“Min, I’ve never known you to balance a checkbook-not once in forty years. But have you ever bounced a check?”
“No.”
“Well then? So much for the money-handling problem. What else?”
“There’s more to it than just the checkbook,” Mindy said. “Even though it’s not true, I’m worried that he thinks I married him for his money. When we were engaged, all his friends kept telling him we needed to have a prenup. I told him at the time that I’d be happy to sign one, but he said not to be silly. That he loved me and that whatever he had he was willing to share.”
Up to a point, I thought.
“Okay,” I said. “He treats you like a prisoner in your own home. He checks on your comings and goings. He belittles you. What else?”
“What do you mean?” Mindy asked,
“Has he ever hurt you?”
“He’s hurt my feelings,” she replied.
“Has he ever hit you or hurt you physically?” I insisted.
“Not really.”
“What does that mean?”
“We were cross-country skiing out by Lake Kachess a couple of weeks ago,” she said slowly. “A storm was coming, and I had this terrible feeling that he was going to drive off and leave me out there all alone. That he was going to leave me to freeze lo death.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
“I told him that I’d hurt my ankle and wouldn’t get out of the car.”
An involuntary chill swept up my spine. I had no doubt that some subliminal sense of self-preservation was what had kept Mindy off her skis that day and kept her alive long enough to tell her hair-raising tale to me.
“But he’s never struck you?” I asked. “Bruised you or pushed you around?”
Mindy shook her head. “No,” she said. “Nothing like that.”
But she was wearing a turtlenecked sweater. With long sleeves. I know how domestic violence works. I know how cagey abusers can be in making sure none of the bruising shows. I also know how hard it is for women to admit they’ve been hit. They think that somehow they’ve caused this terrible calamity to befall them, and by admitting what’s happened they’re also confessing their own implicit culpability.
“You need to get out,” I said quietly. “You need to get out now, before it gets worse. Because it will get worse.”
“I can’t,” she said. “I mean, I just barely finished sending the thank you notes for the wedding presents.”
“Screw the wedding presents,” I said. “Don’t let them stand in the way…”
Mindy’s cell phone rang, and she fumbled it out of her pocket. “Hi, hon,” she said too brightly. “Yes. I stopped to grab some lunch. I’ll be home in a few.” She ended the call and then added, “Sorry. I’ve gotta go.” She pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of her wallet and dropped it on the table next to her mostly uneaten salad.
“He’s pulling your leash,” I said. “Bringing you to heel.”
“I know,” she said. “Still, I need to go.” And she left.
I sat there for a few minutes longer before paying the bill and heading home. Earlier that gloomy Saturday morning, when Mindy had called to invite me to a spur-of-the-moment lunch, I had been out in the garage sorting Jimmy’s stuff. It was a task that I had delayed time and again. At first I had put it off because it was too painful. And then I put it off because I was too tired. But now, three years later, it was time. I was planning on doing some traveling this coming summer. That meant I needed to reclaim enough room in the garage to park my shiny new Beetle inside.
But now, burdened with what I’d learned from Mindy, I went back to the task with a heavy heart. Jimmy had bought the small Capitol Hill fixer-upper five years before I met him and had set about transforming it. He had stripped and refurbished the fine old hardwood floors. He had repainted and installed crown moldings everywhere. He had ripped out the old plumbing and cabinets and replaced them with updated plumbing fixtures and cabinets of his own design and making.
When we married, I had sold my downtown condo and moved in with him. Disposing of all his woodworking tools was part of the job ahead of me. Sorting his clothing was another.
My folks had come back to Seattle months after the funeral. My mother had insisted on boxing up Jimmy’s clothing and having my father cart it out to the garage. “It’s part of moving on “ she said. She would have taken it to Goodwill right then, but I told her I wanted to sort through it myself. And I did, want to sort it, that is. The plastic bag containing the tux Jimmy wore at our wedding was the topmost item in the second box I opened. Seeing it was too much. I broke down and cried. Again. But then I steeled myself to the task. I put it in the goodwill pile and went on.
