by RABE, JEAN
“The ball . . .” I prompted.
“The ball was glorious! I was thrilled when the prince spoke to me and asked me to dance. We had a wonderful conversation about literature and horses.” For a moment, a smile played on her lips, and she looked stunning. She had a glow of happy beauty that flickered, and then too quickly faded. “You can imagine our surprise when Cindy showed up dressed to the nines, wearing those damn glass slippers and having arrived in a white coach complete with groomsmen and matching white horses. Momma was terrified that she’d gotten to our funds and left us in penury.”
“But it was magic, wasn’t it?” I’d recalled the tale printed in every tabloid.
“Of course magic was involved. But I’m sure it wasn’t a fairy godmother, as she claimed, but rather a very dark form of black magic. Well, you know the story from there. She left that magical slipper, and there was a search by Prince Albert Charming, who was consumed with finding her. Then once found, there was the press storm. Her story—and it is a story, about this godmother and about how cruel we were—was everywhere. We were fearful to go to the eventual wedding, but the Charmings required it. Nevertheless, with the angry mobs outside our home throwing rotten vegetables at us and saying such horrid things, we were sure we’d be killed before the reception. But Cindy kept us safe so that we could be her foil. The worse we looked, the better she was loved, the more opinion and public sympathy were on her side. This past year has taken its toll on us. Momma took a turn for the worse and had to go to a home for the elderly. Cordelia has opted to live out in a shack on our vegetable plot rather than face the angry people in the streets. I stayed here, steeling myself against the hordes and visiting Momma twice a day to be sure she is well taken care of.”
She took a breath, steadied herself, and continued. “One night the prince came here in secret. He told me of how Cindy was acting, of how much money she spent, of how she treated him with disdain now that she had what she wanted—money and power. Albert thinks that she cast some sort of spell on him, a lust and attraction spell, which broke once they married. He had come here looking for understanding, help in dealing with her, but . . .” She smiled, lowering her head. She blushed at using the prince’s first name. “It developed into something quickly, between Albert and me. I’d loved him from the first dance that night at the ball.”
Estelle looked exhausted, and I gently patted her hand.
“So now, Detective, I am to this morning’s events, the big first-year anniversary. It was required that Cordelia and I attend. Cindy saw that the court tailors made us appropriate clothes so that we would stand out horribly.” Estelle lifted the gauzy, sparkly peach finery now with dark stains of the Princess’ blood. She let it drop from her hands in disgust. “I went to the palace early to tell her that Albert and I were in love. I didn’t go there with the intent to kill her. I wanted to bargain with her. I told her that Albert and I’d be happy to carry on in secret, if only she’d let us take proper care of Momma and Cordelia. She could keep her lifestyle and appearances.”
“No one would know?”
Estelle shook her head. “But if Cindy didn’t agree, then Albert would shun her publicly and I’d air all the dirty secrets of her past. She laughed, saying I could have Albert. She had the press on her side. She would manipulate them so that the Charmings were out of power and she was in! She said nasty things about my beloved Albert, mocked what this whole traumatic situation had done to poor Cordelia’s mind, and said she’d see Momma rot in prison before she’d pay a penny for the woman’s care.”
I shook my head in sympathy.
“It was then that I realized the chemise she was putting on cost more than one year of good care for Momma. That’s when I lost it. I picked up one of those damned glass slippers and intended to break it right in front of her. But it was stronger than I thought it would be. I couldn’t break it. So I hit her with it. I swear the slipper hardened in my hand as I beat her senseless with it. It felt as strong as a hammer. I kept striking at that mocking face, that beautiful face that would so twist in cruel joy at causing those I love pain. I just wanted to obliterate it from my sight. I didn’t think of it as killing her, just beating that image away.”
As she told this, Suzie quietly opened the door. In came one of my detectives with several officers. Estelle didn’t notice them, as she continued to relive the moment. I put my finger to my mouth and motioned them to stand along the wall. They waited silently as the murderess described her crime.
