The Best American Mystery Stories 2014

by Laura Lippman (ed) (epub)

  The criminal trial went quickly. There was too much evidence. Mr. Peter was sentenced to life in prison. There was a civil trial, because he had money and our parents decided his money should be ours. We both testified. I went first. I tried not to look at him, sitting next to his lawyer, the two of them in their blue suits and neat haircuts. My words rotted on my tongue. Carolina testified. Between the two of us, we told as much of the story as we were ever going to tell. When she finished she looked at me, her eyes flashing worriedly. She stared at her hands, fidgeted. The courtroom was quiet, only the occasional shuffling of paper or a body shifting in the gallery. The judge excused her, but Carolina wouldn’t move from the stand. She shook her head and gripped the rail in front of her. Her lower lip trembled and I stood. The judge leaned toward my sister, looked down, then coughed and cleared the courtroom. I went to my sister. I smelled something sharp, her fear, something more. I looked down, saw a wet pattern on her skirt, stretching along her thigh. She had wet herself. She was shaking.

  I took her hand, squeezed. “This is not a problem. We can fix this.”

  “Come with me,” the judge said. We froze. I stood in front of my sister and she buried her face in my back, her trembling arms wrapped around my waist. I did not let her fall. The judge’s face flushed. “Not like that,” he stammered. “There’s a bathroom in my chambers.”

  We followed, warily. In the bathroom Carolina wouldn’t move, wouldn’t speak. I helped her out of her skirt and her underwear. I washed her clean as best I could with dispenser soap and paper towels.

  A while later, a knock, our mother, whispering. “Girls,” she said. “I’ve brought a change of clothes.”

  I opened the door, just a crack. My mother stood in her Sunday suit, a strand of pearls encircling her neck. I reached for the plastic bag, and as she handed it to me, she grabbed my wrist gently.

  “Can I help?”

  I shook my head and pulled away. I closed the door. I dressed my sister. I washed her face. Our foreheads met and I whispered the soft words I give her when she locks up.

  On the drive home, we sat in the back seat. Our parents looked straight ahead. As we turned onto our street, our father cleared his throat and tried to sound happy. “At least this is over.”

  An ugly sound came out of Carolina’s mouth.

  My father gripped the steering wheel tighter.

  The new hotel was much nicer. There was room service and daily maid service and many amenities. While Darryl strutted around their room, Carolina and I sat on my bed, poring over a thick leather portfolio detailing the benefits of the hotel. There was a pool, Jacuzzi, and sauna.

  While we studied the room service menu, I bumped Carolina’s arm gently. “What’s really going on here? No more bullshit.”

  “I just woke up one day and realized we never left that town, and for what?”

  “They have French toast.” I pointed to a bright picture of thick French toast, covered with powdered sugar.

  Carolina reached for her purse and pulled out an envelope, the words DEPARTMENT OF CORRECTIONS in the upper left corner. She smoothed the letter out.

  “No,” I said, but it sounded like three words.

  Her hands shook until she closed her fingers into tight fists. I started reading and then I grabbed the letter and jumped off the bed, kept reading, turned the letter over.

  “Don’t freak out,” Carolina said.

  I kicked the air. I set the letter on the nightstand and started banging my head against the wall until a dull throb shot through the bone of my skull.

  Carolina closed the distance between us and grabbed my shoulders. “Look at me.”

  I bit my lip.

  She shook me, hard. “Look at me.”

  I finally lifted my chin. I have spent the best and worst moments of my life looking my sister in the eye. “You brought us here to hide,” I said. “You should have told me the truth.”

  Carolina leaned down and dried my tears with her hair. She sat next to me and I saw her at eleven years old, throwing herself into the mouth of something terrible so I would not be alone. “This is the truth: he knows my address and he sent this letter and that means he can find us. I don’t want to ever go back there,” she whispered. “I don’t ever want him to find us again.”

  The jury awarded us a lot of money, so much money we would never have to work or want. For a long time we refused to spend it. Every night I went online and checked my account balances and thought, This is what my life was worth.

  My sister and I went to work with Darryl. We sat in the back seat as he drove.

