He wasn't worried for himself, though. He'd come straight home from the hospital. He had listened to local radio and heard that the bridge had been closed by the accident. He had taken side roads home, but not, of course, Digby Road. If it came to the police suggesting that Lucy and Steve had been involved, he would stare at them in wide-eyed disbelief. Not a chance he would tell them. Not his wife.
Jake shook his head. It would probably never come to that. Steve was well known as a daredevil from his youth. He loved to tell a story from his undergraduate days at St. Lawrence University. After seeing a movie of a mountie and his prisoner shooting rapids in the Canadian wilds, he and a friend drank several pitchers of beer, then tried to shoot the falls on the Oswegatchie River in the middle of town while students lined the bridge egging them on. They wrecked the canoe, almost drowned, and had to be rescued by the police. He had tried to shoot the rapids on the Gallatin River a few years ago in a kayak, had overturned, met a rock with his head, and again had to be rescued by police and ended up in the hospital with a concussion. And then there was the time he went across the river to the Shawangunks to rock climb and tried a climb out of his class, fell a short distance, and broke his arm. This time one could easily speculate that he leaned too far over to look down and lost his balance.
The telephone interrupted his thoughts. It was the police. During the night an officer driving slowly through the Walmart Superstore parking lot at the Hudson Mall had looked at the license plate of Lucy's car, checked his list of stolen cars, and bingo. It had been towed to the police compound, where it could be picked up on Monday upon showing proper identification. Jake thanked the officer and told him they would be by in the morning.
By eleven o'clock, everybody was up and ready for Jake's Sunday breakfast. He had already made his pancake mix and slowly heated up the old soapstone griddle that he and Lucy had bought years ago for a few dollars in an antiques store in West Stockbridge, Massachusetts. Lucy and the girls were finishing up their first heap of pancakes when the phone rang. Jake got up and answered it.
"Hi, Charley . . . What? . . . Good Lord . . . Are you sure it was him? . . . I see . . . Right, just like him . . . Thanks for letting us know, Charley . . . Right, right . . . Okay. Talk to you."
Perfect, he thought. Unplanned, unexpected, just perfect.
Jake turned to expectant looks from Lucy and the girls.
"What is it?” Lucy asked.
"Steve van Schaick,” Jake said, looking directly at Lucy. “He's dead."
She paled. Her eyes widened. “What? How?"
"Drowned, apparently. Or was killed going over the falls. Charley Gentile was out in his backyard and saw the body hung up on a downed tree near his side. He went out and pulled it in. The cops are there now. Charley's sure he went over the falls, ‘cause he was pretty banged up. Broken leg, broken neck. He said the cops seem to think that's what happened. I wouldn't be surprised. He probably got too close to the edge at one of those overlooks and lost his balance. He was always pulling dumb stunts like that."
Lucy's hand had covered her mouth. Her expression was pure shock.
"Anybody want more pancakes?” Jake asked, before reaching down and picking up a piece of sausage and popping it into his mouth.
"More pancakes,” Lucy said, her voice shocked. “A friend is dead and you expect us to go on as if nothing has happened."
The girls looked at their mother, then at Jake, who finished chewing his sausage and swallowing it.
"First, my dear, he was definitely not a friend. A least, not of mine. Second, to be brutally candid, I won't be losing any sleep over Steve's demise."
"Me neither,” Kate said.
"Ditto,” Mimi said.
Jake gave his daughers a surprised look, then smiled, delighted to have unexpected allies.
Lucy, however, was furious. “How dare you,” Lucy said to Kate. “A good man has died. I won't have you talking like that.” She glared at Jake. “You shouldn't say things like that in front of the children."
"He was not a good man,” Jake said evenly, watching Lucy as he spoke. “He was exactly the opposite of a good man. He was a phony, and a chronic womanizer."
"I hated the way he looked at me,” Kate said.
"What do you mean?” her mother asked.
"You know what I mean, Mom. Like he was undressing me with his eyes."
