by Edie Claire
NEVER NECK AT NIAGARA
A Leigh Koslow Short Story
Copyright © 2001 by Edie Claire
Originally published by New American Library, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc. in the anthology AND THE DYING IS EASY: All-New Tales of Summertime Suspense.
Digital edition for PubIt published in 2011 by the author.
This story is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this story may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.
Dedication
For my husband, in honor of our favorite weekend getaway.
***
Up until now, the morning had been almost perfect.
Leigh Koslow had begun her day by gorging on an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet at the hotel (heavy on the bacon and complete with pastries), then atoning for it with an ambitious bike ride. Exercise was ordinarily anathema to her, particularly during a weekend vacation, but for the trail that ran alongside the Niagara River upstream to Fort Erie, she made an exception. She loved Niagara Falls. There was something about the thunder of the rushing water and the coolness of the rising mist that always lifted her spirits—and her energy level. This particular bike trail, with the calm upper Niagara on one side and a spread of spacious, large-windowed homes on the other, was her favorite. The slight grade going up was almost undetectable—even to a biker as out of shape as she was; yet going down, it proved a faithful ally. The mild May weather of southern Canada was divine, the crowds were still sparse, and if she weren't biking alone, life would be perfect.
But it was near perfect. After all, she wasn't really alone. Her new hubby had been at the hotel when she had left, and he would be there, somewhere, when she got back. True, he would be so busy with his convention duties that they would hardly ever see each other, but she had expected that. After all, it wasn't as though this was supposed to be a romantic weekend. It was merely another of the boring political junkets he was frequently attending—it just happened to be one in a location worthy of her tagging along. Since they had returned from a fabulous ten-day honeymoon cruise in the Mediterranean only a few weeks ago, she could hardly complain.
Until just now, that is, when the peculiar noises had awakened her, and she was forced to wonder once again what the heck was wrong with her karma.
Her ride complete, she had loaded her bike onto its rack on the Cavalier (which she'd cleverly parked for free at the nature preserve) then headed off to stake out a place to recuperate. The preserve was gorgeous, and wonderfully peaceful in the off-season. Water from the river had been diverted into a series of greenish-blue lagoons, which wound in picturesque fashion around shady, bridge-connected islands filled with wildlife and secluded footpaths. At the height of summer, this spot would be teeming with extended families from every imaginable culture—or at least those with traveling money. Unfamiliar scents would drift up from the barbecue grills as grandparents rested on blankets and children and teens swarmed over rocks and under waterfalls in the shadow of "no swimming allowed" signs. But on this happy morning, the only other visitors she'd seen were an older couple picnicking and a middle-aged bird watcher with binoculars.
She had headed for the interior of the largest island, and had soon found the ideal spot for some quality meditation. At least, that had been the plan. But once she had settled herself comfortably in the lower limbs of an obligingly built maple tree, sleep had taken over. She was, if not athletic in any way, an expert tree climber, and it wasn't the first time she'd communed with nature above ground. Nodding off in the process was a new twist, but then, she was a newlywed.
How long she'd been dozing when she heard them, she had no idea. But she couldn't have been snoring loudly, or they never would have chosen the location they'd chosen. And they most certainly wouldn't be doing what they sounded like they were doing.
She twisted her head ever so slightly downward, wincing sheepishly as she cast one eye in the direction of the noises. Moans, groans, giggles, and heavy breathing—they were all there. It sounded like two people were a few yards away from her, doing some communing of their own. If she was lucky, there would be enough cover of foliage between her and them that she could get away unnoticed. If not, she at least hoped they were early in the process.
It only took one eye to remind her she wasn't the lucky type. The couple were lying on a large blanket by the base of the tree, and their clothes were not.
She shut her eye tight, wondering briefly if Canada had such a charge as involuntary voyeurism. The situation might be considered amusing—if it were happening to someone else. But all she could feel was mortification, and her options were limited. She couldn't get down without being seen. And if there was one thing worse than spying on two people making love, it had to be explaining why afterward.
The sounds from below escalated, and she grit her teeth. What she really wanted to do was stick her fingers in her ears and hum, but movement was too risky. She wasn't directly above the couple, but any little shift could catch their eyes, which could be staring contentedly upward any moment now.
Finally, the sounds ceased, and Leigh breathed a quiet sigh. For the sake of both her increasingly aching back and her sanity, she could only hope that the twosome had someplace to go—and soon.
"You know, Roger," came a young woman's voice, "I'm not sure it'll be as much fun when we don't have to sneak around."
A man's voice, which sounded at least a decade older, responded sleepily. "Sure it will."
Leigh groaned inwardly. Pillow talk, too?
"Today's the day!" the woman continued, her voice bobbing as if she was up and getting dressed. "You're sure everything's all set?"
The man merely grunted.
"Roger!" the woman chastised, her tone turning sharp. "Don't even think of doing a half-assed job of this. We're not talking about another loaded Nikon here. The consequences—"
"I'm aware of the damned consequences," the man replied peevishly. His voice had also started to jiggle in space, which Leigh hoped meant they were both getting decent again. She allowed both eyes to open.