  “You girls are awful quiet,” he said as we pulled up to the airfield.

  I held his gaze in the rearview mirror. I wanted to say something, but my voice locked. Carolina handed him the letter from Mr. Peter. As he read it, Darryl muttered under his breath.

  When he was done, he turned to look at us. “I may not seem like much of a man, but that SOB isn’t gonna hurt you here, and he won’t find you either.”

  He carefully folded the letter and handed it back to Carolina. Right then I knew why she found her way back to him.

  While he worked, my sister and I lay on the runway between two parallel lines of flashing blue lights. The pavement was still warm and the ground held us steady. Our bodies practically glowed.

  Mr. Peter was up for parole because California prisons were overcrowded. Mr. Peter was a changed man. Mr. Peter needed to prove it, and to prove it Mr. Peter needed our help. Mr. Peter found God. Mr. Peter wanted our forgiveness. Mr. Peter needed our forgiveness so he could get parole. Mr. Peter was sorry for every terrible thing he did to us. Mr. Peter couldn’t resist two beautiful little girls. Mr. Peter wanted us so bad he couldn’t help himself. Mr. Peter was an old man now, could never hurt another little girl. Mr. Peter begged for our forgiveness.

  We were young once.

  I was ten and Carolina was eleven. We begged Mr. Peter for everything—food, fresh air, a moment alone with hot water. We begged him for mercy, to give our bodies a break before they were broken completely. He ignored us. We learned to stop begging. He would too.

  Carolina pulled the letter out of her pocket and held the corner to an open flame before tossing the burning letter into the air. The flame burned white. The ashes slowly fell to the ground, drifting onto our clothes, our faces, our deaf ears, our silent tongues.

  MICHELLE BUTLER HALLETT

  Bush-Hammer Finish

  FROM The Fiddlehead

  St. John’s, July 2013

  THE TROUBLE with Paulette, Nish Flannigan decided, reaching for his cufflink: she overreacted. The cufflink had fallen beside the wedding photo of Paulette that Nish kept on his dresser. He studied it: Paulette, filling out a sleeveless beige dress, standing on a wharf between wooden lobster traps, and holding not a bouquet in front of her belly but a red buoy, scarred and beaten. Her red hair tumbled over her freckled shoulders, and her beige high heels stood before her, almost hiding her polished toenails. She’d tucked her chin down and looked up at the photographer, mouth in a smirk, eyes glinting. Mischievous, Nish had called her, wicked.

  A thread dangled from his cuff. Nish turned around, arm stuck out before him, about to call for Paulette’s help. Instead he strode to the adjoining bathroom and hauled open medicine cabinet, cupboards, and drawers, scowling as nail scissors refused to appear. He found them in Paulette’s drawer, hiding beneath a stray panty liner and three bobby pins with long red hairs caught in them. The tiny scissors slipped off Nish’s broad fingers, and he kept missing the thread. He threw the nail scissors at the toilet. They bounced off the raised seat and fell to the floor. The thread, he tore.

  Checking his bow tie in the mirror, he wished he’d not gone bald, not gotten fat, not become so damn vain. He slapped the light switches down and walked to the kitchen, where he poured some malt whisky and raised a cheer to his gala invitation, pinned to the fridge with a magnet. To The Rooms, Alice, to The Rooms.

  Trying not to loom
, Nish smiled at the arts reporter. —It’s always an honor to be nominated for these things. The victory’s in the nomination.

  The arts reporter gazed up, and Nish recalled signing a book for her and suggesting she join one of his workshops, once he got them back on the go. She looked ten years younger than Paulette, midthirties maybe, and dyed blond. She finished asking a question Nish had been expecting.

  He smiled again. —Yes, well, that two former protégés of mine are also nominated only sweetens the evening.

  His two former protégés stood at the far end of the room. About the same size and height, they looked quite comfortable with each other, talking and laughing, looking up at the same moment.

  The reporter cleared her throat and stepped back into Nish’s line of sight. —The Torngat is the Atlantic region’s most prestigious award for writing, and this year the gala’s not only being held in St. John’s, but all three nominees are Newfoundlanders: yourself, of course, Patrick O’Mara, and Paulette Tiller. Do you think—

  —Last time we hosted the Torngat, there wasn’t a single Newfoundlander on the goddamned long list. So I think it’s about time.

