his heavy computer bag on his shoulder, and he found it hard to keep his footing on the slick pavement. He actually skidded the last few feet to his car and narrowly saved himself from sliding underneath the BMW.
Open the trunk, put away the laptop. He wouldn't need it as much now, nor his briefcase, heavy with papers. He lifted the trunk, saw a flash of blue, blue fabric, blue tarp, and tumbled forward, half in the trunk, half on the freezing pavement. He would have come to grief if an alert student, an EMT in training, hadn't spotted him. He wrapped Wallace in the blue blanket he found handy in the trunk and dialed 911.
"You're going to be all right,” he kept saying, but Wallace, even semiconscious, seemed distraught. He kept mumbling about a tarpaulin and trying to throw off the blanket and to strike the medical personnel.
The dean, who had seen the commotion, who had, in fact, been watching from his window, came down from the office. “A stroke, do you think?” he asked the EMT chief.
"Possibly a stroke or a seizure, even a tumor. We can't tell without a scan. There are so many possibilities with the brain."
"Or the mind? Professor Ivery's not been himself for several months."
"Who knows,” the EMT said, as he shut the ambulance door and vaulted into the driver's seat. “The mind's such a tricky thing."
The dean, who prided himself on his dexterity in human relations as well as his knowledge of all things automotive, nodded and smiled. He'd certainly been lucky, but the combination of electronics and psychology had proved unstoppable, and he thought that he could now count on several years
of tranquility from the English department.
Copyright © 2011 Janice Law
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: PAWNS by Janet E. Irvin
* * * *
Art By Kelly Denato
* * * *
Willie shifted the bag of bones from one shoulder to the other and stepped across the threshold of the Out Back Bar. The tavern, empty of all but thin slants of afternoon light, yawned at him, indifferent to his need. Flush with anger at the sting of Dixon's last words, Willie flexed his free hand and thought about smashing it into Dix's pale, crafty face.
"You're fired!” Dix's words rattled like nails in a can. Even if he had cause, and Willie admitted that there might be cause, Dix shouldn't have called him out in front of the carny crew. In front of Queenie.
Rubbing his thumb over his lips, Willie scanned the booths and small, square tables crowding the faded green linoleum flooring. He stretched one arm, changed his grip on the bones, and straightened the other, considering the game his theft had set in play. Then he shuffled forward, the bag balanced like a giant fist on his back. He clambered up the barstool farthest from the street entrance, heaved his burden forward, and settled it on the ring-stained bar. Splaying his thick hands upon the counter, he leaned toward the row of bottles lining the shelf and sniffed the boozy air. Inside the sack, the bones sighed.
"Bartender!"
Beyond a row of hanging beads that served as a partition, a door creaked. Willie saw the man's back first, then the bald spot on top of his head, and finally his pockmarked face. The man staggered to the right a few steps, then to the left. Muscles straining, he grunted, hefted a small keg onto the counter, and wiped his hands on a towel.
"What'll it be then, little man?” he said.
"Watch your mouth, Gargantua.” Willie knelt on the stool. Balancing his weight on his elbows, he eyed the array of taps behind the bar. Bud. Bud Lite. Some damn microbrew. Harp.
The bartender balled his hands on his hips and nodded at the bag. “Got a pot of gold in there?"
"I'm not a leprechaun, you dope.” Willie jingled the coins in his pocket against the cell phone nesting there. He wondered if Queenie had read his text message yet.
"Could have fooled me.” The man stared at Willie's gold- and green-striped vest, the green knee pants, the square black felt hat. He'd left without changing his costume. One more thing Dix wouldn't be happy about. Willie took off the hat and set it on the bag.
"Just bring me a friggin’ beer,” he said.
"Cops'll be around about seven.” The bartender slapped at the bones with his towel. “What's in the bag, mate?"
Willie sighed. He had an hour, maybe an hour and a half, before he'd have to find a place to spend the night. Some spot where no one would ask him about the pygmy skeleton, the carnival's best drawing card, a genuine archeological specimen from the land down under. Willie patted the heavy blue denim laundry bag and thought about leverage. He smiled. “Let's just say this bag is my get-out-of-jail-free card."
"Well, may the luck of the Irish be with you.” Hiccuping with laughter, the bartender polished a shot glass and held it up to the light.
"Screw you,” Willie replied, draining his mug and fingering the rest of the change stacked in front of him. “Set me up again."
* * * *
Dixon Stout topped off the tank of his truck, hung up the nozzle, and counted the vehicles in the caravan, each one bearing the red-and-white-checked name AJEDREZ. He nodded at the carnies gathered in small knots, smoking and joking as they threw furtive glances his way. Everyone accounted for minus one. Good riddance to that big-headed, flat-faced, lying, thieving dwarf, Willie Stamford Connelly. “He's run his last con in my show,” Dix muttered, shaking off the squeegee and scraping it over the windshield as he side-stepped around the truck hood. “Passing himself off as a professional actor when anyone could see he was only a dwarf and no Hervé Villechaize shouting “De plane, de plane” to Mr. Roark on Fantasy Island."
"What'd you say, honey?” Dix's wife leaned out the driver's side window.