There was nothing James Drury did that he didn’t do right. As I went through his clothing, much of it still in bags fresh from the cleaners, I missed him anew. It wasn’t until after he was gone that I discovered how much he had cared. There were the insurance policies I hadn’t known existed. One meant that the mortgage was now paid in full. Another had left a sizeable enough nest egg that I’d be able to retire from teaching as soon as I was eligible rather than having to work any longer than I wanted to.
And that was exactly the kind of stability I had wanted for Mindy as well. I’d really believed that at last she’d found someone who would truly love her and give her a lasting sense of security. The contrast between my situation and hers was striking-and terribly sad.
So often, anticipating doing something proves to be far worse than simply digging in and doing it. By six o’clock that evening, the job I had put off for years because it was impossible was pretty well done. I had loaded my trash can with as much as it could hold and had a pile of a dozen bulging black plastic trash bags sorted and ready to go to Goodwill. A single call to Don Williams, a shop teacher and fellow faculty member at Franklin High School, had elicited the excited promise that he’d come by the next day with a pickup truck to collect any of the tools I wanted to dispose of. It was as I hung up the phone after talking to Don that I remembered the guns. Not Jimmy’s guns, because he didn’t own any. Larry Harshaw’s guns.
I’d seen them the evening of their engagement party. Larry had been showing me through his spacious house overlooking Elliott Bay in Magnolia, one of Seattle’s fine old neighborhoods. He had led me into his wood-lined study where an extensive collection of weapons was visible in a locked display case. On his desk was a picture frame. Inside it was a letter of appreciation from the National Rifle Association lauding Larry for his many years of loyal membership. It was signed in unwavering penmanship by former NRA president Charlton Heston himself.
Back then I had only just met Larry Harshaw. He was engaged to one of my best friends. I had wanted to make a good impression, so I feigned far more interest in his gun collection than I had felt. Since that night, I’d had no occasion to return to Larry’s study. Now, though, I remembered the ominous presence of all those guns. The likelihood that there were others that I hadn’t seen left me with a terrible sense of dread. What if…?
I grabbed the phone and dialed Mindy’s cell phone. She didn’t answer, and I didn’t leave a message. For the next half-hour I paced around my house, trying to decide what to do. Should I call the cops? And tell them what? That I was afraid something had happened to a friend-that her husband might be trying to do her harm-when I had no proof at all that was the case?
Finally, unable to let it go, I got into my VW and drove there. Like waterfront homes the world over, the front of the house was primarily there for the view. Visitors actually entered the house through a backyard gate that opened on a small alley. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard voices coming from the open door of the garage. Leaving my car door ajar, I stood and listened.
“Come on, Wes,” Mindy was saying. “You’ve got to do better than that. Grab both my upper arms and squeeze as hard as you can. We need bruises-clearly visible bruises. And then backhand me-right on the lip. Fortunately, Larry’s left-h
anded and so are you.”
I cringed when I heard the dull thwack as flesh pounded flesh, but the blow evidently wasn’t enough to satisfy Mindy.
“Again,” she ordered. “You need to draw blood.”
I heard another blow followed by a man’s voice. “Aw, geez. Now I’ve got it all over my shirt.”
“My God, Wes. I never would have thought you’d be so damned squeamish. It’s a good thing you’re not the one who has to pull the trigger. I’ll be sure there’s plenty of my blood on Larry’s shirt, too. Now get the hell out of here. He’s due home in a few minutes. I don’t want you anywhere near here when he shows up.”
“You’re sure this is going to work?”
“Of course, it’s going to work,” Mindy replied. “As soon as the cops come looking for me, I’ll send them straight to Francine. After that load of shit I laid on her this afternoon, it’ll be self-defense for sure.”
Francine! Me! I was the one who’d had a load of shit laid on me. Larry Harshaw wasn’t getting ready to kill Mindy. It was the other way around, and I was going to be a prime witness-for the defense.