  Her polite laugh failed. She’d transferred from Halifax, a city she considered the cultural center of Atlantic Canada, and she found people in St. John’s arrogant: sure, we’ll talk to ya, but don’t think you can get too close. —You’re sixty-two this year, and it’s been eight years since your last book. Is this novel your swan song?

  —God, I hope not.

  —Return of the phoenix?

  Nish waved this idea away.

  —You’ve won a few big awards in your time, the Giller, the GG, and you even came close to the Impac, but you’ve never gotten a Torngat. This is your third nomination. Any thoughts on how this evening might play out?

  The Ceeb exiled you here to punish your incompetence, didn’t they? —No. All I can do is write the best book I can.

  —Thank you, Mr Flannigan.

  —Nish, please.

  She smiled. Friendly Newfoundlanders, my ass.

  Nish watched her navigate the crowd to reach Patrick and Paulette. The reporter’s look and tone as she’d thanked him reminded Nish of the librarian at the Centre for Newfoundland Studies. She’d squinted but kept her face straight when Nish asked to see his own papers and notebooks, donated ten years before. They’re still mine, Nish had explained. I have every right to see them. That had been two years ago, around the time he’d argued with Paulette about her wanting to publish as Paul Tiller. Jesus, Paulette, what are you tryin to prove? This is St. John’s. Everyone knows who you are. She’d done it, though, Paul Tiller, all long hair and lipstick in the author photo.

  She wore a short and sleeveless black dress tonight, showing off her arms and legs. Nish knew the dress, and those ugly flat boots. The expensive clutch beneath her right arm had been a gift from him, but those fancy patterned tights were new. Her hair, pinned up in a chignon, salon-fresh and red to the roots, shone.

  Jesus, Paulette.

  He needed a drink.

  Patrick sipped his ginger ale, and his dark hair fell into his eyes. —No one?

  —Foster care, right? When I was in a home, it was me and half a dozen other kids, most of them already in trouble with the law, and only the one adult home most of the day. Then I lived in a hotel, me and a social worker, so really, who had time to read to me?

  —Spose, girl.

  Paulette smiled, looked at the floor. —I think it’s sweet, a sign you really want to look after someone, if you read aloud to them.

  —My grandfather read me a story every night, guaranteed.

  Paulette glanced at the crowd. —Arts reporter, three o’clock.

  —Where ya goin? You’re nominated for this too.

  —She wants to talk to you.

  —Patrick O’Mara? Hi, I’m from the CBC.

  Paulette smirked into her drink. Patrick’s bad-boy charms were mellowing as he approached forty, but his dark eyes still flashed, and his snug jeans fit well. Many women, and more than a few men, got a bit gooey about the brain when talking with him. This evening, in character, he’d not rented the expected tuxedo. Instead he wore his biker boots, dark jeans, a white silk shirt, and a velvet jacket, black and blue, that made Paulette think of Elizabethan portraits.

  A delicate flush spread over the reporter’s upper chest as she asked Patrick about his stonework: was it just a hobby, or was it serious competition for his writing? Patrick laughed. He then answered what Paulette considered a particularly stunned question about ideas and inspiration by saying he didn’t know what roman à clef meant.

  Frowning at this, the reporter shoved her mic at Paulette’s mouth. —Paulette Tiller—or Paul, I guess—you’re nominated for your first book. Wow. You got your start under Nish Flannigan?

  Swallowing, Paulette tried to avoid memory: Nish on top, insistent, artless. Heave away, me jollies. —I suppose.

  Patrick gestured to Paulette that he’d get them both fresh drinks.

  The reporter’s eyes followed Patrick’s reflection in the glass behind Paulette. —People are calling you a female Patrick O’Mara.

  —What?

  —Shouldn’t you be flattered?

  —For the love of God!

  Paulette strode off. The reporter glared after her.

  Nish, leaning against the bar, half hearing a drunk poet who only ever discussed “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” watched Paulette leave the reporter and watched Patrick smile and accept congratulations from woman after woman. Wondering what Paulette might be overreacting to this time, Nish ordered two drinks and waited.

