The other thing Maggie didn't know was exactly what her son did for a living. But John Franklin Hewitt did.
* * * *
John Franklin Hewitt was a retired architect who served in a volunteer capacity on two separate boards. The one that was nearest and dearest to his heart was the Heritage Property Foundation board, an organization he had founded and which dedicated its resources to the designation and preservation of heritage properties, The other was a royal pain in the ass, but necessary. It was the City Planning Committee, and though it involved a lot of bickering or “persuasive negotiating,” as some liked to call it, at least it kept him informed of any upcoming developments and allowed him some leverage in taking steps to protect any heritage properties that were at risk of being demolished.
The current dispute involved a local dance hall. The Imp, or Imperial Ballroom, hadn't been an actual dance hall for many years, but in its heyday, it was the place to go on Saturday nights, and people still referred to the building as The Imp. John had met his late wife, Hilde, there and they had even held their wedding reception in the hall. It had seen a few incarnations over the years, but now its roof was caving in and it had been declared unsafe. This infuriated John because with the city's endorsement they could. access a heritage grant from the federal government and fix it. The problem was, it sat on a valuable piece of real estate in a very picturesque part of town, overlooking the river. It had been bequeathed for fifty years to the city to use as it pleased, with the one stipulation that no major changes would be made, other than those necessary for its upkeep. The city had fallen short on the upkeep part of the deal, and now the leasehold period had expired and several groups were vying for control of the property.
One was a group of local fishermen, who liked to fish on that particular curve in the river and didn't want any demolition or construction to jeopardize their access. The most powerful group wanted it torn down and a condo complex built on the site, and had offered the city a hefty sum for the land. The city wanted the condo or, more specifically, the income from the sale of the land, and the additional property taxes it would generate. They also couldn't get liability insurance any more, so were anxious to unload it. The neighbors wanted it preserved, and John's group had offered to take on the responsibility provided the city would endorse their grant application. But they were stalling, thanks to the powerful lobby group working for the condo developer.
Heading this group was one Paul Deal.
Everyone in town knew about the battle for the Imp. And that included the entire police department. After some of the public debates that had ended in near riots, it wasn't a big stretch of anyone's imagination to believe that some of the participants on either side were capable of hatching murder plots.
* * * *
At the station, Paul and Simone were separated. Their Miranda rights had been read and Paul put in a call to his lawyer, who was not answering his phone that Sunday due to a ferocious hangover he'd spent the better part of Saturday night earning. When Paul was charged with conspiracy to murder John Franklin Hewitt and another unknown individual on the hearsay of an unidentified witness, he was livid, but without legal representation, he couldn't convince anyone that he should be released on his own recognizance. That had to be determined by a judge, and he would have to wait until the next morning for that to happen. The arresting officer, coincidentally, was an avid fisherman. He convinced the duty sergeant that Paul should be held over until the unidentified witness and second potential victim could be located and placed in protective custody. In the meantime, Paul was incarcerated in a small, smelly cell with a metal slab for a bed and a wailing drunk (who was, unfortunately, not Paul's lawyer) for a neighbor.
Simone was held as a co-conspirator in an almost identical version of his cell in the women's section of the jail, except without anyone occupying the neighboring cells. She had no idea what was going on, and Paul wasn't in a position to tell her, even if he had known. She was dealing with a fierce migraine and an unsympathetic guard, who wouldn't kill the lights. Nor would she give her earplugs to shut out the awful clanging echoes that were reverberating off the steel and concrete structure with alarming frequency, despite the lack of prisoners. There was also a strong smell of disinfectant laced with something else foul that made her gag.
