The World's Finest Mystery...

by Ed Gorman

  "Yes," Henry said, "somebody should."

  * * *

  After dinner that night, Nicky was stretched out on the porch couch, her long legs propped up on a spare chair. Her laptop was balanced on her lap and she worked into the night while he sat across from her in an old easy chair held together by duct tape and old stitches. The chair looked like hell but was more comfortable than anything he and Nicky had back at their Boston condo. As Nicky worked, Roy read through a few days' worth of the Morrill Sun, a free daily newspaper that ran some fun stories, including tales of lost cats, record-size fish caught, and a retiree with too much time on his hands who thought overhead aircraft were spraying the air with experimental chemicals. A much more fun newspaper than either the Boston Globe or the Boston Herald.

  Nicky looked up and said, "Well, hon, something's pulled through. A business appointment, tomorrow night."

  "Where?" he said, putting the newspaper down for a moment.

  "In Maine, about an hour away."

  He frowned and said, "You know I don't like it when you bring work along on our vacation."

  "I know, babe, honest I do," she said. "But the money's good and it won't take long."

  He sighed, listening to the faint thumping noises as moths and other flying bugs battered themselves to death against the screen windows of the porch. Nicky was right; she was always right when it came to her work, and she knew that without his support, the whole thing wouldn't work. Still, it was vacation…

  He had a thought. "All right. But tonight, I need to do something on my own."

  "Oh?" she said, arching an eyebrow. "Going to rendezvous with some lake honey that you keep up here?"

  He smiled at her. God, how he loved this woman. "No, nothing like that. But it's a favor for Henry."

  "Really? Do you need any help?"

  "Nope, but you know what? Maybe tomorrow you could take Muriel for a ride into town. A couple of her sisters are getting together for lunch. Henry mentioned something earlier about how she wants to get out of the house, but Henry doesn't trust his truck to take her into town and back. Says there's not enough room and the ride'd be too bumpy."

  "Oh, I'd love to help Muriel out," she said, hands still on the laptop's keyboard. "But what about tonight? What are you doing for Henry?"

  He opened up the newspaper. "I'll tell you tomorrow."

  She put a whining tone in her voice. "But I want to know now…"

  Roy grinned at her, turned the page. "If I tell you, I'll have to kill you."

  She smirked back at him, returned to her laptop. "Promises, promises."

  * * *

  It was now three A.M. and Roy was in the canoe that came with the cottage, paddling as silently as he could through Marie's Cove. It was a still night and, luckily, there was no moon. The stars were as bright overhead as he could ever remember them, and the lights around the lake were so few that he could easily make out the misty veil of the Milky Way stretching overhead.

  The cottages along the shoreline were quiet, with just a few lights showing. The water was still and silent, and he enjoyed the feel of the paddle slicing through the water. At his feet were a sealed water bag and a black inflatable life vest. Now that he'd been out on the water for a while, his night vision was good, and it only took a few minutes to spot the dock where the three jet skis were moored. The cottage at the other end of the dock was quiet, save for a single porch light.

  He paddled some more into the cove, until he came to a small point of land where an evergreen was growing out over the water. In another minute he had tied off the canoe, and then took off his T-shirt and put on the life vest, which he quickly inflated with a few puffs of air into the tube valve. Then, waterbag in his hand, he quickly slid into the lake.

  The water surprised him. He was expecting it to be teeth-chatteringly cold, but instead, it felt warm. He smiled in the darkness. This could be fun. He paddled slowly, the water bag floating in front of him, listening to the patient sound of the frogs. When he was near the first jet ski, there came a mournful wail from the south end of the lake, a noise that made the back of his neck prickle. A loon, calling out to its mate somewhere in the darkness of the lake waters.

  He got to work on the jet skis, and when he was done he froze, holding onto a dock piling. A male voice was above him, saying, "What the hell?"

  Roy hugged himself against the rough wood, waiting. Another voice joined the first, a female: "What's wrong?"

  "This friggin' beer," he said. "It's empty."

  "Shhh, come on back in, I'll get you another."

  Some low murmurs and giggles, and then Roy swam back out on the lake. Halfway to the canoe he took a few minutes for fun and just rolled on his back, looking up at the night sky. In the space of just a few minutes, he saw two shooting stars and three satellites pass overhead. It felt good to be alive.

  * * *

  The next day Roy was helping Henry rake out pine needles, pine cones, and other sludge that had washed up on the tiny sandy beach. The water was fairly shallow on this part of the lake, and Henry liked to keep the bottom clean, especially for his visiting grandnieces and nephews.

  It was good, solid work, pulling a garden rake across the lake bottom, and then walking over to the shore to drop off the debris. Henry would later rake it into a big pile to be burned in the fall. They both wore knee-high boots, but while Roy had on just a bathing suit, Henry had on his summer work uniform of green chino pants and shirt. Nicky had gone out as well, taking Muriel to town, and Roy had promised a little story about what he had done the previous night when they both had the time.

