EQMM, January 2009

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Work goes okay. Yes, Muller is still around, stroking everyone in sight to make Detachment Commander before retirement to boost his pension payments. He's stroking me too, I guess, as I made sergeant, one of five now in the region and two in Detectives. I wished him Merry Christmas like you said, but he holds grudges, I guess. Don't ask.

  They say there might be a white Christmas here, but nobody's betting on it. Hope so for the kids’ sake. And for your dog. Marta renamed her Harriet and she loves the kids and the snow. I guess you don't have to worry about this boring stuff anymore—kids or dogs or snow.

  I was sure I wrote you about the other stuff, but maybe not. It's been busy. Kettering was busted in a crack house down in the city last July, so high he confessed right away to killing Donna Logan. So you were right. He's got life in Kingston without possible parole for at least twenty. I hope that's closure for you, as they say. What did you see that'll make us heroes? I could use the publicity and a raise with all these kids around. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you guys in paradise from all of us imprisoned here in the north country.

  Steve.

  ©2008 by Dennis Richard Murphy

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Novelette: MOUSE by Caroline Benton

  * * * *

  Art by Laurie Harden

  * * * *

  Here with an evocative Christmas tale is British author Caroline Benton, who was raised in Somerset, England, but moved to France some dozen years ago. There she converted a haunted watermill into a holiday home which she runs together with her partner, while simultaneously pursuing her writing career. Her novel The Path of theDead was published in the United States by Carroll & Graf Publishers in 2006. We have two more of her stories up the pipeline.

  * * * *

  "I'll kill her!” Sally wailed, dabbing carefully at her eyes. “I mean it, Steph. One of these days I'll ... God, look at my face! I can't go back in looking like this."

  "You must.” Her friend passed her another tissue. “Otherwise she'll know she's upset you."

  "Of course she's upset me! You heard what she said—you and the rest of the damned room!” She winced. “I can't believe she put me down like that. Just like last year. I swore then I'd never come again."

  "So why did you?"

  "Pete, of course. He's not going to miss the Morans’ party."

  "You needn't have come."

  "And have him here on his own?” She gave a snort. “Anyway, why should I miss it because of that—that—"

  "Try some soap,” Stephanie said. “Your mascara's run."

  "I wish she would. Run off to Scotland or wherever it is she's spending Christmas and damn well stay there. Better still, get buried by an avalanche. She mightn't be so hot under twenty feet of snow."

  She turned on the gold-plated tap, moistened the tissue, and rubbed it against the soap. It was a highly scented soap, rose pink, lying in a gold-plated shell presided over by a cherub. The guest en suite bathroom had cost the Morans a small fortune. Jilly Moran would have been mortified to know how little the women were noticing.

  "It was snowing when we arrived,” Steph said. “Did you notice? They're forecasting a white Christmas."

  "Great!" Sally scrubbed beneath her eyes. “Last time we had snow the central-heating boiler packed up."

  "Oh, don't be such a pessimist!"

  "Why not? Everything's going wrong. This place was great until she arrived, now look at it."

  "It's not that bad..."

  "Not for you, maybe. Your Ian's got his head screwed on. Pete thinks the sun shines out of her cleavage. He's probably down there now making a complete prat of himself. You know what he's like when he's had a few drinks.” She leaned towards the mirror and started to repair the damage. “Anyway, it beats me what they see in her,” she muttered, liberally applying foundation. “Apart from the boobs. God knows she's nothing special to look at. And she's overweight."

  "Thanks!"

  "What?"

  "She's thinner than me."

  "Oh, you know what I mean."

  Stephanie did. Time for another diet.

  "And as for that stupid name ... Mouse! How'd she get a name like that?"

  Stephanie didn't answer. She was busy frowning at her own reflection. Beside her friend she looked drab and pallid. Perhaps if she coloured her hair...

  "I'll bet she made it up herself,” Sally continued, reaching for the blusher. “To add mystery. Or perhaps her real name's too awful to use—Ethel or Mildred or..."

