Her back stiffened visibly. “From a young man I tutored for a while, yes."
I set the sampler down on the desk. “Was this supposed to be a gift for the same student?” I paused. “For Arnold Belmont?"
She looked up at me, her face stretched taut with fear. “Oh, my God—they found me. They sent you to kill me. Please, I'll give it back, every penny of it. And I swear I didn't know what was in the box—I didn't open it until I heard he was dead."
"It's all right.” I sat down on her bed. “I'm not a drug dealer, and I don't work for drug dealers. I'm just a temporary secretary with a husband who reads newspaper stories about local crimes. The symbolism on your sampler helped me see the link with Arnold Belmont. Were you creating a family crest for him?"
She nodded slowly, watching me, probably still not sure if she could trust me. “He didn't like the name ‘Arnold.’ He called it ‘a sissy name.’ I was trying to show him it's a beautiful name, a noble name."
"But he died before you could give it to him,” I said. “Was it like the scene in Godfather II? He came to you one night and gave you something and asked you to keep it for him. He must have feared that his suppliers suspected him of stealing the money. He didn't want them to find it in his possession; he thought he'd be safe that way. But they killed him anyhow."
"He was just nineteen.” A tear started down her cheek, and she rubbed it away. “In so many ways, he was such a nice young man—so respectful, so eager to learn. He didn't mind when I corrected him. He hoped to go to college some day, to change his life. He was eager to embrace the opportunities so many young people despise and resent. He'd never told me what he did for a living, but I suppose I'd always sensed it was something—well. Not quite kosher.” She managed a wry smile. “Even so, I agreed to keep the box. When I heard he was dead, when I opened the box, I had to face the truth."
"And you must have feared that he'd told his killers where the money was before he died,” I said. “You must have feared they'd come looking for you. So you decided to hide in a rehab center while you figured out what to do, and you took your most precious possessions with you in case it never felt safe to go home, in case you decided you had to disappear somehow. Why didn't you go to the police?"
She lifted her shoulders. “I was afraid that they wouldn't believe me, that they'd think that I must be involved in illegal things, too, that they'd think I was Arnold's accomplice. I was afraid they'd arrest me.” She paused. “And I wanted to keep the money. I've worked so hard, I've been treated so unfairly, I've struggled so much—I felt I deserved it. So I used some of it to pay for a two-week stay here. I hid the rest."
She'd chosen her rehab center wisely, I thought—one that promises complete confidentiality, one that doesn't search guests’ belongings when they check in, one that doesn't mind accepting payments in cash. Had Fred suspected that something about Martha was, in her phrase, not quite kosher? Had he been too eager to fill his luxurious rooms to care? “Has someone taken the money, Martha?” I asked.
She looked startled. “No—that is, I haven't checked today, but I don't think so. Why would you ask?"
I gestured toward the recipe file. “It's a large file but contains only a few cards. I thought you might have hidden the money there, and someone might have taken it."
Again, she smiled wryly. “Very observant. Yes, I did keep it there at first. But when Fred searched our rooms the other night, I got nervous. I don't want the money found in my possession—I'd rather risk losing it. So I moved it.” She hesitated, then looked at me directly. “I moved it to a very safe place, Leah. I'm sure it's still there. And there's a lot of it. I'll give you half if you—"
"No,” I said. “A policeman's on his way here. When he arrives, tell him everything."
She let out a sound that was halfway to a sob. “You called a policeman? He's coming to arrest me for keeping the money?"
"Not to arrest you,” I said. “To figure out who tried to kill you."
Before Lieutenant Brock arrived, though, I just about figured it out myself. It had made no sense to me that anyone would want to murder either Brian or Martha—there didn't seem to be a motive. Now that I knew about the money, the motive seemed clear. Someone had found the money, and wanted it, and figured stealing it would be safer if Martha weren't around to report the theft. Of course, she wouldn't have reported it—she'd have been too afraid of getting in trouble herself—but the would-be thief didn't know that. And then Martha prevented the theft by moving the money to a new hiding place, and Brian messed up the murder by drinking Martha's tea. That must be one frustrated wrongdoer, I thought.
