The anger rose in Lynette Fullerton like water in a kettle coming to the boil. But it wasn't directed at the little old lady who had made the complaint. No, as usual, it was her husband who was due for a sand-blasting.
"You idiot!” she screamed. “Are you incapable of doing the simplest thing right? Because of the way you spend all our money, we can no longer afford to get our salads from the organic farm. Which is why I have to send you out into the countryside to collect the stuff. And you can even screw that up, can't you, Piers? I've shown you enough times what the plants you're meant to be fetching look like, but you still get it wrong. Of all the incompetent, useless, lame-brained... “
The diatribe was set fair to continue for some time. While Brenda Winshott let its tides wash over her, she observed the warring couple. Lynette Fullerton's anger was triggered only by her husband's eternal inadequacy. Lily of the valley had no particular resonance for her.
It did for Piers Fullerton, though. On his face was the greenish pallor of guilt.
"Now you will have an ‘O be joyful,’ won't you, Brenda?” Queenie Miles offered winsomely.
This description of a late night drink had been introduced by Joan Fullerton, and soon everyone in Morton-cum-Budely was using the expression. Brenda Winshott found it an irritating affectation, another example of the many things that had annoyed her about her deceased neighbour. But as ever, she kept such thoughts to herself.
She loathed Queenie Miles's taste in interior décor, too. Brenda would never have given houseroom to the little coloured glass animals, clowns hanging from balloons, or Italian ceramic figurines of urchins with large tear-filled eyes, which covered every surface of Yew Tree Cottage. Even the profusion of fresh flowers in evidence was spoiled by the over-elaborate crystal vases into which they had been placed. But Queenie would never have suspected this repulsion from her guest's courteous demeanour.
Brenda Winshott asked for a gin and lime juice, just as Joan Fullerton had done the week before. Queenie's drink of choice was a gin and bitter lemon. She raised her glass and made the toast “O be joyful,” which Brenda echoed without evident rancour.
As she had driven in her Golf the short distance from The Garlic Press to Yew Tree Cottage, she had had some anxiety about raising the subject of the murder, but she needn't have worried. The first sip of gin was scarcely past Queenie's lips before she said, “Terrible what happened to Joan, wasn't it?"
"Oh, appalling,” Brenda agreed. “The things people do these days defy belief. Standards of behaviour in this country have never been the same since they ended National Service."
This was not necessarily her own view, but it was an article of faith amongst the little old ladies of Morton-cum-Budely. Brenda had only said it to put Queenie Miles at ease—or possibly even off her guard.
"Is it true about her having been a Russian agent?” asked Queenie.
"Oh, I don't think so, dear,” Brenda replied. “I can't imagine Joan ever having the discretion to keep any kind of secret. No, I don't think we should give credence to every opinion expressed at the bar of The Old Trout."
"Maybe not . . . “ Her hostess was thoughtful for a moment. “Of course it means there'll have to be a new Chair of the Village Committee. . . . “ she observed.
Brenda Winshott's benign face registered mild surprise. “I hadn't thought of that. But yes, it will."
"I wouldn't dream of putting any pressure on you, Brenda dear... “
"No, I'm sure you wouldn't."
"...but I was very surprised, at the last election, that Joan was selected as Chair, when I—putting false modesty aside—was obviously much the most qualified person in Morton-cum-Budely for the job."
"Mm."
"So, come the moment, I hope I can rely on you to do what's right."
"Oh, you can certainly rely on me to do that,” said Brenda Winshott with quiet conviction. She looked around the cluttered surfaces of Yew Tree Cottage's sitting room. “The flowers look lovely. Very natural."
"That's the effect for which I always aim.” Queenie was totally unaware of how markedly she failed in her ambitions.
"No lily of the valley, though, I notice . . . When I was last here, I'm sure you had lots of lily of the valley... “
"I think you must be mistaken, Brenda dear,” came the firm reply. “I've never much liked lily of the valley."
"You know, I would have sworn that the last few times I've been here—"
"I can assure you,” Queenie insisted, “that I have never had lily of the valley in my house."
"I must be mistaken. Dear oh dear, getting so absent-minded these days. Anno domini catching up with me, I'm afraid.” Brenda let a silence hang between them. Then she said, “I suppose you've heard the rumour that it was lily of the valley that killed Joan?"
"I've heard it, yes."
