The Mystery Megapack: 25 Modern and Classic Mystery Stories

by Talley, Marcia

  I looked at my watch. How soon could I leave without Mom calling me rude? Whatever the time, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

  * * * *

  Two Saturdays later Hanukkah was set to begin, and once again, I had to deal with my family. Mom demanded we celebrate the first night at my place this year, which was unusual. Since Dad was the only real Jewish person in our immediate family—Becca and I had been raised Presbyterian, like Mom, but with a fine appreciation for the gift-oriented Jewish holidays—we always celebrated the first night of Hanukkah at Mom and Dad’s. Odder still was Mom’s insistence on coming over early in the afternoon. Hanukkah didn’t start until sundown, and I couldn’t imagine Mom really wanted to hang out for several hours in my rented townhouse in my “bad” neighborhood.

  Still, shortly after lunch, Mom and Dad arrived. Mom made a beeline for my Christmas tree. She stood silent, arms folded, studying it. I had just strung up the colored lights and a few glittering ornaments the night before. It looked great.

  “Honestly, Gwen,” Mom finally said. “Why must you pick the scruffiest, most pathetic tree every year? It’s like you try to embarrass me.” She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains closed so the neighbors wouldn’t have to suffer seeing my tree.

  Stung, I went downstairs to take some deep breaths and dig out my menorah. I found no leftover candles. Fabulous! I could escape to the market to buy a box. I’d need two candles for tonight, three for tomorrow, and so on for the eight nights of Hanukkah. I always liked saying the prayers and lighting the candles. It made me feel peaceful.

  Focusing on staying calm, I returned to the living room, and my eyes nearly bugged out. Mom was directing two delivery men to move my love seat to a corner and set a big box in its place.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Surprise!” Mom waved her hand at the box like the girls from The Price is Right do. “Happy Hanukkah.” She nodded at the workmen, and they pulled apart the box to reveal … oh my Lord. A treadmill. “It’s for snowy days when you can’t get to the gym this winter,” she said.

  I felt a major migraine coming on, and I never got migraines.

  I stood dumbfounded while the workmen set up the treadmill. I still hadn’t said a word by the time they left.

  “Don’t give me that look, Gwen,” Mom said. “Once I saw that sweat suit on you, I knew you wouldn’t wear it out of the house. Now you have no excuse not to put it on. Come, Henry, let’s go home and give Gwen a chance to try out her present.”

  “What?” I shook my head. “What about lighting the candles tonight?”

  Mom scrunched her eyebrows, confused. “We’re not actually going to do that here, Gwen. We’ll light the candles at home, as always. I’ll expect you before sundown.” She pushed Dad toward the door, then turned to look at the treadmill. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”

  * * * *

  The next night, after lighting the candles at home, I thought back to Thanksgiving and realized I now had something family-oriented to be thankful for. I wouldn’t have to see Mom or Becca for three whole weeks, when we’d all have Christmas Eve dinner at Becca’s.

  I had twenty-one blissful, family-free days to look forward to. Happy, I wrote some holiday cards to old friends while a batch of sugar cookies baked in the oven.

  My happiness didn’t last long. The next morning, Mom showed up at my school. She’d never expressed any interest in my job before. I had just finished meeting with a parent and was showing her out when Mom practically swaggered into the school office.

  “Gwen,” she interrupted. “I have the most fantastic news!”

  Please be moving to Florida.

  Mom looked around until she was sure she had the attention of the secretaries, my vice-principal, and a student who was in the room, as well as the departing parent and myself. Then she clapped her hands together. “Your brother-in-law, the doctor,” she said, emphasizing the word, like I didn’t know Joe’s profession, “has been chosen to play a very prominent rebel in the next Patriots’ Day re-enactment.”

  Wow. I had grown up in nearby Lexington, home of the American Revolution, and its Patriots’ Day re-enactment each April was a big deal around here. Being asked to play any important position was a great honor for Joe, who deserved it both for being a nice guy and for putting up with my sister.

  Everyone oohed and ahhed appropriately. Mom beamed.

  “Your sister certainly hit the jackpot with her husband,” she said, picking lint off my suit jacket. “It’s such a shame you don’t have a man in your life, darling. Or any prospects. Maybe if you actually used that treadmill …”

  I looked for a hole in the floor to crawl into.