"Nothing, Queenie. Get me some money, will you?” Dix said. “And make sure King Kardu's resting comfortable. They're expecting a genuine unblemished skeleton for the Aboriginal exhibit at that church camp in Nashville."
Queenie swung her long legs free and slid out of the driver's seat. Freeing a key from the chain around her neck, she marched to the camper coupled behind the truck and unlocked the door. Inside, a small fan running on generator power whirred as it sprayed cool air across the crowded interior. Using the key, she tapped on the cages holding her collection of exotic snakes. The Burmese python ignored her, but the hooded cobra rose up hissing. Queenie made soothing noises. She paused at the largest box to lift out Verde, her favorite boa constrictor, and ran her hands over his skin. Verde stopped the show every night. She couldn't afford to lose him. Satisfied that her precious reptiles were safe, Queenie bent over and rustled among the storage boxes, searching for the laundry bag. Then she noticed the door of the safe slightly ajar. When her phone jingled, she sat down next to the box holding the Aussie taipan, Matey, and punched up the incoming message.
Dixon had almost reached the Gas Mart when he heard her shout his name.
"Hey, Dix! Hold up, Dixon, stop!” Queenie caught up to him, one tattooed hand clutching at her breasts to keep them from bouncing, the other covering her mouth, trying to take back the truth. “They're gone!"
Dixon put out his hands to stop her from falling. “You lost your snakes?” he said.
"Not the snakes, you numbskull,” Queenie said, recovering her balance and her superiority in one breath. “The money. The bones. King Kardu's bones are gone!"
"Damn that Willie Connelly!” Dixon said, pushing Queenie aside. He headed for the crowd of roustabouts, his right hand curling into a fist. “I'll wring his felonious neck."
* * * *
The wind tossed up grit from the road construction zone along Salem Avenue, scouring Willie's face and neck when he stepped out of the bar. He blinked and shielded his eyes with his hand. Darting between passing cars, the bag bouncing and swaying in their backwash, Willie scanned the sidewalk for familiar faces. He didn't see anyone he knew.
"Hey, leprechaun!” The bartender's shout arrested his steps. A silver Cadillac pealed around Willie's frozen form, the driver showing him the finger as he sped on. Willie jumped to safety in the gutter and looked over his shoulder.
"Forgot something,” the man called, holding the black hat above his head.
Willie waved him off. “Keep it as a souvenir,” he called back, his words swallowed by the traffic sounds. He did a little jig. Just one more thing to piss off Dix. Patting the money folded into the pocket of his vest, he barreled along the sidewalk. The shuttered storefronts, barred with iron grates and wrought-iron fencing, offered no shelter. Checking behind him once more for pursuit, Willie headed for Riverplace, a section of parkland dotted with benches, statues, and grassy areas that stretched along the Miami River from the downtown business district to the support pillars for the interstate that divided the city into east and west. The sloped ground beneath the concrete overpass offered safety and concealment, while the river running below sealed off the northern approach. He could sleep unmolested there. The bones, shy but cunning, clacked like a lobster's claw as he stumbled forward.
* * * *
Dixon nursed his third cup of coffee while Queenie spoke to the crew. He kept circling the problem in his mind. The loss of last week's receipts and the pygmy skeleton meant the carnival, already teetering on the cliff of financial insolvency, couldn't meet payroll or their promise to anchor the festival in Tennessee with a spectacular freak show. Queenie's snakes alone wouldn't draw enough interest to sell out. And the bank expected a payment at the end of the week or Ajedrez would move into receivership. Four days. That's all they had. Dixon cursed Willie again.
"Dix!"
Queenie's shout brought him back to the the task
of finding Willie. She waved off the waitress, slid into the leather booth, and leaned across the table.
"Pull yourself together,” she said.
"How am I going to get the troupe to Nashville?” Dix scrubbed at his forehead, trying to ease the headache that pulsed at his temples.
"Relax,” Queenie said. She lifted one hand and stared at her nails, then wiggled them at Dixon. “I paid for the trip out of the emergency funds."
"What emergency funds?” Dixon looked up and caught Queenie scowling at him.
"Need to know, Dix, need to know. And you don't.” She slapped a piece of paper on the table and tapped it with one long crimson fingernail. “Your job is to find Willie."
"What's this?” Dixon set down his cup. A splash of undiluted joe slopped over the number Queenie had written on the paper.
"Police sergeant in charge of missing persons. Address and phone number. You're going to file a complaint.” She brushed her fingers over her chest and waist, rearranging the scarlet brocade shawl that hugged her figure. “Tell the cops Willie suffers from blackouts. Tell them he's your favorite cousin. Tell them you and the dwarf are lovers. Whatever works. Just do not tell them he stole anything."
"What're you going to do?” Dix asked.
"I'm coming with you.” Queenie paused, staring at the concave reflection of her pinched, painted face in a tarnished teaspoon. “Connelly's on my shit list now."
Dixon swallowed the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth. He picked at his napkin, avoiding Queenie's eyes. “All right, but we'll have to leave the camper here,” he said, already calculating time and distance and parking fees. He eyed his wife, her fingers tapping out a contingency plan on the cracked, red polyurethane surface, and sighed. “And, Queenie, no snakes."
AHMM, May 2011 Page 2