  He and Henry didn't talk much during the work, which was fine, so Roy was surprised when Henry paused, leaning against his rake, and said, "Can you spare me a couple of minutes, Roy?"

  "Sure," he said. "What's up?"

  Henry wrapped both gnarled hands around the worn wood handle of the rake. "Oh, something, that's for sure. You know about my two boys, don't you? Alex and Andrew."

  "Sure. Andrew's out in Detroit, working for Ford. And Alex is at the papermill in Berlin."

  Henry nodded, looking pleased, as if Roy had just passed an oral exam. He said, "Both are good boys, but… well, Muriel and me, we wonder sometimes about what's inside of 'em."

  "How's that?"

  Henry took a hand off the rake and motioned up to the house. "When they was younger, they loved this place, they really did. They'd come in after Memorial Day and spend the whole summer here, and then they'd cry after Labor Day, wishing they didn't have to leave."

  Roy rubbed at his chin. "Let me guess. They got older, things changed."

  "Yap," and in that one syllable, Roy sensed years of disappointment. "I can't remember the last time Andrew's been here, and Alex, well, to get him and his family here for a weekend takes weeks of planning. All those soccer games, baseball practice, and everything they have to work around. And last year, at Thanksgiving, I mentioned something about leaving this place to the both of 'em after Muriel and I passed on. And you know what I found out?"

  Roy had an excellent idea of what he had found out, but wanted to hear it from Henry directly. "No, I don't."

  Henry leaned into the rake again. "The boys were talking in the kitchen afterwards, like they was twelve or thirteen again. They thought I had been sleeping on the couch, after all that turkey, and they were so excited about this place. But they weren't excited about keeping it, nossir. They were trying to figure out how much money they could make selling it, and how much they would split between the two of them. This house here, which I helped build with my father and his father. Sold, just for money."

  Henry turned away and Roy was sure that the man's eyes were tearing up, so he gave him a few seconds as he raked the sand in the water a few times. Henry spoke up again, his voice softer. "So Muriel and I were thinking. We plan to go to town this week, change our will. We want to leave this place to someone who'll appreciate it, someone who loves it as much as we do. Roy, me and the missus want to
leave this place to you and Nicky when we pass on."

  Roy almost dropped the rake. "Henry, please, you can't—"

  The old man turned, his face a frown. "By God, Roy, I've been an adult for most of this century, so don't you tell me what I can or can't do. You and your wife, you're not gettin' this place this summer, or even the summer after that. But you will get it, because we want you to have it. We know you'll love it as much as we do. You are both good people, real good people. And that's final. You start raising a fuss, then maybe my two boys, they'll think that Muriel and I have lost our minds, and they'll start fighting the will right now. But that won't be right. So you just stay quiet there and say yes, and we'll get back to raking this place. All right?"

  He couldn't help himself, he just started smiling. "Damn it, Henry, yes. That's our answer. And don't be offended, but I hope it's many summers before we end up owning this place."

  "Nope," Henry said, "I won't be insulted."

  Then the noise started again, that grating, whining noise that set his teeth on edge. Roy looked up and the three jet skis were heading out to the lake, the young men whooping it up as they dodged among each other, racing over each other's wakes. Henry murmured something and Roy just watched, seeing the brightly colored watercraft bounce up and down. The noise seemed to be getting louder and louder.

  Even though he was expecting it, Roy flinched when the explosions ripped out, one after another, bam! bam! bam! Henry swore, and they looked on as three plumes of smoke rose up and then quickly dissipated in the lake breeze. All three jet skis had turned turtle, oily wisps of smoke rising up, and Roy noted three life-jackets in the lake, arms waving, some shouts. It looked like all three young men had survived. Oh well.

  "Well," Henry said, looking intently at Roy, "ain't that something?"

  "Sure is," Roy said.

  Henry slogged toward the shore, rake in his hands. "Guess I should do the neighborly thing, call the Marine Patrol. Funny thing is, this'll probably be the first time those boys will be happy to see them. What do you think?"

  Roy sighed with contentment at the scene. "I think you're right, Henry."

  * * *

  Lunch was chicken and goat-cheese sandwiches, and Nicky looked over and said, "Hon, you're the best. Honest to God, you are."

  "What do you mean?" he asked, pouring her a Sam Adams beer.

  "What you did for Henry, that's what," she said.

  He shrugged. "I just did the right thing, helping him rake out the shoreline like that."

  She reached over the table and kissed him. "I wasn't talking about the raking, you silly man. I was talking about the jet skis."

  Roy tried not to smile and failed. "I have no idea what you mean."

  She kissed him again. "You do many things well, but lying to me isn't one of them."

  * * *

  Later that night, after an hour of driving, he and his wife were near the Maine town of Lovell. Nicky had on a pair of black spandex pants, black high-heeled shoes, a white top that exposed her bare midriff, and a short black jacket that seemed to emphasize her chest. He pulled up at the end of the long driveway, noting the large house up on the hill. Lights were on in the farmer's porch, and on little driveway lamps leading all the way up to the entrance. "You're sure this is the place?" he asked.