  “Anyway,” Mom continued. “Becca is planning a family celebration at her home Friday night at eight. You’re expected to attend.”

  With a quick nod, Mom walked out. Everyone in the office turned away, embarrassed, and I felt something in me break.

  It was one thing for Mom to belittle me in front of friends and family. That I’d grown used to. But now she’d polluted my work environment. Undermined my authority. And thrown Becca in my face. Again.

  Escaping my colleagues’ pitying glances, I went to my private office and paced.

  Becca always got everything, yet she was such a witch. Joe and my nephew, Charlie, would be so much better off without her.

  And Mom. She claimed to love me, but she only really loved herself—and Becca.

  In a flash, a plan unfolded in my mind. So simple. I could kill both birds with one stone.

  Well … I wouldn’t actually kill them both.

  * * * *

  As soon as school let out that afternoon, I headed over to Becca’s. I gushed over Joe’s news and the tasteful, all-white Christmas lights they had strung up outside. (I always liked the multi-colored ones myself.) Then I suggested Becca model the suede coat Mom had bought her for Hanukkah. On her way to the closet, Becca made a snide comment about my treadmill. I let it go—and swiped her spare house key.

  A little later I drove to the hospital where Joe works for advice on what to get Becca for Christmas. In the few minutes he could spare to chat, Joe left his office twice to deal with patient issues. As I’d hoped. He was only gone a minute or so each time, but long enough for me to find his prescription pad and rip off a sheet. On the way out of the hospital, I passed a drug cart helpfully left alone in a hallway. I swiped some random pills and hurried out. That evening, I had a copy of Becca’s house key made. Everything was falling into place.

  When school let out the next afternoon, I returned to Becca’s. I knew the house would be empty, Charlie with his nanny at a Mommy and Me class, Joe at work, and Becca out playing mahjong. I wiped down her key and put it back. Then I went into her study, got on the Internet, and ordered some OxyContin using Becca’s email and credit card number (so helpful that Joe filed all the bills neatly in a desk cabinet). Then I faxed in my fake prescription. My handwriting didn’t look anything like Joe’s, but that didn’t matter. What was important was my handwriting looked like Becca’s.

  Come Friday morning, I called in sick. But I was actually feeling giddy. Knowing Joe was at work and Charlie would be at the park with the nanny, I phoned Becca and told her about great Christmas sales going on at Macy’s and Lord and Taylor. She actually thanked me and raced out.

  I headed over to her house, parking down the street so the neighbors wouldn’t notice my car, and let myself in. While I waited for the drugs (I paid extra for delivery by 11 a.m.), I played around in Becca’s cabinets, switching salt for sugar, that type of thing. When my package finally came, I shoved the receipt in the back of a drawer and went home, only to return a few hours later for Joe’s dinner.

  I felt a little bad about ruining his celebration, but it couldn’t be helped. It was especially nice that Mom had invited one of her friends from the National Heritage Museum to dinner at Becca’s to show Joe off. Now I’d have a witness to the tension between Mom and Becca. />
  Priceless is the best way to describe everyone’s faces, especially Mom’s, as they tasted the supposedly sweet and sour chicken that was actually salty and bitter. Becca’s mouth hung open. She’d always prided herself on being the perfect cook and hostess.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what went wrong. Please have more of the salad and rolls.” She hurried into the kitchen to try to pull something else together. Mom followed her.

  “If you didn’t have time to cook a proper dinner, Becca, you should have told me,” Mom said in her usual whisper that could be heard in the next township. “You’ve embarrassed me. I typically count on Gwen for that.”

  Before Becca could defend herself, Mom emerged from the kitchen, a tight smile on her face. “Madeline,” she nodded to her friend. “Why don’t we go out for a proper meal? It’s on us, of course.”

  In seconds Mom, Dad, and Madeline headed for the door, while Becca shot daggers from her eyes at Mom’s back. I was so happy, Mom’s jab at me hardly registered.

  I went home soon after, singing “Jingle Bells” and feeling quite merry indeed.

  * * * *

  On Sunday, the first flurries of the season came. I watched them happily through the window at a cute café near my townhouse where I was having lunch with Aunt Lynn, Dad’s sister. I waited for her to mention Becca, and when she finally did, I said, “Mom’s being so hard on Becca since she put on those ten pounds.”