“She didn’t really fight back. I mean, at first she seemed to struggle, but then it was as if she was under a spell to give way to me for all the harm her vanity, greed, and cruelty had caused. There was little sound, really. Well, at first she had started to scream, but I cut that off with a blow to her pretty mouth. Soon, she was just gurgling and making sounds that reminded me of Momma beating a bad cut of meat to make it tender.”
Susie suppressed a small sob as Estelle’s voice took on a flat tone. “I don’t know how long it went on, the hitting. It seemed forever. When the heel stuck so badly in her forehead that I couldn’t pull it out, I realized she was dead. I knew if the castle guards caught me I’d not get the chance to explain why it had come to this. I’d never be able to reveal what a wicked woman Cindy really was. I wouldn’t be able to clear Momma’s or Cordelia’s names. So I ran off to Albert through the hidden passage between their rooms. I wanted to see him one last time. I told him what I’d done. I told him that I was coming here to wait for the authorities so I could tell my story. As I took my leave, he kissed me and said he’d picked the wrong Van Schouwen sister that night at the ball. He promised that he’d do all he could to help my family. I know if the truth comes out, if people understand how Momma and Cordelia were victims of Cindy, that he’ll be able to do it more easily.”
Looking up, she finally saw the officers who had come to arrest her. She smiled politely and stood, holding out her arms with her wrists together. “I don’t care what happens to me. Really, I don’t. I’ve known true love with Albert. I’ve done all I can to see my sister and mother are taken care of and their good names vindicated. I regret nothing.”
The officers cuffed her and led her away. I asked them to treat her with respect, and from what I can tell, they have.
That evening the headlines screamed: “Ugly Sister Kills Our Fair Princess.”
However, with a few well-placed tips to some news-men I know, the tide has started to shift, and the headlines are a little different now.
Estelle’s going to trial, and the public is split on what to believe. I think with a handsome, sympathetic prince at her side, a proud, feeble mother telling their story, and the poor, delicate Cordelia on the stand sobbing over past wrongs, the tide will turn wholly in Estelle’s favor.
I can already see it in the tabloids: “Our Fair Princess Really an Evil Witch,” “Cinderella a Real Spinderella,” “Recently Freed Magic Mirror Says None Crueler Then Cinderella.”
While bagged in the evidence locker, the now infamous glass slipper turned to brilliant white sand that reminded me of the sparkling white carriage that carried Cinderella to the fateful ball that night.
As I packed the sand-filled evidence bag for court, I couldn’t help wondering if it was a demon sprite and not a fairy godmother that gave the slippers to Cindy. Maybe the price of her year of glory was that one of those very slippers would claim her life in the end.
And Estelle was just there to complete the spell.
JACK AND THE GENETIC BEANSTALK
Robert E. Vardeman
Robert E. Vardeman has written more than seventy science fiction, fantasy, and mystery novels. His other short stories can be found in the recently published Stories from Desert Bob’s Reptile Ranch, with two dozen short stories collected from the past thirty years. He currently lives in Albuquerque, NM, with two cats, Isotope and X-ray. One of the three of them enjoys the high-tech hobby of geocaching. For more info, check out http://www.CenotaphRoad.com.
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nbsp; “You look lost.” The short, stocky woman pushed back a straw hat and spat out a blade of grass she had been chewing. Her tanned cheeks glowed with health from being outdoors. She was dressed in overalls, with a thin white T-shirt under them and knee-high rubber boots caked with something brown and sticky he was sure could not be mud.
Jack Langmuir marveled at how they were so close to being exact opposites. He towered over her by more than a foot, was gangly, had an unhealthy pallor from spending too much time peering into an LCD screen hooked to his desktop computer, and wore his only business suit. In the heat of the summer day, the tie and jacket were almost too much, but he felt they were his shield against being pushed around. So far, his shield was a failure, and now he was wandering around talking to farmers.
“I’m lost, I suppose,” he said.