* * * *
The house was strangely silent that night. Maggie assumed that Paul and Simone and the kids had gone out for dinner. Paul usually told Maggie when they would be out for any length of time, but he was likely still mad at her after their last bathtub argument. When the silence continued well into the next morning, she was becoming quite alarmed. On a Monday morning there should be some signs of activity filtering through the walls. She heard nothing. She didn't like Paul, but depended on him for certain things, and he was her son. Hopefully, nothing terrible had happened. She wasn't sure what to do. There wasn't even anyone she could call. Paul was her only real link to the outside world. She had known all of her neighbors once, but a new crop had since moved in. Young families with small children. Nice people, but too busy to bother with some old woman worrying that her son and his family weren't home.
She decided to consult what she had come to think of as her “Bathtub Oracle.” She wasn't sure if this was a good idea—breaking the pattern. She bathed on Saturday nights and this was a Monday. But she was desperate, and ran some water to see if the music started up. When it didn't, she shouted into the tub.
"Hello, are you there? Hello. HELLO!” After a few minutes of shouting she heard the garbled but familiar voice of her spirit friend.
"Maggie, is that you?” It said.
"Yes, Oracle. Thank heavens! I'm so worried. Paul and Simone and the children ... they've all disappeared."
"Maggie. Thank God you're all right. Where in the blazes is your apartment?"
"It's at the back of the house where Paul lives."
"I'm coming over. Stay put."
"You're what...?"
* * * *
Maggie was surprised when she opened the door and found an ordinary person standing there. A man about her age, but who seemed quite fit. He still had all of his hair, though it was completely white. It framed a pleasant face that conveyed a look of pure relief at seeing Maggie Deal alive and well.
When the dust settled, and Maggie heard how Paul and Simone had been arrested, she was shocked, but also amused at the thought of her controlling son and his uptight snooty wife in jail. Over tea and chocolate cake with her nice neighbor, Mr. Hewitt, Maggie heard the whole story about the ancient plumbing in his house, how he had recently installed speakers in his bathroom, his penchant for classical music and for old buildings, and the whole business about The Imp. Maggie remembered it well. She had danced to Benny Goodman music there with Charles, back in the day when things still seemed to make sense. Benny Goodman was “The King of Swing,” and not some hapless rock-'n'-roller who called himself a “Queen.” She was very disappointed that Paul was giving this nice man and his group such a hard time.
She, in turn, told him about her tub and he laughed when she told him about the Oracle, and then she said she felt like an old fool, but he assured her that she was no fool, just lonely.
Then he told her that if she accompanied him to the police station she could help straighten out the whole matter and Paul and Simone would be released.
Maggie thought about that for a minute, then said with a chuckle, “Let's finish our tea and cake first, shall we? They can darn well wait. Paul needs to be taught a lesson. When he comes out, I'll have a word with him about a few things, like your building, and my bathtub. I'm still his mother after all, dammit. If he doesn't listen to me this time, why I'll have him arrested again."
Tea and cake finished, Maggie escorted Mr. Hewitt to the bathroom to show him the bathtub. After some mutual admiration for all things old and well built, Mr. Hewitt escorted Maggie to the police station. Following a short explanation, which prompted a riotous exchange of laughter that bro
ught tears to the eyes of the officer in charge, all charges were dropped and Paul and Simone were released. Mr. Hewitt drove Maggie home. Paul and Simone wouldn't accept Hewitt's offer of a ride and took a cab.
* * * *
To Maggie's delight, the topic of the tub was never raised in the days following Paul's release. But her delight was short-lived. Within a week, Paul had some haulers come in and remove Maggie's tub while she was at the hairdresser's. The delivery truck carrying the new bathtub arrived just as the haulers were pulling away with the old one, destined for the scrap yard. The plumber, an old drinking buddy of Paul's, was already waiting in Maggie's kitchen, sipping on a warm scotch. Paul had apologized for not having ice because his fridge's icemaker was on the blink. With the job completed, they had another scotch and then the plumber left. Paul took a satisfied backward glance at the new tub. He was glad he'd decided on the cheaper model. To hell with her Jacuzzi. This was smaller than her old one since, he reasoned, she was old and shrinking, and likely wouldn't be using it all that long anyway ... at least, that was the hope.