  “What ten pounds? The girl’s a stick.”

  “I know. You certainly can’t tell by looking at her. But you know Mom.”

  Aunt Lynn did know Mom, very well. (It’s why she made plans with other relatives every Thanksgiving.) She shook her head, the tiny diamonds on the Jewish star around her neck sparkling in the light. “That woman. One day someone’s going to put her in her place.”

  “I’m surprised Becca didn’t tell Mom off herself. I guess she’s too embarrassed about the weight gain. I don’t think she’s confided in anyone but the two of us. So don’t say anything.”

  Aunt Lynn crossed her heart. I knew I could count on her keeping her word. Well, at least until the police came asking.

  * * * *

  Finally, Christmas Eve day came. I headed over to Becca’s shortly after breakfast. I knew she and Joe planned to take Charlie to the mall for a final chance to see Santa before the line got too long. They’d actually given their nanny a couple days off.

  I also knew that this afternoon Becca would make lemon torte, Mom’s favorite, for dessert. Wearing gloves, I opened the pantry, and into each of the ingredients, I mixed some of the stolen pills and OxyContin. I didn’t know what the pills would do, but I figured the OxyContin would kill Mom, and if she suffered from the other ground-up medicines, all the better.

  And—the topper—Becca would be blamed. Her inevitable refusal to eat the high-calorie dessert, coupled with the OxyContin billed to her credit card, would guarantee it, just in case the police had any doubt.

  I spent the afternoon watching It’s a Wonderful Life. As it ended, I became melancholy. Was I being too hard on Mom and Becca? Heading to the kitchen for brownies to help me think, I stubbed my toe on the damn treadmill. All the anger and memories flooded back. No, I wasn’t being too hard on them. Not by a long shot. They had brought this on themselves.

  I arrived a little later at Becca’s, armed with presents, and happily learned Joe had to work tonight in order to get Christmas day off. It would be much better without a doctor in the house. Becca had already fed Charlie and put him to bed. So it was just Mom, Dad, Becca, and me for dinner. Our small, happy family.

  The first two courses went swimmingly for Becca. Mom fawned over her shrimp puff appetizer and declared her main course of leg of lamb with roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus “simply divine.” I was so excited, I helped myself to a couple extra rolls, along with a second helping of potatoes.

  Finally it was time for dessert. Becca emerged from the kitchen with a small lemon torte. Mom narrowed her eyes. “Becca, why is this dish so small? There’s hardly enough for two here, let alone four.”

  “I’m on a diet,” she said. Shocking. “And Dad never eats lemon torte. I figured you and Gwen could share it. Dad and I can have cranberry yogurt.”

  Mom turned to me. “Well, Gwen. I know you never pass up dessert. Hand me your plate.”

  Oh, she so deserved what was coming. “Actually, I’m on a diet, too. You’ll have to enjoy the lemon torte by yourself.”

  “A diet? I had no idea,” Becca said. “And here I baked you a special, extra dessert to make up for that striped monstrosity I gave you for your birthday.” She scurried into the kitchen and reappeared moments later with cranberry yogurt for her and Dad, and a large slice of fudge cake for me. My favorite.

  “You made that?” I asked.

  “Okay, you got me. It took a long time to bake the lemon torte, so I picked this up from that gourmet bakery down on Bedford Street. It’s still good.”

  It looked better than good. “Well, since you went to all that trouble.” I smiled and dug in. Then I leaned back in my chair while I watched Mom eat her dessert with her typical small, dainty bites.

  “Becca, this is wonderful,” Mom said, her face a bit flushed. “But it tastes different than it usually does. Did you change your recipe?”

  “That’s weird,” she said. “I didn’t change a thing. Gwen, how’s your dessert?”

  Now it was my turn to think things were weird. Becca appeared flushed, too. So did Dad. In fact everything seemed blotchy and out of focus. I shook my head, which made things worse. My stomach cramped, my head spun.

  “Gwen,” Becca said, “are you all right?”

  I blinked and tried to answer, but I couldn’t speak. Gasping for breath, I slumped to the floor. I was sweating yet felt so cold.