  —Young fellah Paddy.

  —Nish, how are ya?

  —Here, you take this.

  Patrick accepted the drink, held it up: some fruity cocktail, finished with a maraschino cherry impaled on a little plastic sword, a straw, and a paper umbrella. He said nothing.

  —Balls-out and fuck-black-tie in that fancy jacket, aren’t ya? I read your novel. I recognized the bit where your adolescent protag entraps the pedophile teacher. I think that was the first thing you ever brought to one of my workshops. God, time flies. Remember askin me to blurb your first book?

  Patrick studied Nish’s drink: malt whiskey, neat.

  —I spent the whole night on your manuscript, Paddy. I never told you that. It was like sittin up with a sick child.

  —At least my new one here tonight doesn’t read like I devoured my old notebooks, all my used-up ideas, and then puked up the mess. Be awful if that happened.

  Nish took a good swallow. —You know what your trouble is? You can’t decide. Are you a writer or a rock-breaker? Man up, my son, and figure it out.

  —Yeah, really fuckin dreadful, havin more than one talent. Dunno how I bear it, some days.

  Nish said nothing as he walked away. Patrick knocked back the girly drink—out of spite, he told himself.

  Two men in their fifties, famous Atlantic Canadian writers who’d made the Torngat longlist, jumped in fright at the urinals as Paulette banged the men’s room door off the wall. Staggering, she helped Patrick to a stall. He made it, falling to his knees. Paulette dampened some paper towel and tried to ignore the man on her right as he turned red.

  The man on her left snorted. —O’Mara can’t handle his liquor?

  Paulette nodded at the man’s open fly. —Isn’t that awfully small to be out by itself?

  Hearing the phrase Bitter cunt, Patrick retched.

  Not long after, Paulette helped Patrick get into a cab. He’d slurred when calling for it, then gone quiet. On a summer night like this, west wind stirring the trees and beating off the fog, he’d walk home. Right now, however, he felt quite separate and in some danger, as if he’d been tucked in a glass box and placed on the edge of a deep hole. Despite all his gifts with language, he could not explain this.

  He dug his credit card out of his wallet and handed it to the driver, who told him to put it away for now, because they hadn’t even
left yet.

  Paulette touched Patrick on the shoulder. —What is the matter with you?

  Patrick struggled to get the card in his jacket pocket. —You’re—wait—

  —Shove over.

  Back inside The Rooms, at the upper windows, the arts reporter stood near Nish. Angry with Paulette still, and spying the departure, she’d made sure to bump into Nish and, in her stumble, draw his attention to the scene outside.

  Nish took a sharp breath.

  —Wait.

  Patrick rolled off his bed, got to his feet. Stonework glittered in lamplight, hurting his eyes. He did not remember leaving his lamp on. Nor did he remember placing that big bowl near the bed. Sweaty, not sure if he’d vomit or urinate first, he got to the bathroom.

  Seat’s down. Did I—

  He looked down: fully dressed, boots and all.

  He washed his hands, checked his phone, swished mouthwash to chase off a shocking foulness, and shuffled to the living room. Turned away from him, dozing on the futon, red hair down: Paulette, curled in a tight fetal position, fists near her face. She also wore her clothes from last night. Patrick lifted the blanket on the rocking chair and draped it over Paulette.

  —Jesus! Patrick! I thought you were Nish.

  —Oh, thank you very much.

  She’d rolled over and thrown off the blanket. Perched on the edge of the futon, she took some deep breaths. —What time is it?

  —Just gone six. You know, normally when I bring a beautiful woman home, I expect to find her in the bed with me.

  She rubbed her bare arms. —You’re lucky you fuckin got home. What the hell happened to you last night?

  —I remember you gettin in the cab. Here, you’re frozen.

  Patrick took off his jacket and passed it to her. She tugged it on, relishing warmth and scent. Patrick, picking the blanket up off the floor, muttered about a virus or maybe a migraine, but his head felt fine, which made no sense, because the scattered times he got a migraine . . . He peered at her. —Wait, who won?