The man was facing away from her, pulling a pair of khaki shorts over neon-orange boxers. His back and legs were generously covered with dark brown hair, which would have given him a rugged, animalistic look if it weren't for the large bald spot visible on the top of his head. And though he was far from obese, a hefty ring of blubber had settled around his middle, evidently sometime after he had purchased the khaki shorts. "The thing's been planned for months, Ash," he continued, struggling to zip up. "It's set. Now quit harping on it."
"Ash" was quiet for a moment, looking at him. Her generously proportioned body was now covered with a pink halter top and short-shorts that would have been more appropriate on a giddy teen than the savvy twenty-something she appeared to be. "You mean you've been dragging your feet for months," she said accusingly. "And now they're getting cold."
The man groaned. "Don't start that again! If you don't believe me, just wait and watch the papers. Or better yet, get a police scanner. It'll be over by midnight. Make nice entertainment for tomorrow's Maid of the Mist passengers."
"God, you're cold," the woman said playfully, leaning down to fold the blanket.
The man laughed. "Me, cold! Who wanted to make sure she wasn't wearing anything valuable first?"
The blanket hit him square in the face and wrapped partway around his neck. "I'm just
being practical," she answered with a half smile. I'm not married to the bitch."
A stab of pain shot through Leigh's distorted spine, but she barely noticed. The pillow talk—and her stomach—had taken a disturbing turn.
"Not much longer, babe," the man said soothingly, tucking the blanket under one arm and pulling the woman to him. "It'll all be over."
She kissed him, long and lewdly, and Leigh shut her eyes again. After a moment, the woman giggled in a coquettish tone. Evidently she could live up (or down) to her teenybopper outfit whenever she chose. "You really think they'll spot her from Maid of the Mist?"
"Nah," the man said jovially. "By tomorrow dear old Marjory will probably be bobbing around in the whirlpool."
Leigh fought back images of a woman's corpse being sucked under the rough waters that circled downstream from the falls. Surely they were just joking. The two shared another laugh and—from the sound of it—another kiss, as Leigh struggled to keep the bile down in her throat.
Then the woman's voice turned serious again. "Don't mess this up, Roger," she said quietly. "You know I don't like giving ultimatums, but this was the only way. You run the business with me, or there is no business to run. Remember?"
The man answered just as softly, but even with her eyes closed, Leigh could sense a deep anger simmering beneath his words. "I know exactly where things stand," he said slowly. "And you know perfectly well that blowing the whistle now means big money down the drain. Your money."
"Ah," said the woman wistfully, "My money. I like the sound of that."
The two moved off, their words and the woman's giggles being increasingly muffled by both their footfalls and the sudden, stiff breeze. It was safe for Leigh to move now, but for a moment she simply sat, the wind robbing any remaining warmth from her body. The hairs on the back of her neck stood stiffly at attention, and her mouth was so dry her tongue seemed glued in place.
His wife, she thought with grim amazement. He was going to kill his wife. If he didn't, sweet Ash the chameleon was going to blow the whistle on their affair. Then he would be out of business—a business she wanted a piece of.
Grabbing the limb with stiff hands, Leigh relaxed her back and let the rest of her body slip off the branch. She hung only a second to break her fall, then jumped to the ground. Adultery. Extortion. Murder. The last word resonated painfully in her muddled head. She sank down at the base of the tree, careful to avoid the spot with the X-rating, as the conversation repeated itself over and over in her mind. Was someone named Roger really about to kill someone named Marjory, or had she imagined it? Misinterpreted it? Could they have just been joking?
That didn't seem likely.
Her knees knocked as she sat, and a shiver rocked her shoulders. She couldn't just sit here. She had to do something, didn't she?
With difficulty and without a plan, she struggled to her feet and started walking. It didn't matter if they saw her now, she reasoned. They'd have no idea that she had witnessed their conversation, much less their other indiscretion. She would merely be another sightseer.
Her steps quickened, and by the time she reached the path at the edge of the island, she could see them ahead clearly. They were walking arm in arm, the woman alternately laughing and laying her head on his shoulder. As they crossed one of the lagoon bridges and strode towards the almost empty parking lot, Leigh doubled back on the path and walked farther along the island, heading for a different bridge. She had just finished crossing it when the van the two had boarded roared past her on the narrow road.
Jumping quickly to the curb, she strained to read the license plate, but was frustrated to find the numbers a blur—and her driving glasses in the Cavalier. Though she was only mildly near-sighted, license plates traveling at high speeds were beyond her discernment. Fortunately, a bold, black logo on the side of a full-sized passenger van was not. And she now knew what she had to do next.
Pay a little visit to Purple Mist Tours, Inc.
***
Niagara Falls, Canada wasn't a difficult place to navigate in, provided it wasn't a summer evening. Then the streets became so clogged with pedestrians of every shape, size, and nationality that just getting from one light to the next took the nerves of a surgeon. Since Leigh had no such nerves, she was happy for the light crowd, and the fact that Purple Mist Tours, Inc. (whose address was conveniently listed in the phonebook) was right on the main drag. She steered the Cavalier past the horseshoe falls and into the tourist area, past wax museums, haunted houses, and a plethora of souvenir shops, to the relatively plain storefront whose sign read "Purple Mist Tours, Inc./Hot Nails." She parked and walked in.