  “Damn it, Gwen,” I heard Mom say. “I told you to lose weight!” My eyes fluttered open. She was leaning over me. “Becca, call 911.”

  “It’ll be faster if we drive to the hospital,” Becca said. “It’s started to snow. They’re probably busy with accidents.”

  “Henry, go start the car!” Mom yelled.

  “Mom.” Becca knelt beside me as I began to shake. “Grab a blanket from the spare bedroom for Gwen!”

  “Of course.” She ran off.

  Becca shifted closer. “I told a little fib earlier. I bought Mom’s lemon torte from the bakery. I made your dessert from scratch.”

  I opened my eyes wide—the only movement I could make.

  “That’s right, Gwen. I can be crafty, too. Like how I’ve used that video camera you gave me last year. I set it up at first to spy on the nanny. Imagine my surprise these past few weeks, seeing you come and go.” She sighed. “I’ll look at today’s tape next week and discover that you tampered with ingredients in my kitchen this morning. I’ll tearfully hand it over to the cops and let them figure out that you … did yourself in.”

  I began wheezing. Dad ran over and, straining, lifted me up. While he carried me to the door, I saw Becca smile. Then I spied the Christmas gifts I’d put under the tree, and I smiled, too.

  My back-up plan.

  I felt peaceful as I drifted away, thinking of the sweets I’d made Mom and Becca for Christmas.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Barb Goffman is a three-time Agatha Award nominee, including for this story, “The Worst Noel,” which originally appeared in The Gift of Murder anthology (Wolfmont Press 2009). Barb has also been nominated for “Volunteer of the Year” from Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’ and for “Murder at Sleuthfest” from Chesapeake Crimes II. Barb’s stories also have appeared in The Killer Wore Cranberry, Murder to Mil-Spec, the Deadly Ink 2010 Short Story Collection, and Chesapeake Crimes 3. A slightly altered version of “Volunteer of the Year” was published in Magnolia Blossoms and Afternoon Tales. Barb is program chair of the Malice Domestic mystery convention, serves on the national board of Sisters in Crime, and is a past president of the Chesape
ake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. She’s also a co-coordinating editor of two Wildside Press anthologies, including the upcoming Chesapeake Crimes: This Job is Murder. She lives in Virginia with her miracle dog, Scout (a three-time cancer survivor!). Learn more at http://www.barbgoffman.com.

  MR. CLACKWORTHY’S POT OF GOLD, by Christopher B. Booth

  I.

  Although the relaxed posture of his body suggested indolent ease as he reclined in the depths of a luxuriously comfortable, overstuffed chair, Mr. Amos Clackworthy’s shrewd brain was exceedingly active. Between his eyebrows there was a faint frown, and the eyes themselves lacked that whimsical twinkle which so often accompanied the incubation of a scheme, one of those clever ideas of his, calculated to swell the Clackworthy bank balance to the corresponding diminishment of someone else’s.

  The truth of it was that the master confidence man’s mind, while diligently in pursuit of that alluring coinage called “easy money,” was only running around in circles, starting at nowhere and arriving at precisely the same place. Even a master confidence man’s fund of originality must run low at times.

  Occupying his favorite place by the window which looked out upon Sheridan Road, Mr. James Early, otherwise “The Early Bird,” tapped the toes of his shoes soundlessly on the thick nap of the beautiful Chinese rug of blue and gold, woven together in a perfect harmony of shading. For more than an hour he had kept his peace, but not without many anxious glances toward the meditative Mr. Clackworthy.

  “What’s the matter, boss?” he demanded at length. “Ain’tcha able to coax an idear from the ol’ bean? Mebbe if you primed the think-cylinders with a li’le joy-juice now—”

  “It is the weather, James.” The master confidence man sighed in admission of his discouragement. “The heat has gotten next to me, it seems.” His hand reached out and tapped the card-index file, a neat little compartment of exquisitely polished rosewood matching the table; it contained the names of various men well rated financially, selected as future contributors to Mr. Clackworthy’s income. There was an amazing lot of information in those brief notations, intimate data which would have surprised and dumfounded the subjects thereof; their foibles, hobbies, and, not uncommonly, the secret chapters of their lives. The rosewood file was a “prospect list,” a methodical arrangement kept by the man who made the pursuit of easy money a thorough and profitable business.