"I don't believe that. You're making it up to side with your father."
Kate got that stubborn look on her face she had inherited from Jake. “I am not. I saw him looking at you that way, too."
"Ditto,” Mimi said.
"Young lady,” Lucy said, “you keep quiet."
"He looked at you that way?” Jake said to Kate, then switched his gaze to Lucy. “And your mother? He looked at your mother that way?"
"Yes,” Kate said. “I couldn't stand to be around him."
"By God,” Jake said, “if I'd known that, I'd have horsewhipped him."
"I don't believe any of this,” Lucy said.
"Lucy,” Jake said, “are you really going to sit there and pretend you didn't know that he was a serial adulterer?"
"What's a serial adulterer?” Mimi asked.
"Ask your sister later,” Jake said.
"Well, he may have had a few flings,” Lucy said.
Jake laughed. “A few? C'mon, Lucy. He was a rabbit. But you know what has always puzzled me? Why any decent, self-respecting woman would have anything to do with that cretin? Doesn't that boggle your mind?"
Flushing deeply, Lucy sat straight in her chair, spine rigid, trying to compose herself. Jake stared at her. Kate and Mimi, aware of tension in the air but uncertain what it might be about, kept looking back and forth between their mother and father.
"Anyway,” Jake said, turning his eyes toward his daughters and smiling warmly, “Steve the slob is no conversation for the breakfast table. Who wants more pancakes?"
"Me."
"Ditto."
"Coming up,” Jake said, and turned toward the stove, then stopped, looked thoughtful. “But I wonder if I should call the cops first."
"Call the police,” Lucy said. “Why?"
"I saw Steve this morning."
Her eyes widened again. “Where?"
"On the jogging path."
"You were jogging this morning?"
"Yes."
"You never jog on Sundays."
"I couldn't sleep last night. All I could think of was Andy. I lay awake for hours staring at the ceiling. Finally I got up and went jogging. Passed Steve on the path. Waved, said hi, that was it. I probably should tell the cops. It might help them figure out what happened. But first—pancakes."
"Yea!” the girls cried.
As Jake headed for the stove, he was conscious that Lucy was staring at him. He glanced at her, then began spooning the batter onto the griddle. When he finished he looked at her again. She was still staring at him, a troubled expression on her face.
"What?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Nothing."
Suspicious, aren't you? But not really sure.
Lucy rose and headed for the back door.
After Jake served the girls their pancakes, he went outside and watched Lucy She had put on knee pads and was weeding. She often weeded when under stress. But as Jake watched she stopped and looked up at the woods that bordered the jogging path, her head cocked to one side, as she did when she was thinking, revealing that sweep of neck once so dear and sweet to Jake but no longer. Perhaps she had heard him step out on the back porch, perhaps she sensed his presence. She half turned and looked behind her and for long seconds they stared at each other. Finally, Jake smiled, not the tender smile family and friends and neighbors knew so well, but that superior little smile of victory reserved for opponents in public-policy debates. Then he turned and went back inside to call the police while Lucy, pale and shaken, stared at the door he had gone through.
Late that week the local paper reported that the medical
examiner had declared Steve's death an accident. Death by misadventure, the local paper called it. The following week the trustees of the Gallatin River Reservation voted at a special meeting to put up fencing on both sides of the river.
Jake had decided that he would have to wait for some time, a good deal of time, but he was already giving serious thought to how he could dispatch Lucy to join Steve and get away with it.
Copyright © 2010 John Buchanan
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Reviews: BLOG BYTES by Bill Crider
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Although the date on this issue of EQMM might say it's March, I returned from the 2009 Bouchercon only a couple of weeks ago. While I was there, I was lucky enough to get to talk to Janet Hutchings, the editor of our favorite magazine. She spent a good bit of her time at the convention recording short stories for future podcasts to be posted on the EQMM site (www.themysteryplace.com/eqmm). As of this writing, two stories have been posted, but I'm sure there will be more by the time you read this. You can use the previous link to locate them, or you can go directly to the podcast page (www.themysteryplace.com/podcasts/mysterypodcasts.aspx). Whichever you choose, you'll be glad you took a look.
