"Aaaahh,” he said, pulling the bottle away. “Man, that does hit the spot. Thanks, little girl, thanks a lot."
"No problem."
He brought the bottle back up and then, perhaps dimly remembering something he was taught about manners, he said, “Gonna join me?"
"Maybe later, Mr. Brewster. Maybe later. Go ahead ... there's plenty more."
And sure enough, in about another sixty seconds, the first bottle was empty, carefully placed back on the coffee table. When he was busy opening up the second bottle, I reached over and picked up the empty bottle by the base. Empty bottle in hand, I reached into my jacket pocket with another hand, took out a plastic evidence bag, and gingerly placed the bottle inside and closed off the plastic.
The second bottle was about half finished before he realized what he had seen. “What ... what the hell was that all about?"
"That,” I said, standing up, “was about Mimi Summers. That's what."
His face colored to scarlet. “What the hell you mean by that?"
"What I mean is Mimi Summers. Mimi who had the business card of your partner in her wallet. But with your phone number scribbled on the back. What was that about, you didn't have a card, you had to give her one of his? And what I mean, too, is her underwear. Still in evidence forty years later, still there with a semen stain forty years later. A semen stain that's given up its DNA evidence."
I held up the plastic bag with the beer bottle. “DNA evidence I'm sure is going to match your saliva on this bottle."
"You ... you ... you..."
"Her case file is strange, you know, when you look through it,” I said. “It's been sanitized. And who back then had the stones to sanitize a file like that? Only the lead detectives on the case. You and Frank. And it certainly wasn't Frank."
He was breathing hard, not speaking, the half-full bottle of beer in his gnarled hand. “And you know why? Because the autopsy report—and let's bless those government agencies who can't bear to throw anything away—showed something else besides her cause of death. She was pregnant. About three months along, and she sure as hell wasn't pregnant with Ol’ No-Balls Frank's child. Once the body's exhumed, and the fetus is examined, well, it's amazing how DNA is going to grab you by what Frank didn't have."
"Bitch,” he finally whispered out. “You damn bitch."
I made for the trailer door. “How did it happen? You having a nice little something on the side, something sweeter than Esther? Bet you didn't plan on her getting pregnant. And when she told you, and probably told you she wanted to keep the child or become the next Mrs. Harmon Brewster, you got her drunk one night. Poor girl couldn't handle one drink, but you probably plowed three or four into her, enough to get her woozy, giggly, and trusting her police detective lover. Trusting enough to get her up on a chair, loop a rope around her neck, and take care of it right there. Problem solved."
At the door I opened it and turned to him. “By the way. My mom sends her best. Says I'm just like her. What do you think about that?"
What he thought about that involved throwing the bottle at me, which was fine, since it missed.
But I didn't leave the place without having some of the beer splash against my slacks.
A small price to pay. A very small price indeed.
* * * *
So later I held Mom's hand and told it all to her, right from the start, including my lies and tarting-up and everything, and there were some tears in her eyes, but she kept it together, and kept on saying, “Thank you, thank you, thank you."
"Sure, Mom,” I said. “I'm glad I could have done it for you."
She had the best smile on her face I had seen for weeks, and said, “Always knew there was something hinky about the case. Always. And you proved me right. Stef ... thank you so much."
I let her hand go and then put my hands together in my lap. “So. What do I do now?"
"Now?"
"Yeah, Mom. Now. I should take everything I found out and bring it to the detectives, and then to the state attorney general's office. Remember what you said? No statute of limitations on homicide."
Mom shifted some in her bed, looked out the window. “So long ago, Stef ... so long ago. And what you found fit the bill, but it doesn't actually prove he killed her. You know it. I know it. And Harmon Brewster and whatever lawyer he hires, he'll know it, too."
"Mom ... you know he did it. I do, too."
"Of course.” She looked at me and said, “Tell me ... is Harmon a happy man? Is he?"
"No,” I said. “He's old, alone, and cranky. Plus he's a drunk."