  "Her initials are G.M.,” Stephanie said. “I saw it on a letter."

  "Like the tomatoes?"

  "What?"

  "You know, the veg and stuff they muck around with..."

  "Genetically modified.” Steph allowed herself a smile. “You're right. I hadn't thought of that."

  "Well, she'll get genetically modified if she puts me down again!” Sally promised. “I'll see to it personally. Anyway, how's that?” She stood back to survey her handiwork. “How do I look?"

  Like you need scraping, Stephanie thought, but settled for a white lie.

  "You look fine. No one will notice."

  "You think?'

  "I think. Now get back in there and rescue your man."

  * * * *

  Jilly Moran saw them come back in. Sally had obviously been crying. Wretched woman, she thought, glaring across at Mouse. She'd deliberately not sent her an invite, intending to claim it had been lost in the post, but Mouse had got wind of the party anyway and collared Dick in the pub. Like Dick was going to tell her she couldn't come!

  He was over there now, along with Pete and several of the other husbands, grinning like an idiot every time she opened her mouth. And she wasn't the only one watching. Laura had been glaring in their direction for the past half-hour, and now Sally was looking daggers.

  Jilly went to the drinks table and poured herself another gin. It was so unfair. She'd spent months planning this party—choosing the food, searching magazines for ideas for decorations, not to mention the endless shopping trips to town—and last night, when she'd hung the final glass ball on the tree and Dick had switched on the lights, she knew it had all been worthwhile. The silver-and-white theme had paid off; her reputation would be upheld. She'd had every reason to believe it would be the best party ever. Yet now...

  "Jilly?"

  She spun around. “Oh, hi, Laura. Everything okay?"

  "Er, not exactly.” Laura bit her lip. “Sorry to be a party-pooper but we're going to call it a day."

  Jilly gaped. “You mean go home? But you can't! It's not even midnight. The party's hardly started—"

  "I know. I'm sorry. But I've got a foul headache. To be honest, I almost didn't come, but I thought maybe once I was here..."

  "Oh, why didn't you say!” Jilly beamed with relief. “I'll fetch you some painkillers. Half an hour and you'll be fine. Once you get dancing..."

  But Laura was shaking her head. “Not tonight, Jilly. Sorry. Anyway, I just wanted to say thanks. Great party."

  Jilly managed a smile. “Well, if you're sure. Let's hope you feel better in the morning. Will, er, Roger be coming back?"

  Laura glanced at her husband, who was waiting morosely by the door, then across at Mouse. “I don't think so, Jilly. Say goodbye to Dick for us."

  * * * *

  Jilly cast an eye over the room, praying the other guests hadn't seen them leave. Early exits had a way of escalating. Damn the woman, she thought, as Mouse's laughter rose above the music. Headache be damned: She knew the true reason behind Laura's early departure.

  It was unthinkable for anyone to leave their parties before midnight. Normally they broke up around three. Most of the guests lived on the estate and could walk to their respective homes, and no driving meant the booze could flow freely. The early hours were always the best time, when people relaxed and inhibitions flew out the window; they'd had some pretty riotous times and no mistake! Not that anyone ever disgraced themselves—she wouldn't st
and for that—but that didn't mean they didn't have fun. And there'd never been any unpleasantness—until last year, when Mouse had made that gibe at Sal.

  At the time she'd blamed it on the drink—Mouse Conniston always knocked it back—though the other three had been less charitable. “She knew what she was doing, all right!” Stephanie had declared the following morning, and the other two Glories had nodded.

  Glories. That's what the four women called themselves. Morning Glories, to be exact, a name coined jokingly by Laura because of their frequent morning coffee get-togethers. They met two or three times a week in each other's homes, to catch up on gossip and sound off about whatever was getting them down, more often than not their husbands. Sal often joked it was what kept them sane. Except recently, what was mostly getting them down was Mouse.

  And now she'd done it again, shown Sally up in front of the guests, and caused another of her friends to leave. Jilly stared at the source of the problem and seethed.