And speaking of the Bouchercon, one of the highlights for me was the awards ceremony. The first awards presented were those from the Short Mystery Fiction Society, and Clark Howard, a frequent and popular contributor to these pages received the group's Edward D. Hoch Golden Derringer for Lifetime Achievement in the field of the short story. The award was greeted with a well-deserved standing ovation from the overflow crowd. If you'd like to be a part of the Derringer voting this year, or if you'd just like to participate in an ongoing conversation with short-story readers and writers, you can join the Short Mystery Fiction Society by going to the Yahoo Groups page (groups.yahoo.com) and typing “short mystery fiction” into the search box to locate the group. If you're already a member of a Yahoo Group, you know the deal. After joining, you can choose whether to receive individual e-mails or a digest of about a day's worth of them. It's an interesting group, and yes, I'm a member and have been for several years.
Kaye Barley seemed to be having more fun than just about anyone at Bouchercon. Her blog is Meanderings and Musings (meanderingsandmuses.blogspot.com), of which she says, “The genesis [of the blog] was a love of books; mystery and crime fiction in particular. While we'll ramble down a lot of different paths, our heart and soul will remain quite firmly planted in the mystery community.” Besides her excellent Bouchercon report, filled with pictures of just about everybody who was there (except me), you'll find book giveaways, lots of guest blogs by crime and mystery writers from all over, and, of course, a few meanderings and musings. Check it out.
Copyright © 2010 Bill Crider
Bill Crider's own peculiar blog can be found at billcrider.blogspot.com.
[Back to Table of Contents]
Department of First Stories: CLEANING UP by Steven Steinbock
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Steven Steinbock has done several interviews for EQMM,including 2004's Stephen King pieces. He is also a well-known mystery reviewer and critic. His primary occupation, however, is that of religious educator. He's a teacher and the author of several books in the field, and will soon be receiving an honorary doctorate from Hebrew Union College.
Cora Lewis chewed her lip and clenched at the cotton afghan that lay on her lap in a disordered heap. On the end table beside her, a plate held a jumble of orange peels and a kitchen knife. Over the drone of the local news coming from the television set she could hear the clop-clop of her sister-in-law's shoes before she saw her coming up the walk. She let out a slight, nasal grunt and bit on her lip again.
Frances was going to kill her. Cora knew it. She was certain of it. If she didn't do something about it, it would be just a matter of time.
Fran was out of sight now. She must have climbed up the steps to the landing, but from where Cora was sitting, by the living room window, the stoop was invisible.
The television weatherman was explaining warm and cold fronts that would bring thunderstorms by evening. That was all Cora needed. To be stuck in the dark with no television and who knew what kind of crazies prowling about. Instinctively she reached for the knife, dislodging some of the orange peels, and pressed it into the side of her cushion.
What was taking her so long? What does it take, even for an eighty-three- year-old woman, to walk up a few steps and open a door? Not that Cora could take the steps any longer. The arthritis had her nearly crippled, but Frances didn't seem to care. No, Frances moved about like a cat on fire. So what was keeping her?
As she heard the key in the lock she gave a shudder.
"Hello-o,” came a singsong voice from the hall.
"In here. I hope your shoes are clean. Did you wipe them?"
"Yes, Cora. I'll take them off if you like."
"Never mind. Of all people, I don't have to worry about you getting the floor dirty."
"What do you mean by that, Cora?"
"Nothing."
"You'd think I leave your house in a mess every time I come over, Cora. I—"
"Never mind! I didn't mean anything by it."
Fran entered the living room. She had a supermarket produce bag pulled over her hair, clear plastic with green lettering, forming a makeshift rain bonnet, cotton-gloved hands carrying a brown grocery bag.