"What kind of place is he living in?"
"Old mobile home that was in good shape about three decades ago. Why do you ask?"
"Do you think he's living well?"
"Not in the least,” I said.
She smiled with a sweet sense of triumph. “And now he has this Mimi Summers murder hanging over his head. Day after day, wondering if you're going to turn him in, day after day, wondering if his pension is going to be halted. Long days, especially when you're old and living alone."
"So you want me to drop it."
Mom slowly smoothed out the blanket covering her. “Dearest, how about you come back tomorrow? And take me home, back to my yard, my garden ... all those good things?"
I suddenly felt as if I had drunk that six-pack I had brought into Harmon's trailer. “Really?"
"Truly,” she said. “Things ... things look good. And I can go home tomorrow. And I'd love for you to take me there. And never to talk about Mimi Summers or Harmon Brewster ever again. At least not for a very, very long time to come."
And I'm not ashamed to say tears popped up in my eyes. “Mom ... that'd be great."
"I know,” she said. “And you know that old saying ... about living well? Do you?"
"Yes,” I said, thinking of who she was and what she had put up with all those years ago. “It's the best revenge."
Another big smile from my mom, a smile that had been four decades coming. “It certainly is."
(c)2007 by Brendan DuBois
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SOMETHING EXTRA by Donald Olson
For a short “twist in the tail” suspense story one can hardly go wrong with Donald Olson. The Jamestown, New York, author has been writing them for forty years, and we often hear his name when readers mention their all-time favorite contributors. Mr. Olson's tales are often set on the road, as is this one, in which an overly clever murderer crosses the desert of the American southwest to commit a perfect crime.
Stanley felt no more jittery as he pulled into the service station—his first stop since leaving Albuquerque at dawn—than he had before stepping on the stage of those third-class clubs where in days gone by he'd cherished the dream of making it in show business. And now, as the attendant bent forward and said, “Fill ‘er up, ma'am?” even that faint thrill of apprehension vanished. In a burst of confidence he stepped boldly out of the car in Doris's pantsuit and floppy hat and wearing one of Doris's wigs, flashed the kid a smile that was pure Doris, marched into the station, and bought a Dr Pepper, sipping it in full view of a mechanic and two customers before returning to the car, paying the man with one of Doris's credit cards, and driving off.
Stanley hadn't expected any of this to be fun, yet he couldn't help smiling as he drove away toward the desert. The success of his impersonation, now that it had passed its first test, inspired a mood of mild exhilaration. Admittedly, the first phase of his scheme had been more gruesome than amusing. But the actual murder, that had been a snap, literally. Of course he'd wanted to strangle Doris for years, so that part he'd quite enjoyed. No, it was the unexpectedly arduous task of stuffing her body in the plastic bag and stowing it in the trunk of the car that had left him drenched and panting.
The ease with which he had subsequently hoodwinked Doris's sister Betty Lou had tickled his vanity, not that he had doubted his ability to fool her. Mimicking Doris at parties had always been a laugh-getter, although
Doris herself would have been less than amused had she ever witnessed this performance of his little trick among his cronies at the El Dorado Club, for the most part happily married pals who found it hilarious when Stanley referred to Doris as “the married woman I've lived with for twenty years.” Knowing what a joker Stanley was, they took his playful barbs and jibes at Doris as the standard patter of a failed comedian. And they envied him. If his funny-fellow routines hadn't brought him professional success, they had snared the heart and purse-strings of a woman with more money (oil money inherited from Daddy) than prudence and had made it possible for him to laugh his way through the past twenty years without worrying whether the next string of endless gigs would last more then six months, which they never did.