"One theory somebody had,” Brenda went on vaguely, “was that Joan might have drunk the water from a vase in which lily of the valley had been standing. Apparently in certain circumstances that can be fatal."
"By why on earth would she want to do that?"
"I'm not sure that she wanted to."
"What do you mean?"
"It's possible someone may have made her do it."
"Forced her to drink it down?"
"Yes.” Brenda Winshott nodded charmingly. She raised her glass and looked at the light through it. “Funny, gin and lime juice isn't a very attractive drink to look at. That pale green. Looks almost like water that flowers have been left in too long, doesn't it?” There was no response from her hostess, except for a narrowing of her beady eyes. “And now, if I may before I go, Queenie dear, could I take advantage of your facilities to go and powder my nose?"
"Of course. You know the way."
"Oh yes. I know the way.” And picking up her bulky handbag, the little old lady went to find the “facilities."
* * * *
When she got back to Honeysuckle Cottage, Brenda Winshott poured herself another gin, and this time didn't bother about the lime juice. As she sipped, she couldn't suppress a feeling of satisfaction at her evening's work.
She had met three people who might have killed Joan Fullerton. Three people who certainly had a motive. Tristram Fullerton could have done it as revenge for the humiliations his mother had heaped on him from the cradle; his brother Piers for the inheritance that might transform The Garlic Press and perhaps get Lynnette off his back; and Queenie Miles for the opportunity to take over as Chair of the Village Committee. To an outsider, the last might have sounded like insufficient motive, but Brenda Winshott had lived long enough in villages like Morton-cum-Budely to know the lengths little old ladies would go to to obtain that kind of preferment.
She didn't want to leap to conclusions. She would sleep on it. Sleep always resolved dilemmas for Brenda Winshott. Then, in the morning, she would decide who the murderer was, and tell Inspector Dromgoole.
* * * *
He came round to Honeysuckle Cottage. Again he was unaccompanied. Again he said he wanted to keep their discussion informal, though Brenda Winshott wondered if what he really wanted was to keep it secret. Maybe his colleagues wouldn't think much of a Major Crimes investigator consulting a little old lady.
She told him her conclusions. The inspector looked amazed. “But my people are meant to have searched the premises,” he said.
Brenda Winshott shrugged. “Well, it seems as if their search wasn't quite thorough enough."
"I'll get men round there straightaway,” said Inspector Dromgoole.
And indeed, his men found exactly what Brenda Winshott had told him they would find. A glass vase, together with the mobile phone and two handsets which had been stolen from Joan Fullerton's home. They had all been hidden in the high metal cistern of the old-fashioned lavatory in Yew Tree Cottage.
After the discovery Inspector Dromgoole asked Brenda Winshott whether she wanted her contribution to the investigation to be publicly acknowledged.
"Oh, good h
eavens, no,” the little old lady replied. “I like to keep myself to myself. Also, it might cause bad feeling in the village, if it were known that I had . . . as it were, shopped one of my neighbours."
"Well, that's very generous of you.” There was no doubting the relief in Inspector Dromgoole's voice.
"My pleasure,” said Brenda Winshott with a teasing twinkle. “After all, it wouldn't do for the police to have been baffled, and to have turned to a little old lady to help them out . . . would it?"
Inspector Dromgoole coloured and eased a finger round the inside of his collar.
* * * *
Queenie Miles was arrested and tried for the murder of Joan Fullerton. When sentence was passed, she continued vehemently to protest her innocence. But then, thought Brenda Winshott, people in that position always do.
She looked around at the other members of the Morton-cum-Budely Village Committee with quiet satisfaction. With the incumbent and her natural successor both, for different reasons, out of the running, Brenda Winshott had suddenly seemed the obvious candidate for what was now once again called “Chairwoman.” She'd never have pushed herself forward, but everyone liked her, and from the opening of her first committee meeting, she had demonstrated just how efficient she would be in her new role.
Her efficiency was what gave her cause for satisfaction. Her efficiency in visiting Arbutus Cottage on May the first after Joan Fullerton had returned from her “O be joyful” with Queenie Miles. She had also been very efficient in getting Joan to drink down another gin and lime juice, even though it did taste rather odd. Waiting until her victim had shown signs of ailing and then stealing her telephone handsets had also showed great efficiency. As had planting the phones, along with a vase containing traces of lily of the valley-tainted water in the cistern at Yew Tree Cottage when she went to visit Queenie Miles the following week.