  She had long ago decided Mouse Conniston was bad news—especially as, unlike Sally, she knew exactly what men saw in her. The woman had a spark, an infectious vitality, that set her apart from the crowd and drew men like bees towards honey. She might not be the most beautiful flower in the garden, but there was no denying she had the brightest petals and the most powerful scent.

  She was using it now, pumping out the pheromones, clamped into a red velvet dress that made her look like a stripagram female Santa. Santa Claws—yes, that was a good name. Blood red claws, impeccably manicured, sharpened and ready to sink into someone else's husband.

  Well, not at her party, she didn't!

  She caught Dick's eye and jerked her head for him to join her. He muttered something to the others and ambled across.

  "What's up?"

  "Don't you think you should break that up?"

  "Break what up?"

  "The Mouse Conniston fan club."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake..."

  "Keep your voice down,” Jilly hissed. “I'm serious. The wives are getting miffed. Did you know Laura's gone home?"

  "Yeah, and dragged poor Rog with her."

  "Poor Rog? If he hadn't spent the whole time flirting..."

  "It's a party, Jilly! People are meant to flirt."

  "Not the entire evening!"

  "Oh, for God's sake! Loosen up, will you?"

  Jilly stared after him open-mouthed. What the hell was happening to everyone? Dick never spoke to her like that, never. He was one of the most laid-back people she knew, the big guy with the big heart, mindful of others, always ready with a smile and a cheerful word. When they had arguments it was she who ranted and raved, Dick rarely raised his voice. Just waited until she calmed down, then gave her a big hug, and they invariably ended up laughing. She was the envy of the other Glories in that respect, and Sally often claimed Dick was too good to be true.

  Jilly frowned. Had she taken him too much for granted?

  Her hand tightened on her glass as Mouse's laughter rang out again. More heads were turning. Well, if Dick wouldn't do anything, she would! Fixing a smile on her face, she marched across the room, barged through the husbands, and began to talk to Mouse.

  * * * *

  The Glories had met six years before, when they moved into the newly built Clairbrook estate. A prestigious development (according to the builders) of so-called “elite homes,” the Clairbrook was one of many that, with the never-ending demand for housing, had sprung up on the edge of the small town. It had spread like a virus, engulfing everything that stood in its path, including three Victorian villas that until then had stood in glorious isolation amongst lush pasture and quiet lanes. The owners of the villas, far from happy with the change, had one by one moved out, including, some eighteen months before, the third-generation owners of The Firs. Mouse Conniston had moved in.

  "What's she want a big place like that for?” Sally had asked at the time, at a coffee morning at Jilly's. “How can she afford it with no husband and no job?"

  "How do you know she doesn't have a job?” Laura asked.

  "I can see her drive from the bedroom window. Her car's there during the day."

  "Actually, she works at home,” Stephanie informed them. Her house was next-door. “I saw her last night and she invited me in for a drink. Apparently she designs Web sites."

  "Doesn't everyone!” Sally muttered, pulling a face. “Did she show you any of her work?"

  "She did, as a matter of fact. Looked quite impressive."

  "What about the house?” Jilly asked anxiously.

  "I only saw the kitchen."

  "And?"

  "She's had the whole thing redone. It's stunning."

  "Seriously?" Jilly glanced around at her own, not wanting to be outshone.

  "Seriously. Ask her round for a drink, then she'll invite you back and you can see for yourself."

  So Jilly had. And had quickly come to regret it.

  Almost all the homes on the Clairbrook Estate were owned by couples, most, like the Glories, with children. A single woman was a novelty. But a novelty soon fades when the woman turns out to be flirtatious, charismatic, and predatory. As Sally said a few months later, two and one make three and everyone knows where three in a marriage can lead.

  She said a whole lot more at their first meeting following the party. The runup to Christmas was making mornings impossible, so the Glories had grabbed a quick half-hour at Laura's late in the afternoon. Most of the talk had been about Mouse.