Unfortunately, Doris had stopped laughing long, long before that last fatal embrace in their Albuquerque ranch house. Oh, she had forgiven Stanley for his first amorous escapade with that barmaid in Tulsa where she had sent him to check up on some oil leases, but when she learned about the more serious affair with an exotic dancer at the El Dorado she made more than a fuss—she started talking divorce. At first Stanley had managed to smooth things over, until that snotty sister of hers kept yanking her in the other direction, a tug of war that ended last weekend when Doris ominously announced her intention of driving to San Rafael to “think things over.” Stanley knew what that meant. A weekend with that iron-willed Stanley-hater Betty Lou and Doris would cancel his ticket on the gravy train at the next stop: her lawyer's office.
Yes, it had been a joy to call Betty Lou that morning and pretend to be Doris.
"Can't talk but a second, B.L. Just wanted you to know I'm on my way out the door. Look for me when I get there."
"Where is he?” Betty Lou had growled. “Does he know?"
"He knows. He's still in bed."
"Sleeping off a toot, you mean. If you'd only picked that scab off years ago. If you'd listened to what—"
"Save it till later, sis. I've got the car running."
So far so good. Doris was in the bag. Betty Lou would testify she'd talked with her sister moments before Doris took off for San Rafael, and with two or three witnesses to confirm she had actually got halfway there, nothing could preclude the success of the plot.
Tooling along the highway in Doris's Cadillac, Stanley wished he'd thought of the idea ten years ago. To be a rich widower and ten years younger ... ah, but he was still young enough in body and spirit to make up for those ten years, and maybe ten years ago he wouldn't have been able to make it work. One always heard that after a number of years together most married couples began to look alike. One certainly observed enough examples of this to realize the adage held a degree of truth.
In their slight builds, their coloring, their very bone structure, Doris and Stanley had indeed looked more like siblings than husband and wife. But what actually planted the idea in Stanley's mind was that evening a few months ago when he had answered a call from one of Doris's friends and for a lark mimicked Doris's voice in a lengthy exchange without that friend's having a clue that she wasn't talking to Doris.
The trickiest part of the plan was making sure he got back to Albuquerque without anyone knowing he'd been away, the logistics of which he'd worked out to his satisfaction.
* * * *
Stanley knew it was essestial that Doris's body be found—eventually—but not so soon that the dumbest coroner would be able to speculate with any certainty that she had not been killed at the spot where her body was found, and this was where his preliminary scouting of the territory had to pay off. His impersonation of “the married woman I've lived with for twenty years” had worked as successfully at the lunchroom where he'd stopped for a sandwich at noon that day as it had at the service station. He had engaged the waitress in conversation long enough to feel sure the girl would remember the “lady” in the fawn-colored pantsuit, lemon-yellow hat, and rhinestone-studded sunglasses who had said she was on her way to San Rafael to spend the weekend with her sister Betty Lou. As an added touch, Stanley had left on the table a letter Betty Lou had written to Doris only the week before.
Shortly thereafter Stanley left the main highway—even as Doris might have done had she lost her way, a fact that would be verified by additional witnesses according to the plan—and proceeded along a winding route that was intended to lead investigators to assume someone must have forced his way into Doris's car and driven her off into the desert to be robbed and murdered.
The spot he'd chosen for the burial of Doris's body looked like the sort of desolate area no one had visited since prospecting for gold in the dim past. There, wearing gloves and coveralls, Stanley went to work in the fading light of day, making sure when he was finished that the site betrayed no evidence of having been disturbed. Weary but satisfied, he stood there among the cacti and mesquite recalling how fond Doris had always been of the desert and of those endless boring excursions on which she had dragged him in the early days of their marriage. Any area of the planet devoid of bright lights, pretty girls, and buildings held not the slightest fascination for Stanley.
Stripping off gloves and coveralls, he now spent a good quarter-hour primping in the car mirror, powdering away all traces of perspiration and touching up his makeup before making a vaguely farewell gesture toward Doris's grave and proceeding to a spot several miles away where he stopped and buried the plastic bag, gloves, and coveralls, and the shovel.