“I’m Mary Ellen Benjamin,” she said, thrusting out a callused, dirty hand. He shook it, ignoring how soft his felt in her powerful grip. “I’m head of the livestock research division.”
“Dr. Benjamin?”
“Nobody calls me that, especially my animals, but I do have a Ph.D.” She tugged on a rope and pulled a heifer a few steps closer and threw her arm around the cow’s neck. For a moment, Jack thought she was going to kiss the smelly animal. “This one’s named after my mother. She was head of the genetics department at Stanford. My mother, not the cow.”
“Did you go to school there?”
“Sure did.” Mary Ellen grinned. “All of you computer jocks react the same way.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Disbelief. You don’t think a cow herder can have a fancy-ass degree. I do, and I’m closing in on twenty peer-reviewed publications. That’s why AgriGen Corporation put me in charge of their animal genetics program. I’ve made some decent progress, too.”
“This one of your, uh, experiments?” Jack stared at the brown and white cow with some uneasiness. He had had a pet dog when he was younger, but he hadn’t had contact with animals for almost thirty years. His specialty didn’t require it, and he was just as happy that it didn’t. “Uh, your cow’s looking at me like I was dinner.”
“She’s an herbivore, like all my cattle. Now, I’ve got some hogs, damned smart ones, too, that might consider you a decent meal if you fell into their slop and didn’t get out fast enough.”
“You’re kidding,” Jack said. “You’re pulling the leg of the plant guy.”
“That’s your field?” Mary Ellen released the rope and slid it off the cow’s neck, but the heifer didn’t stray far, content to munch a juicy tuft of nearby grass.
“Plant genetics. Theoretical plant genetics, actually. You were right about what I do. I run computer simulations of altered DNA, and then others test the modifications.” He looked around and gestured. “Around here, I suppose, but nobody in the main building will give me the time of day. I should have let them know I was coming.”
“I got it. You’re theoretical, AgriGen Corporation is empirical. We’re not used to a lot of visitors here,” she said. “Because of the recombinant work, the government makes us keep tighter security than most labs.”
“Well, my coauthor and I are completely theoretical. I mean, we don’t experiment.” Jack found himself getting tongue-tied. The way the cow stared at him was unnerving. “I delivered a paper at the annual conference over in Kansas City and thought I’d hop over here and meet my coauthor.”
“I don’t get into the labs much, but I know most of the researchers. What’s her name?”
“Sarah Stahl.”
“Sarah was my mother’s name, but Stahl?” Mary Ellen pursued her lips, and then shook her head slowly. “Not a name I know. You might try Gary over in plant dynamics, but he’s applied, not theoretical.”
“Gary Foreman? He’s been running some evaluations on my—our—work. Sarah has kept me posted, but stopped sending progress reports before I arrived in KC.”
“What’s she look like? I know more people here by sight than I do by name or even reputation.”
“I don’t know. As I said, I’ve never met her. Truth is, I’ve never even talked to her. We’ve only traded e-mails.”
“I’ll check the roster for you. It’s kept online with the company intranet.” Mary Ellen patted all the pockets on her overalls, and then made a face. “I keep losing my PDA. The director threatened to charge me if I lost another, and it looks like he’s going to have to make good on his threat.”
“Out in the field and all, I can see where you might drop it.” Jack looked across the pasture. “If I dialed your number, you might home in on the ring tone.” He took out his cell phone.
“Never mind,” she said. “Just go back to the main building and tell them I okayed you seeing her. You might have to put up with a security guard shadowing you.”
“Thanks, name dropping seems to work best with bureaucrats. I appreciate your help, since it’ll probably go a long way toward building Sarah’s and my work bond. I’m glad to get my name on any paper with her. She comes up with the damnedest insights, but she’s terrible with the math.”
“And you shine there, huh?”