For a few seconds, I stood rooted to the spot. Finally I managed to will myself to move. I jumped into the car, slammed the door, started the engine and raced to the bottom of the hill. Afraid Wes might have followed me, I ducked into a driveway two houses up from the intersection. Seconds later the Dodge Ram pickup that had been parked next to the garage came roaring down the hill. The driver paused at the bottom of the alley and seemed to look both ways. I held my breath, but he must not have seen what vehicle I was in when I took off. Or else he didn’t see me parked there. After what seemed like a very long time, he finally pulled into the street and drove off. From where I was, I wasn’t able to make out his license number, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to follow him hoping to get a closer look.
I was getting ready to call 9-1-1 when another car came down the street, signaling to turn into the alley. With a sinking heart, I realized I was looking at the headlights of Larry Harshaw’s Cadillac. I turned the key in the ignition and slammed my VW into reverse. Flashing my headlights on and off, I followed Larry up the hill. He stopped halfway to the top and got out of the car.
“Can I help you?” he called back to me. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes,” I said. “Something’s terribly wrong. It’s Francine, Francine Drury. I’ve got to talk to you, Larry. It’s important.”
“Well, come on up to the house,” he said. “We can talk there.”
“No,” I said desperately. “We can’t go to the house.”
“Why not? What’s wrong? Has something happened to Mindy? My God, is she all right?”
“You’ve got to listen to me, Larry. Mindy’s fine, but she’s got a boyfriend. They’re planning to kill you and make it look like self-defense. I heard the two of them talking about it just now.”
“Kill me?” Larry said. “Are you kidding? Mindy loves me, and she wouldn’t hurt a flea. That’s the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. Where did you come up with such an outrageous idea? You haven’t been drinking, have you, Francine?”
“Of course I haven’t been drinking,” I said. “I was standing outside the gate. I heard them talking inside the garage-Mindy and somebody named Wes.”
“Wes Noonan, no doubt,” Larry said confidently. “I’ll have you know Wes is a very good friend of mine. I’m sure all of this is just some silly misunderstanding. Come on up to the house now, Francine. We’ll talk this over, have a drink or two and a good laugh besides when we finally get to the bottom of whatever’s going on.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said?” I insisted desperately. “Mindy’s going to kill you and try to make it look like you attacked her.”
“She’ll do no such thing,” Larry Harshaw told me. “Now come on. It’s starting to rain. I have no intention of standing here, getting wet and arguing about this. Are you coming or not?”
“Not,” I said. “But please don’t go.”
“I’m going,” he said. And he did.
I scrambled into my car, grabbed my cell phone, and dialed 9-1-1. “Washington State Patrol,” a voice said. “What is the nature of your emergency?”
“My name’s Francine Drury,” I said. “I’m on Magnolia, in Seattle. And someone’s about to be murdered.”
I was still on the phone, giving them Mindy’s address, when I heard the distinctive pop, pop of gunfire. There was a pause and then a third pop. “Oh, my God!” I exclaimed into the phone. “Please hurry. She already did it. She shot him. Send an ambulance, too!”
I stood there shaking, leaning against the roof of my Beetle for support as two blue police cars and an ambulance, lights flashing and sirens blaring, went screaming up the hill past me. I’ve never felt more useless. If only I could have made him believe me…
A third cop car pulled up behind me and a uniformed officer stepped out. “Ms. Drury?” he asked. “Are you the one who placed the first 9-1-1 call?”
“Yes,” I managed. “Yes, I am.” Then I burst into tears. “It’s all my fault,” I blubbered. “I heard her say she was going to kill him. I tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen to me, and now he’s dead.”
Something came in over the officer’s radio. I heard a garbled voice, but I couldn’t make out the words. “Sit down, please,” the officer urged me. “Let me get you some water.”
I did. I was too weak to object or do anything other than what I’d been told. I sat where he told me. There were other people on the street now, streaming out of neighboring houses, trying to figure out what had happened and what was going on.