  "Yep," she said, voice cheery. "The directions were perfect."

  "I guess they were," he said. Roy had on a dirty pair of jeans, worn through at the knees, a Harley-Davidson T-shirt, and a black leather vest. He had slicked back his hair and looked over at his wife, loving her deeply yet hating the fact that she was working on their vacation. It was as if she sensed what was going through his mind and she leaned over and kissed him.

  "It'll be fine, dearest, honest," she said. "I won't be long, and we sure can use the money."

  "You just be careful," Roy said.

  She opened the door, grabbed a small purse. "I always am, lover. I always am."

  She slammed the door and then started walking gracefully up the long driveway, hips swaying, and he watched her until she got up to the porch. Then he started up the Jeep and drove down the road, pulled over, and waited. It was going to be a busy night. He had decided earlier not to tell her about Henry's amazing offer— he wanted to make sure she was focused on her job— but he knew he would tell her later tonight, when things were wrapped up.

  From underneath his seat he pulled out a small flask of Jim Beam, and took a couple of swallows. The strong taste burned at him. He then rolled down the window of the Jeep and lit a cigarette, took a couple of puffs, and then tossed the cigarette out onto the asphalt. From the woods came the sound of an owl, hoo-hoo-hoo, out on a night hunt.

  How appropriate. He reached under the driver's seat again, pulled out a 9mm Smith & Wesson, placed it in his lap. Then he started up the Jeep and made a careful U-turn, and returned to the house.

  * * *

  Roy sped up the driveway, headlights on high. He slammed the brakes to skid to a stop, making enough noise to be heard in the next county. He got out of the Jeep, strode up to the porch, bottle of Jim Beam in one hand, the pistol in the other. He plowed through the door in a matter of seconds and yelled out, "Wife! You damn whore, where the hell are you?"

  Before him was a wide stairway, and off to the left was a room that looked like it would be called a formal dining room. Big polished table, lots of stiff-looking chairs. From upstairs came some noises, and he took the stairs, two steps at a time, and went to the left down a hallway that had paintings hanging on the walls. The murmuring voices got louder. The door at the end of the hallway was nearly closed. He smashed it open with a kick.

  He took in the scene with a practiced eye. The bedroom was about the size of his first apartment after getting out of the army all those years ago. Heavy-looking bureaus on both sides, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, a bed the size of a Buick in the center, with four posts rising toward a chandeliered ceiling. His wife was kneeling on the bed, her eyes wide with shock. She had taken off her pants and top, and had on a skimpy black lace bra and even skimpier panties. A tube of oil was in her hands. Candles had been lit and placed on the nightstands, and in the bed with his wife was an overweight man, maybe late twenties, holding a sheet up to his pink and chubby chest.

  "Oh, babe, please don't overreact, it's not what it looks like," she said, starting to get off the bed.

  In the space of a few quick steps he reached her and slapped at her face, tumbling her to the floor, her long legs tangled in the sheets. She cried out and he yelled, "I know exactly what it looks like, you whore!"

  Then the rage started deep inside of him, at seeing his woman, his wife, the center of his affection and love, almost naked in bed with another man, a complete stranger. He threw the bottle of bourbon at one of the mirrors, cracking it and sending a brown spray of liquid against the wallpapered wall. He jumped on the bed as the fat man tried to scurry away, grabbed at his hair, and pointed the pistol at the smooth forehead.

  On the floor, his wife was weeping, but he stared at the trembling face of the younger man. "How much?" Roy demanded.

  The man stammered. "Wha— wha— what do you mean?"

  Roy popped the end of the pistol barrel against the man's forehead a few times. "How much were you going to pay her, you fat bastard?"

  "One… one thousand dollars…" he said. "Look, I didn't know she was married, honest to God, I just met her over the Internet, it was a straight deal, nothing more, mister, honest, you gotta believe me…"

  Roy turned, his voice still raised in anger. "Is that true, a thousand dollars? Do you have it?"

  She raised her head, the tears making long mascara trails down her cheeks. "Yeah, babe, I got the money, and I—"

  "Shut up," he said. "If I want to know more, I'll ask you." He turned his attention back to the man in the bed, sniffed the air. Jesus, did he ever bathe? He rapped the pistol against the forehead again. "I should shoot you, right here and now. No court in the county would convict me, a
man sleeping with another man's wife. You don't think I'd get away with it?"

  The man seemed to rally a bit. "Murder? You think you can kill me for something like this?"

  Roy laughed hard. "Who said anything about murder? How about this?" Roy slapped the man's face and then grabbed his hand and pulled his arm out. The man yelped, and as Nicky started shrieking, Roy placed the muzzle end of the pistol against the man's right elbow.

  "One squeeze of the trigger, man, one quick squeeze of the trigger and I'll shatter this elbow," Roy snarled. "I don't care how good the hospitals are around here, it'll never be the same. The rest of your life, every time you see the scar and feel the stiffness, every time you try to pick up something and your elbow aches, you'll remember me. You'll remember trying to sleep with another man's wife. You'll always remember."