“I do.” Jack looked around, saw the barn that looked like something out of a Rockwell painting, the pasture with genetically grown grass, all the same height, lush and dense, whitewashed fences dividing the field into neat squares, some filled with grazing cattle but most empty, and the simple paved path that led back to the main building. It was quiet here. He had not realized how noisy it was around him all the time in New York, even in the middle of the night. Always sirens and traffic and the noises of people and airplanes and buildings settling. The quiet here was interrupted only by an occasional lowing from the cattle, and it pressed in on him like some medieval torture device.
“Too quiet, huh? It gets like that for city folks,” Mary Ellen said. “Night would really drive you crazy. We can see the stars. They’re itty-bitty points of light, and the sky’s black, too.”
“You’re making fun of me,” Jack said.
“She likes you,” Mary Ellen said, pointing to her cow. “I can tell. She’s making cow eyes at you.”
Jack looked uncomfortably at the brown-eyed cow, worried she might charge him. The horns had been polled but could still inflict damage with a sudden toss of the head, powered by powerful neck muscles.
“Now, I am funning you,” Mary Ellen said, reaching out and putting her strong hand on his arm. “I’ve got work to do, and maybe I can find where I left that damned PDA. Why don’t you go back to the main building and get authorization to go check with Gary? He’s director of research and sure to know where your coauthor is hiding.”
“Thanks,” Jack said. He gratefully started back down the path toward the building, though he had been shuffled from one secretary to another as if he had been a leper before he decided to strike out on his own and had found the barn.
Jack turned and looked over his shoulder at the woman leading the cow into the barn. For all her outdoorsiness, she was kind of cute. And she had a PhD from Stanford. He laughed ruefully. For someone in her field, that literally meant Piled Higher, Deeper. His own degree in genetic combinatorics from Princeton kept him tied to a computer, running elaborate simulations that too often had nothing to do with the real world. The one in a million successes, though, meant new crops and billions of dollars for AgriGen Corporation.
He entered the main lobby and once more tried to find his collaborator.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Langmuir,” the receptionist said, his fingers at rest after a frantic pounding on the keyboard, “there’s no one named Sarah Stahl working here.”
“We’ve coauthored a half dozen papers. I work for AgriGen Corporation.”
“I see that, sir,” the receptionist said, looking past Jack, as if he might find a security guard to handle this personnel problem. “In our New York office.”
“Dr. Benjamin suggested I talk with Dr. Gary Foreman. Contact him and tell him I’d like to see him.” Jack stepped back a half pace
at the expression on the receptionist’s face.
“He works in a secured area, sir. You don’t have clearance.”
“I know. Dr. Benjamin said I’d need an escort.” The repeated use of Mary Ellen’s name was wearing down the receptionist. He pressed on. “I’m certain Dr. Foreman would see me. He’s conducted several experiments to prove my theoretical DNA recomb—”
“Why don’t you have a seat, sir? I’ll see what I can do.”
Jack considered leaving, but he was getting angry now. They lied to him about Sarah not working here. Every e-mail he received from her came through AgriGen Corp servers. He couldn’t believe someone had hacked into the company computer network just to give him incredible ideas and insights. He sat heavily on an overly hard bench seat and glowered. The receptionist ignored him.
Jack fumbled in his pocket when his cell phone began playing the theme from the old cable rerun favorite “Green Acres.” Jack had keyed his ring tones to different people, and Sarah had suggested this one for her messages.
The screen began showing her painfully slow texting.
“Come on, Sarah, talk to me realtime.” He caught his breath when he made out the message. For once he was glad Sarah had not called. Jack looked up and saw that the receptionist had left his station. The cell phone display brought him to his feet and sent him running out the door toward the barn. As he ran, he veered from the path according to Sarah’s instructions.
Out of breath and not sure he could run another yard, Jack finally saw the security door mounted into a low concrete bunker.
“What’s happened?” he texted back to Sarah.
“Trbl thngs,” came the reply. “B crful uv Frmn.”
Jack hesitated when he put his hand on the cold metal door handle. If Sarah was right, he needed to inform the authorities. Maybe the CDC or Home-land Security.