Things had been a bit strained, even without the tension of the tub arguments. Earlier in the week, Maggie had tried talking to Paul about his involvement with the Imp, but he said he didn't want to get into it with her, that things were out of his hands. Now, on the way back home from the hairdresser's, she thought he seemed more cheerful than usual. Maybe the iciness between them was thawing. Then he announced that he had a little surprise for Maggie when she got back home, and without even looking at him, she knew.
The next day, when Simone answered a knock at the front door and saw Maggie standing on the doorstep, it was not completely unexpected. They hadn't heard a word from her since she'd learned the fate of her old tub. Simone braced herself for the worst, pasted on her requisite hollow smile, then said, “Oh. Maggie! Er, how nice. You don't usually come around to the front door."
Maggie was on a mission and couldn't be bothered with useless chitchat. “Is Paul in?” she asked, stepping over the threshold without waiting for an invitation.
Simone's steely demeanor weakened and her voice took on a whiny tone. “I hope you're not here to row with him. I have such a headache. Had it all week. He really only wanted to do what was best for you."
"Row? Not at all, Simone. Is he here? I see his car in the driveway. I have something for him.” She gestured to a small gift-wrapped package she was carrying.
Simone's face softened slightly. “Oh. That is a surprise. Why, it's even sweet. Just a minute, I'll get him. He's been fooling with the fridge. Almost electrocuted himself. He's good at wheeling and dealing, you know, but not so good with things electrical."
"Yes, I know,” Maggie said stonily. “He never picked up any of his father's better skills, it seems."
Simone returned with Paul, who cast a cautious eye in Maggie's direction. “Mother, nice to see you. Simone told me something about a gift. Is that true? You realize that I was right then in getting rid of that old monstrosity of a tub? I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it. You didn't say anything yesterday, but you looked a bit upset, as I kind of suspected you would be. But I was hoping after you'd slept on it—not the tub of course, just the idea, ha, ha—you'd agree that it was a good thing.” He emitted a high-pitched strain of nervous laughter.
Maggie let him squirm for a few seconds, then said, “That's exactly what happened, Paul. Here. Open your present. It's not much, but it means a lot to me. And it's what you deserve, I realize, for everything you've done for me."
Paul felt there was something funny about the way she said “done for me” but then he thought he was perhaps just imagining it. He took the package and unwrapped it, dropping the colorful paper on the floor where he stood. He eyed the object with a look of puzzlement.
"Why mother, it's your grain of rice. Isn't this one of your bingo luck things? Does this mean you're giving up on all that business after the bathtub nonsense?"
"Oh I'm not giving up on it. No. I just thought you should have some of it. Now that it's yours, it should start to work its magic for you."
"You know I don't really believe in that stuff, don't you? But, hey, it's a nice thought. Isn't that a nice thought, Simone?"
"Yes, lovely,” said Simone in a monotone. “I suppose we could find some appropriate place to put it."
Paul placed the small glass container with the tiny grain of rice sealed inside it on the small hallway table.
"Well, Mother, that's very thoughtful of you and I'd like to invite you in for some tea and crackers, but I've got a golf appointment with some city councilors and I really gotta get a move on. And I think Simone probably has a headache."
"Oh, no problem, son. I've got to get back to my place anyway. Got something in the oven. My friend John is coming for dinner. Here, you've dropped the paper. I like to recycle it, you know.” She stooped and carefully picked up the pieces, smoothing them carefully between her fingers. As she rose, her elbow bumped against the hall table, knocking the glass container to the limestone floor, where it shatter-ed, sending the tiny, inscripted rice grain bouncing towards Paul's feet.
"Oh my,” she said, “How clumsy of me. I'm so sorry, Paul. I do hope you'll forgive me."
He shrugged. “Hey, it's no big deal. Don't worry. It's the thought that counts. Simone'll clean it up, won't you dear?"
"Oh yes, it will be my pleasure."