  "Well, I've had her up to here,” Sally declared when the postmortem was over. “She's a total bitch. You need eyes in the back of your head since she arrived. Only the other day...” She broke off, gave a sheepish smile. “No, I'm too ashamed to admit it."

  "Go on!” the others chorused.

  "Well ... it's nothing, really. Just that the other day, when Pete phoned to say he'd be late, I looked out the window to see if her car was still there."

  "Was it?” Laura asked.

  "Yes! But that's not the point. It's the fact that I needed to look. She's caused doubts where before there weren't any, and that's not good."

  "It takes two, Sal,” Stephanie pointed out. “Pete's not that stupid. Why not mention it to him if you're worried and—"

  "Are you crazy? This is Pete we're talking about. Anyway, he'd just tell me I was imagining it.” She frowned. “Like I haven't seen the eye contact that goes on."

  "She brings out the alpha male,” Jilly murmured.

  "Well, she can bring out someone else's! Anyway, it's easy for you, Steph. Ian wasn't following her round with his tongue hanging out. He's the only one of the bunch who seems immune."

  "I wish Roger was,” muttered Laura. “He's still sulking because I dragged him away. It's not like him to sulk."

  "And it's not like Dick to lose his temper,” said Jilly.

  "Dick lost his temper?"

  "This morning. We actually had a row."

  "I rest my case.” Sally folded her arms and sat back in the chair. “Question is, what are we going to do about it?"

  They looked from one to the other.

  "Well, I doubt it would be much use talking to her,” Laura said. “She'd laugh in our faces. Probably believes if we can't hang on to our men it's our own fault."

  "She could be right,” Jilly murmured, but lucky for her the others didn't hear.

  "We could try driving her away.” Sal reached across the table for the chocolates. “Make life so unbearable she leaves of her own accord. Oh, who's pigged all the strawberry creams... ?"

  "I suppose we could ... inconvenience her in some way,” agreed Laura. “When's she leaving for Scotland, Steph?"

  "Two days’ time. I'm looking after her cat."

  "Know where she's staying?"

  "A hotel in Glenshee. It's a skiing holiday for singles."

  "Some bloke's in for a good time, then,” Sal sniggered. “Rumpy-pumpy on the piste. Think we should phone up and cancel?"

  "And have her come back h
ere? I don't think so, Sal.” Laura turned to Steph. “Does that mean you have a key?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "We could trash the place while she's away!” Sal grinned.

  Laura rolled her eyes.

  "Wipe her computer?"

  "Like any of us would know how."

  "Hell, why don't we just cut her brake pipes!"

  Stephanie laughed. “Laura said inconvenience her, not kill her! Anyway, she's going by train."

  "She has to get to the station."

  "She's taking a taxi.” Stephanie glanced at her watch. “Heavens, I must go, other-wise I won't be there when the kids arrive. But look on the bright side, Sal,” she added, pushing back her chair. “She's going for ten days. You'll be without her for the whole of Christmas and New Year."

  "I'd prefer to be without her permanently,” Sally muttered, picking up her bag.

  * * * *

  Stephanie arrived home minutes before her two daughters, who had been playing with a neighbour's children. She poured them glasses of juice and settled them in front of the television, then started on the supper. Something quick tonight, she still had masses to do. She took a pizza from the freezer. Not the healthiest fare for growing children, but there'd be plenty of good wholesome food in the coming days.

  Shortly before six, the telephone rang. Stephanie wasn't surprised; it wasn't only women caught up in the Christmas rush. Ian had end-of-year deadlines to meet and this year, for the first time, was being forced to work late. Proof the business was doing well, he assured her: a cause for celebration, not complaint. She told him she would expect him when she saw him and returned to the kitchen.

  She ate supper alone with the children. They were overexcited and tired: As soon as they had finished, she would try to get them to bed. A car started up in the drive next-door.

  "That's Mouse's car,” said Emma, pushing a piece of mushroom around her plate. “I expect she's going to a party."

  "Why should she be going to a party?” asked her older sister, Lucy.