A regular bag lady, Cora thought. She let her grip go on her lower lip and began gnawing at her loose bridgework. Why in God's name her sister-in-law couldn't spend the dollar and a half to buy a real rain bonnet was beyond her. It aggravated her to no end. It was idiotic. She knew her brother Harry had done reasonably well with his shop, even if he couldn't keep up with the technology and was forced to sell it after his stroke. That was fifteen years ago. At least Frances had a husband well into her golden years. Cora's husband, Bill, had passed on in ‘76, just shy of his fiftieth birthday, when he tried to pass a freight train at a railroad crossing. A little hasty misjudgment had left Cora a widow for more than half of her life.
Frances was in the kitchen, now. Still wearing her raincoat, she began washing dishes. “I feel bad because you're all alone here all day,” she said. “I just thought you'd appreciate a little company and perhaps some help with the housework. I don't mind a little cleanup. You know me; I like to help out. To do my part. A place for everything."
"And everything in its place. Fine. Now why are you doing my dishes? Are you going to stand there all day in your coat? You look a mess.” She put special emphasis on that last word, knowing it would stick in Fran's craw. “Did you walk all the way here from town?"
Fran took the produce bag from her head and pushed it into her oversized purse, which she set on the floor. “I took the bus and walked the rest of the way. It's not that far. And the streets are nice and clean along that route."
"Enough with the clean, already. And it is far. You could get killed. Did you hear about this pervert who's suffocating people right on the streets? How can you say the streets are clean? And on a night like this you could get hit by lightning. They're talking about a terrible thunderstorm."
As if on cue, there was a flash through the misted windows, followed by a startling peal of thunder. “See? You'll walk through a storm, get hit by lightning, and you're dead.” As if for emphasis, she added, “And I won't go to your funeral."
"Dear, I wouldn't expect you to come to my funeral. Especially with your arthritis.” She pronounced it “arthur-it-is,” which drove Cora crazy.
"Besides,” Frances chuckled, “I wouldn't be there to help you push your wheelchair on the cemetery lawn."
If a stream of toads had cascaded from Frances's mouth, Cora wouldn't have registered more shock. She'd heard her sister-in-law say some stupid things before, but this took the cake.
But Frances Hart took no notice of Cora's reaction. She shook off her coat and stepped into her sister-in-law's living r
oom. The two women were the same age, Fran having just turned eighty-three. But Fran had a youthful energy that gave a lightness to her step, despite the effects of gravity and osteoporosis on her height and posture.
"Cora, let me take the vacuum out for a minute."
"No."
"But you have dust bunnies behind the television set."
"Leave them alone."
Fran pursed her lips in a pout. “Fine,” she said.
Cora mumbled something under her breath.
"What's that?” Fran asked, after hooking her coat in the hall.
"Nothing. I wasn't talking to you.” Cora eyed her sister-in-law with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.
Fran was looking around the living room. No doubt she was inventorying all the furnishings she'd be taking once she had Cora out of the way. “May I switch off the set?” Fran asked, gesturing to the television.
"No. I like having it on. I like knowing what's happening in the world."
"I don't like most programs. It's so much violence and scandal. I enjoy a good clean story."
Cora mumbled a response.
"Pardon?"
"Never mind,” Cora said. And then, for emphasis, she pointed her bent hand to the television. “See there. Nobody is safe. This is the guy I was telling you about who has been killing lowlifes in the street."
Fran looked at the television. “What's ‘fixyation?'” she asked.
"Ass-phyxiation. They choke to death."
"Oh."
"Now they're talking about traffic. More important things, I suppose. Anyhow, it just isn't safe anymore. It's not smart for you to come out here by bus. You'd be a lot smarter to take a cab.” Or better yet, stay home, she thought.
"I couldn't do that, Cora. I like the walk. And I find cabs so filthy."
"Well, if you watched the news or read the papers, you'd know how dangerous it is in the streets."
"That's why I don't like watching the television. I'm going into the kitchen. Can I fix you some tea?"
"I don't drink tea. I get palpitations."
EQMM, March-April 2010 Page 21