Moments later the ambulance came roaring back down the hill. The onlookers parted to let it through.
“That’s the male vic,” the officer explained, handing me a bottle of water. His name tag said he was Sergeant Lowrey. “She winged him. Superficial wound to the shoulder. They’re taking him to Harborview. He’s going to be fine.”
“And Mindy?” I asked. “What about her?”
Sergeant Lowrey took out a small notebook. “That’s her name? Mindy what?”
“Mindy Harshaw,” I answered. “What about her?” Lowrey shook his head. “When it didn’t turn out the way she expected, she turned the gun on herself.”
“You mean she’s gone?” I stammered. “She’s dead?” Sergeant Lowrey nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he answered. “I hope she wasn’t a friend of yours.”
“I thought she was,” I said quietly, fighting back more tears.
“But I guess she wasn’t anymore.”
Dangerous Women - Penzler, Otto Ed v1.rtf
SOFT SPOT
IAN RANKIN
M
ost evenings, Dennis Henshall took his work home with him.
Not that anyone knew. He reckoned most of his fellow prison warders wouldn’t care one way or the other. As far as they were concerned, Dennis was a bit on the odd side anyway, sitting most of the day in his office, poring over correspondence, ruler and razor blade at the ready. He had to be careful with those blades: one of the rules of the job. Kept them under lock and key, away from deft fingers. Each morning, he would unlock his desk drawer and count them, then remove one, only ever the one. When that got blunt, he’d take it home with him, dump it in the kitchen bin. The desk drawer back in his office stayed locked the rest of the day, and mostly his door was kept locked, too, except when he was inside. A two-minute break to go pee, still he locked the door behind him, the blade back in its drawer, that drawer locked, too. You could never be too careful.
His filing cabinet was secured with a vertical metal bar connecting all four drawer handles. The first time the Governor had visited, he’d made no comment about this added precaution, but hadn’t been able to stop himself glancing over at the tall green cabinet throughout his conversation with Dennis.
The other warders, they reckoned Dennis was hiding stuff; porn mags and whiskey. Hid himself in his office, one hand around the bottle neck, the othe
r busy in his trousers. He did little to dispel the myth, quite liked the fact that this other life was being invented for him. In point of fact, the cabinet contained nothing but alphabetized correspondence: letters connecting inmates to their friends and loved ones on the outside. These were the letters that had been deemed UTF: Unable to Forward. A letter could be deemed UTF if it gave away too much information about prison routine, or if it seemed threatening. Swearing and sexual content were fine, but most letters remained coy, once it was realized that Dennis, as prison censor, would be reading any correspondence first.
This was his job, and he carried out the work diligently. His ruler would underline a contentious sentence, and he would get to work with the razor blade. Excised sections were kept in the filing cabinet, glued to a sheet of stationery with typed comments including date, the inmate’s identity, and reason for excision. Each morning a fresh delivery of mail awaited him; every afternoon, he checked the outgoing post. These envelopes were prestamped and addressed, but not stuck down until Dennis had authorized their contents.
He opened incoming mail with a wooden letter opener he’d bought from a curio shop on Cockburn Street. It was African, the handle carved to resemble an elongated head. This, too, he kept locked away whenever he vacated his office. His room hadn’t always been an office. He guessed it had started life as some sort of store. Maybe eight feet square, with two small, barred windows high up on one wall. There were metal pipes in the corner opposite the filing cabinet, and sounds from outside seemed to travel through them: distorted voices, barked orders, clanging and rattling. Dennis had taped a couple of posters to his walls. One showed the somber emptiness of Glencoe - a place he’d never been, despite regular promises to himself - while the other was a photograph of one of the East Neuk’s fishing villages, taken from the harbor wall. Dennis liked them both equally. Staring at one or the other, he could transport himself to Highland wilderness or coastal haven, providing the briefest of respites from the sounds and smells of HMP Edinburgh.
Dangerous Women Page 21