"Well, it's a big deal to me, Paul, and I do worry. But I guess it's like you said ... it's the thought that counts."
"That's the spirit, Mother. I tried to do something right for you and you've done something you felt was right for me."
"Yes, Paul. That is the spirit.” As she turned towards the door she said without a backward glance, “Goodbye, Paul. Goodbye, Simone."
Paul caught a glimpse of her reflection as she moved past the hall mirror. For just a second, he thought he saw a brief flicker of a smile flash across his mother's face, but it could have been just the light playing tricks.
(c) 2007 by Caroline Menzies
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: THE MUMMY by Peter Turnbull
* * * *
Art by Allen Davis
* * * *
Fans of Peter Turnbull's York police series starring DI Hennessey and Sergeant Yellich will be glad to know that they've got not only this new story to add to the series but a novel-length case out from Severn House. Booklist says of the book, entitled Chelsea Smile (May ‘07): “A solid British police procedural with a plot full of unexpected twists and a pair of protagonists who can play in the same league as any of Britain's top cop duos."
The body was found in the shrubs, next to the towpath, beside the York to Hull canal, out in the country, beyond the suburbs where the landscape is flat, and that year, courtesy of a rainy summer, the foliage was lush, lush enough to partially conceal a human corpse. The body in question was wrapped in a heavy-duty plastic sheeting like a rolled-up carpet and had been laid by the canal side, in long grass. It was found by a jogger. He had noticed it rather than found it. It had first caught his eye on the Saturday as he ran past. It was still there on the Sunday, when families walked the towpath. It was there on the Monday and still there on the Tuesday morning. But on the Tuesday evening the man, the jogger, found his thoughts turning on the length of rubber sheeting. It nagged him with a growing realisation that the item in question was just the right length and width to be the grossest form of fly-tipping. The realisation stayed with him, hovering in his mind like an annoying fly which by its noise took up a disproportionate amount of space. So that on the Wednesday he set out on his normal morning run taking with him a pair of gloves and ran until he reached the spot where the roll of plastic lay, slowed to a walk, and finally stood over it, and waited until another jogger going in the opposite direction had passed by. It had not been moved or disturbed in any way since he had first seen it: It was clearly his fate to find out if it contained what he feared it contained. The plastic was old, stiff,
fragile to the touch. He took the edge of the roll and peeled it back
He saw a hand. Human. Male, he thought.
He replaced the plastic, slowly, reverentially, and carried on jogging. There was a phone box on his route, and it was the closest phone to that stretch of the canal that he knew. He ran at a steady pace, until he reached the phone box. The box was occupied by a middle-aged lady, chatting excitedly, and the jogger sat on a dry stone wall until the occupant had finished talking, whereupon she replaced the phone and exited the box, holding the door open for him, saying she was sorry and hoped his call wasn't urgent.
"No urgency at all,” replied the jogger. “No urgency at all."
But he made it a three nines call nonetheless.
* * * *
The towpath was cordoned off with blue-and-white tape, white-shirted constables politely but firmly turned back the joggers, the strolling, the anglers, and the just plain curious. The plastic, once unravelled, revealed the body of a small, finely made middle-aged man, the sort of man who in life would attract nicknames such as Shorty or Half-pint. He was dressed in a heavy winter jacket, heavy woollen trousers, and winter shoes. Yet he looked as though he had died only recently.
Detective Inspector Hennessey stood over the body, pondering it with a police officer's eye for detail. Doctor Louise D'Acre knelt by the body, pondering it with a pathologist's eye, but also searching for detail. Detail of a different sort. Hennessey sought details to answer his question “Who?” Dr. D'Acre sought details to answer her questions “Why?” and “What cause?"
"It's the first time I've ever seen it.” Dr. D'Acre stood. She was a slender woman in her late forties, short cropped hair, just a trace of lipstick, a woman who was growing old gracefully. She turned to Hennessey. Their eyes met, briefly, knowingly, then she turned her head away.
EQMM, December 2007 Page 10