But who was it? It might be a guest or staff member I hadn't met. My thoughts, though, focused on our group. Not Felix—he evidently had plenty of money and very few wants. If a new biography of Alex Trebek came out, Felix might be tempted to splurge, but he could manage that without stealing from Martha. And Courtney came from a wealthy family, and Roland probably made more in a week than most people do in a year. But Courtney yearned to pursue a path her family would never support, and Roland had IRS troubles and lavish spending habits. Either might covet a hefty stack of cash. Which one had found it? Which had schemed to steal it?
There was a knock on the door, and I stepped into the hall to talk to Lieutenant Brock. “What's going on?” he said. “I told you to sit tight, not to confront anybody—and I find you holed up with a patient. Is she the one you suspect? You trying to interrogate her all on your own?"
I shook my head. “Martha's not the murderer, Lieutenant. She's the intended victim. Did you find any oleander?"
"Whole bunch of it, right in the courtyard. What do you mean, intended victim?"
"I have things to tell you,” I said. “So does Martha.” I took a deep breath. “And then I think you should talk to someone named Courtney."
* * * *
"So where did Martha hide the money?” Sam asked. “The second time, I mean."
Leah poured lemonade first for Lieutenant Brock, then for herself—Sam had made sweet tea, too, but no one seemed interested. “She hid it in a throw pillow in the Caterpillar Room. I should have known. On my first day at the center, there were two throw pillows on the couch—I mentioned that in my notes. The next day, there were three. You see, after Fred conducted his search, Martha got nervous, took a pillow to her room, and sewed the money into it while pretending to be napping during the free period. Then she put the pillow back where it belonged. I noticed that there were three pillows the next day, but the change didn't really register. And naturally Martha chose a hiding place that let her use her sewing skills. I feel foolish about not making those connections."
"You made plenty of connections,” Brock said. “I still haven't figured out all of them. What made you sure it was Courtney, not Roland?"
"Several things,” Leah said. “Brian accused Courtney of sneaking into Martha's room the night before the search and copying ideas from her recovery journal. I'm sure he was right—Courtney copied ideas from Brian's journal, too, the next night. While she was in Martha's room, Courtney must have looked in the recipe file."
Sam frowned. “Why would she do that?"
"Probably because it looked so out of place. Why would anyone bring recipes to a center where all meals are provided? Felix was looking through the file, too, after Brian got sick—anybody would be curious. Anyway, Courtney saw the money, but she didn't take it right away."
"She took three hundred dollars,” Brock put in. “We found it under her mattress—serial numbers matched ones we had for the drug money. She probably figured that much wouldn't be missed, and she was right. Then, after Roland came to the center, she started itching to take the rest. He told us she flirted with him, talked about going to Hollywood with him when he left the center, having him introduce her to celebrities who need personal assistants. He admitted he encouraged her, also admitted he wasn't especially serious about it—mostly, he was thinking about getting some action to brighten up his days in rehab. Anyway, C
ourtney would need money to keep her going a while once she got to Hollywood. I bet that's when Martha's stash started looking good to her."
"I bet you're right,” Leah said. “So she poisoned Martha's tea the next morning—I hope you can prove that, Lieutenant."
"Well, when I arrested her, she said I couldn't charge her with murdering Brian because she'd never meant to murder him; she'd meant to murder Martha, and Martha was fine. She said it wasn't her fault that Brian drank Martha's tea. Not the world's strongest defense. But now her parents have her lawyered up good—I'm not holding my breath waiting for more confessions. We found a custodian who spotted her clipping oleander, though, and a vase with traces of oleander in the back of her closet—we're getting closer. And maybe you can come up with more evidence, Mrs. Abrams."