Now for the most crucial stage of the plan—a night at a motel where the staff would be able to testify later to having been the last to see Doris Widrig alive. Stanley had already chosen the motel, one of those forlorn hostelries on a seldom-traveled road, a place that seemed to have no visible reason for existing. He pulled into the courtyard just after sundown, sat for a moment or two psyching himself up for his performance and preparing to make his entrance.
* * * *
The name of the motel, a ten-unit red-tile-roofed structure, was the La Miranda. No other cars were in sight, no sign of life, no lights except in the office at the far end. Faking Doris's walk, in Doris's sandals, Doris's bag slung over his shoulder, Stanley walked into the office. When no one appeared to greet him, he rang the bell on the desk, observing with a glance that the place could not have looked tidier or more cheerfully decorated. Presently a door at the rear opened and a hefty blonde of about fifty, straining with the aid of cosmetic science for thirty-five, appeared wearing a smile so full of welcoming warmth it might have taken the chill off the coolest of desert nights.
Traces of a girlish prettiness were still evident in a face suggesting to Stanley an amiable pig's, with puffy cheeks beginning to sag, still lively brown eyes, and a baby-doll voice.
"Evening, ma'am,” she greeted Stanley with a hostessy air. “Welcome to the La Miranda. Checkin’ in, are you, love, or just wonderin’ how the hell you got off the main highway?"
She punctuated this apparently standard joke with a throaty chuckle. Her hearty manner instantly put Stanley at ease, as did the dim light of the fake Tiffany lamp illuminating the office. With one of Doris's typical sick-headache gestures of weariness, he said, “Both. I can't imagine how I lost my way."
"Well, bless you for it, love. My lucky day.” And she cast her eyes upward with a prayerful clasp of her chubby hands.
"I take it you get more requests for directions than accommodations?"
"You said it. When we bought this place my long-departed said we were buying a gold mine. That's when this was the main highway. When the gold ran out, so did he, the rat."
"But you survived, obviously."
"You're wonderin’ how. Frankly, so do I sometimes. I still say to hell with it twice a month but I've managed to hang on."
"Catchy name, the La Miranda."
"That's my name, Miranda Castero. Now, if you'll kindly sign the register...” She made a jesting gesture of blowing the dust off it. “Then I'll have Tomas carry in your bag."
Without removing Doris's glove, Stanley signed the book. M
iranda Castero turned it around. “Nice to have you with us, Mrs. Widrig. I'll show you to your room and then—you must be famished—why don't you step around to the luncheonette and I'll have a nice sandwich and hot coffee waiting for you."
"How very thoughtful,” said Stanley.
"That's how I have managed to survive, love. By offering my guests something extra. You know what I mean?"
Stanley was about to say that all he really wanted was to drop into bed, but mention of food made him aware of how ravenous he was, what with all that hauling, tugging, and spadework out there in the desert heat. Also, he decided it might be a good opportunity to explain about being on his way to his sister's in San Rafael. Moreover, ham that he was, he couldn't resist this one last chance to demonstrate his talent as an impersonator.
* * * *
The room was far cleaner and more attractive than he might have expected. He had to admire the woman for keeping up appearances on what could not have been more than a skimpy income. A silent, sinewy Mexican of indecipherable age carried Stanley's bag into the room, accepted his tip with a spiritless “Gracias"; as soon as the door was locked Stanley took off his hat and glasses and proceeded to freshen up, uttering a surprised giggle as he studied his image in the glass. He had missed his calling, he thought; instead of songs and patter, he should have tried being a female impersonator. Look at what's-his-name, a celebrity big as any other headliner in Vegas.
The bed was a dream and he looked forward to drifting off to sleep with a head full of plans for what was bound to be more than ample reward for the twenty years of bondage to her. Humming one of Doris's favorite tunes, he got up and set off for the luncheonette beyond the office.
"I'll join you if you don't mind,” said Miranda Castero, carrying a pot of coffee to the table where she served Stanley a delicious beef-on-a-Kaiser-roll sandwich garnished with pickle and chips.
EQMM, November 2007 Page 19