A narrow staircase ran straight up from the entrance, stenciled letters and a giant arrow on the wall announcing it as the path to Purple Mist Tours, Inc. Those wishing to increase the temperature of their nails, on the other hand, had merely to make a left. Leigh began the climb.
Through another door at the top of the stairs was a dimly lit reception area with a single counter and two uncomfortable-looking chairs. Serviceable quarters for a small tour company, she thought, but they hardly screamed "big money." A hefty woman with long, stringy dark hair smiled at her curiously. "Hello. Can I help you with something?"
"I'm here to see Marjory," she answered simply. She had been hoping that Roger's wife worked in the business, but if not, she figured she could at least wrangle a home phone number. And that, unfortunately, was about as far as she had planned.
The woman's casual smile told Leigh she had gotten lucky. "She's in the back. You a friend of hers?"
Leigh nodded. Given the circumstances, she figured it was a white lie, at most.
"Go on in, then," the woman said cheerfully, opening a gate at the edge of the counter. Leigh thanked her and walked through it to the closed door behind marked "Private." She opened the door hesitantly, rapping on it gently at the same time. "Excuse me? Marjory?"
The door opened on a spacious office that was lavishly decorated in hues of soft ivory, a sharp contrast to the stark reception area. Plush, spotless modern furniture appeared to have come right out of the plastic, and the walls were lined with what looked—to Leigh's admittedly untrained eye—like original artwork. "Yes. Can I help you?" The woman who stood up was every bit as carefully and tastefully put together as the room. Her crisp coral-colored suit was without a crease, her stylishly short hairdo without a single misplaced strand. Coordinated gold jewelry adorned her neck, earlobes, wrists, and fingers, successfully conveying that "have money—will spend" aura that retailers drool over. She was pretty in a stately sort of way, her age betrayed by the prominent crow's-feet that peeked out through her heavy makeup.
"I, um…" Leigh hadn't prepared a speech. Since there wasn't any good way to say what she had to say, she took a deep breath and winged it. "Your husband's name is Roger, right?"
The woman's carefully plucked eyebrows lowered instantly. "Yes. What of it?"
From the look on Marjory's face, Leigh had to wonder if she had encountered many other young women claiming familiarity with her husband. "I don't know him," she said quickly, tensing. "I just overheard something he said this morning, and I thought you ought to know about it."
The woman's calm face broke into a carefully controlled smile. "My dear," she began, "I appreciate your sense of moral righteousness. Really, I do. But what my husband does, and with whom, doesn't concern me in the least."
Leigh tried to keep her jaw from dropping. She knew that women with such attitudes existed, but she'd never met one. She hoped her husband hadn't either.
"Is there anything else?" Marjory asked politely, clearly ready to be relieved of her unwelcome visitor.
"Yes," Leigh exclaimed, flustered. "I didn't come here to tell you your husband was fooling around." He was, of course, but it was hardly the point of her visit. She took another deep breath. "I came here to tell you that I think he's trying to kill you."
The woman's smug features dissolved, and for a brief moment, Leigh could s
ee fear flash across her dark brown eyes. But just as quickly, a look of calm confidence returned. "That's ridiculous," she answered softly. "What exactly did you hear?"
Leigh repeated an edited version of the conversation, and grew increasingly uneasy as she did so. Roger had told Ash that her blowing the whistle now would cost them money, and Leigh had assumed that was because once his wife found out about the affair he would lose his half of the tour business. But given Marjory's liberal attitude toward matrimony, that theory didn't wash. So what exactly was Ash threatening to blow the whistle on? Leigh looked into Marjory's carefully concentrating face. Perhaps Roger had been cheating on his wife in more ways than one. Had he been stealing from his own company? Or was there something shady about Purple Mist Tours in general? And if so, did Marjory even know about it?
The walls of the office seemed suddenly closer, and Leigh's fight or flight mechanism kicked in. If there was something illegal going on with Purple Mist Tours, she had no desire to know about it. Marjory was on her own. "That's all I know, I'm afraid," she said quickly, rising.
Marjory's face went blank, and she sat down heavily in her svelte office chair. The reality of what Leigh was saying appeared to have finally sunk in. "I can't believe this," she said weakly. "I really can't believe it."
"I'm sorry," Leigh offered helplessly.
"We should call the police," Marjory said weakly. "Shouldn't we?"
Leigh nodded. She knew she had to call the police, she just hadn't yet. Warning Marjory had been priority one, and far more effective, because the cops wouldn't do squat anyway. They would simply give her the standard speech about not being able to prosecute people for potential crimes, write up a report to placate her, and send her on her way. And given her well-established rapport with law enforcement officials—or more accurately, lack thereof—she would probably tick them off royally in the process. Nevertheless, they had to be told. If Roger ever did succeed in his quest, the report could be valuable evidence against him.