"Probably nothing that would stand up in court. There's the fact that she was late to therapy on the day of the poisoning. She said she'd gotten a phone call from her mother—did you check on that?"
"Yup,” Brock said. “Her mother was getting a tummy tuck then, definitely not talking to her daughter. You figure Courtney was late because she'd been searching Martha's room, going nuts when she realized the money was gone?"
"Yes,” Leah said. “She'd definitely want to grab the money before Martha got sick; afterwards, the room would be full of doctors and nurses, and then Fred would lock it to protect Martha's possessions. Also, not everyone would be able to recognize oleander—I can't. But Courtney said her mother ‘dragged’ her to garden shows for years. I bet Courtney learned a lot about plants, just by osmosis. I also bet a jury wouldn't be impressed by that.” Leah smiled ruefully. “They probably also wouldn't be impressed by evidence from Pirkei Avot."
"From Pirkei Avot?"Sam said. “From Sarah's religious school homework? That helped you realize Courtney tried to kill Martha?"
"It did. ‘Flee wrongdoing,’ Rabbi Ben Azzai says. Even minor wrongdoings are dangerous, because ‘one wrongdoing leads to another wrongdoing.’ Not that plagiarism's a minor wrongdoing—it's a serious academic offense—but Courtney's spent years breaking rules and thinking only about what she wants, not about what's right. When the temptation to commit a major wrongdoing came along, she didn't have the character to resist."
"Yeah, character isn't something you develop overnight,” Brock said, “or in six easy steps. Even a sweet tooth isn't easy to overcome quickly—Brian found that out. That reminds me. Did Courtney's arrest get you in trouble at the center?"
Leah sighed. “Fred fired me. And he complained to my agency, saying I'm a meddler who stirs up trouble. He would have preferred to let Courtney get away with murder, I suppose, to protect the center's reputation. Oh, well. There are other temporary agencies. And I've developed reservations about the Cocoon Center. I'm sure some rehab centers do fine work, but Fred's emphasis on quick results, on avoiding unpleasantness—I'm not sure that's the right approach. Human beings aren't caterpillars. Retreating from the world and sealing oneself up in a safe, comfortable place for a short time isn't necessarily the best way of transforming oneself. I wish everyone there the best, though. What about Martha? Will she go to jail for withholding evidence?"
"No chance,” Brock said. “I got no interest in charging her—she basically panicked and blundered into this. And she's cooperating fully now."
"I'm glad,” Leah said, “especially since I think she and Felix may have a future together. Did you notice, Lieutenant? After you arrested Courtney, when we were all in the Caterpillar Room, Felix walked over to Martha and said, ‘I hope you're not real upset, Martha.’ And she said, ‘Thank you, Felix. I'm fine.’”
Leah smiled brightly. The two men stared at each other. “So they made polite chitchat,” Sam said. “So what?"
"Don't you see? He initiated a conversation with her—and he didn't put it in the form of a question. And he made a grammatical error—he modified an adjective with another adjective, not with an adverb—but she didn't correct him.” Leah's eyes got dreamy. “They must be in love."
"Definitely.” Brock covered his mouth with his hand. “Romance is in the air, all right. Now, what you said about one wrongdoing leading to another—I got that. But Roland's an old pro at wrongdoing, too—picking fights, cheating on taxes, speeding. How did you decide Courtney was the murderer, not him?"
"One final piece of evidence,” she said. “Again, nothing you can use in court. On my first day at the center, during the free period, Courtney was reading a well-worn copy of a Sue Grafton novel—a copy of Sue Grafton's very first Kinsey Millhone novel. A Is for Alibi."
Sam breathed in sharply. “You're kidding. A Is for Alibi—oleander poisoning. Courtney even plagiarized her murder method."
"Talk about consistency of character,” Brock said. “Hey, I bet you can get a book out of all this, Mrs. Abrams—something about micro-transgressive behaviors eventuating in macro-transgressive behaviors, maybe. I bet you could find a way to link that to workplace communications."
Leah smiled. “I'm already working on the title,” she said, and poured him more lemonade.
Copyright © 2011 B. K. Stevens
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Mysterious Photgraph: TIME EXPIRED
* * * *
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We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry “May Contest,” and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.
©2011, by Mark F. Russell
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Fiction: BANKASAURUS REX by David Dietrich
I walked into the Haslam Bank and Loan and marched straight for a teller window where a customer had just finished her transaction. The window was at the end of the counter and the two windows beside it were closed, which made it perfect for a private conversation. I was about to speak when the teller beat me to the punch.
"Excuse me, sir, but there is a line,” she said. “You'll have to wait your turn."
She was my mother's age, maybe a bit older, sweet smiles on the outside but tough as nails inside, Texas to the core. The plastic plaque on the counter said her name was bev, which made me think of my mother's best friend when I was growing up. Her name was Beverly. But I digress.
"I was just going to . . .” I began to say, but she shook her head and pointed with a fully outstretched arm and an unusually long index finger toward the line.
"They've been waiting patiently,” said Bev, “and so will you."
It felt like my opportunity to protest had passed, so I hung my head in shame and trudged to the back of the line, catching nasty glances and looks the whole way.
"I can't blame ya for cuttin',” said the crusty old-timer in front of me. He said his name was Clem. He looked like he should be manning the chuck wagon in a John Wayne movie. “Seems all I do these days is wait in line. And for what?"
I took it to be a rhetorical question, but he kept staring at me like he was expecting an answer, so I said, “I know what you mean."
"Yeah,” he said, clearly happy that we were brothers-in-arms in the battle against inefficiency.
After that yeah he paused to take a breath, then launched into a rant that didn't stop even when it was his turn at a teller window. Standing at the window he turned in my direction and continued his discourse from ten feet away until the teller handed back his passbook and sent him on his way. By the time he shuffled out of the bank I knew his positions on gun control, water rights, speed limits, the metric system, and the use of electronic line equipment at Wimbledon.
We waved our goodbyes and as luck would have it, I found myself back at Bev's window.
"Hello,” she said, stretching the last syllable twice around the block, “and welcome back.” I o
pened my mouth to speak, but Bev wasn't finished yet. “We appreciate that you've chosen Haslam Bank and Loan for your personal financial services needs. How may I assist you today?"
I waited to make sure she was really finished before saying, “Give me all the money in your drawer."
Bev cupped her hand around her left ear and said, “Excuse me, son, but did you just ask me to give you all the money in my drawers?"
"No, ma'am,” I clarified. “I said in your drawer. Singular, not plural."
"Good thing, because that would have been rude,” she said, looking simultaneously pleased and disappointed. “So this is a robbery?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Why are you afraid?” she asked. Then she shifted into a low, conspiratorial whisper and asked, “Is someone forcing you to do this?"
She looked around, like she was trying to figure out who in the bank was putting me up to it.
"No, ma'am. I'm here of my own free will."
"Oh,” she said, shaking her head. If her disappointment had begun at Level 5, it was up to Level 8 by now. Were I a guest in her home, her Texas hospitality would still obligate her to make me supper, but there'd be no dessert coming my way. “Get on with it, then."
We stared at each other for a few seconds. Apparently she attended the Clem School of Patience.
"Well, get on with it."
"I already did. It's your turn."
"How's that? You haven't even handed me a note yet."
"I don't have a note. I told you verbally instead of putting it in writing,"
"Verbally? Whole lotta good that does me. How am I ‘sposed to prove to my boss and the po-lice that I really was robbed and that I'm not just an incompetent teller who gave ten thousand dollars to a customer who only wanted to withdraw ten?"
"I don't know. They'll just have to take your word for it."
Bev shook her head and said, “It really is customary to have a note."
"I'm sorry. I'll remember that next time."
"You do that,” said Bev. “This is your first time, I'll bet."
AHMM, May 2011 Page 10