Yes, a job well jobbed, as Brenda Winshott's father used to say. She looked round at her assembled committee of little old ladies and wondered who would be the next to step out of line. And how that one would be dealt with.
As Inspector Dromgoole had observed, it's the quiet ones you need to watch.
Copyright © 2008 by Simon Brett. Published in the UK in Woman's Weekly Fiction Special, January 2008
[Back to Table of Contents]
Novelette: SENORITA CALI by Alonso Cueto
* * * *
* * * *
Translated from the Spanish by Kenneth Wishnia
Alonso Cueto is a Peruvian novelist, playwright, journalist, and professor of literature who has won awards both at home and abroad. He is proficient in English, having received his Ph.D. from the University of Texas at Austin, but we believe this is his first fiction publication in English. Readers who enjoy this story will be happy to know that the author has a novel forthcoming in English in 2010. See The Blue Hour, from Heinemann, a division of Random House.
At 8 o'clock, Señor Martinez Galdos opened the door to his office and sat in the enormous swivel chair. He put on his wire-framed glasses and began flipping through the pages of a thin file folder with a soft green cover. He was a thin man with an angular face, short, thinning hair, and a moustache that he stroked while he read. Suddenly the buzzer interrupted him. Martinez answered without looking up from the papers he was shuffling.
"It's Señorita Cali,” said a voice.
"Send her in,” he muttered.
He heard the sound of a woman's legs crossing the carpet, and could tell exactly when she had sat down across from him. Finally he closed the folder. She looked just like the photo he had of her.
"Buenos dias," he said.
She studied him closely, waiting silently. She seemed to be comfortable in the chair.
"Thank you for coming,” Martinez continued. “I believe that we can help each other out, señorita. You work for Señor Han, don't you?"
The woman was wearing a red dress that clung tightly to her body. She had crossed her legs. Her cool and delicate makeup subtly shaded her features. The way she held her head—with her dark hair coiled in a bun, the thin shadow of her eyebrows, and the two triangles dangling from her ears—showed that she had come prepared to listen to his offer. She kept looking at Martinez.
His face remained calm, without a trace of impatience.
"Maybe you don't realize, Señorita Cali, that you are in a government building."
The woman didn't answer.
"I have a proposition for you. We want you to do a job for us."
Martinez stood up and began pacing while he spoke.
"We want you to give us information about somebody."
She kept her eyes on him.
"He's not some small-time crook,” Martinez continued. “His name is Adolfo Cavero Schon. Maybe the name doesn't mean anything to you, but this individual is using illegal immigrants to ship large quantities of drugs across the Mexican border. We know who's helping him on this side, but before we close in, we want to know something else. This man has an accomplice in the U.S. Customs Agency in Miami, someone with an important position. Thanks to him, everything goes smoothly once it gets up there. The name of this accomplice is the one bit of information that we're missing. Are we on the same wavelength, señorita?"
"You mean,” she murmured, “you want me to get close to this man—"
"Yes. Adolfo Cavero Schon. J. Adolfo."
"And you want me to find out who's moving his shipments through the U.S. Customs Agency."
"That and whatever else. Any detail could be important."
"Aha. And . . . what are you offering me, señor—?"
Martinez sat back in his chair. She smiled at him.
"Do you smoke?” said Martinez, holding out a packet.
"No."
Martinez took out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He lit it, then looked back at her.
"Well, we've gone over this many times. And we've decided to offer you one hundred thousand dollars in exchange for this service."
A quick exchange of looks. A blink.
"You don't think it's enough,” he said.
She smiled, uncrossed her legs, and ran her hand softly through her hair.
"I'd be putting myself in danger. And you won't be able to help me out if something goes wrong. You're also assuming that he doesn't know me. On top of that, I don't like this kind of work."
"Very well. We'll pay you a hundred and fifty."
"Two hundred. And I want half of it now."
"Señorita Cali..."
"I need to buy clothes. You don't think I'm going to impress Adolfo with these rags, do you?"
The cigarette smoke obscured her face for a few seconds.
"Write down the name of your bank and your account number,” Martinez finally said. “You'll have the money tomorrow."
"How will I communicate with you?"
"It won't be with me. You'll get your instructions later on."
She smiled again. It was a wide smile, displaying the fine, straight teeth that gave her a malevolent beauty.
"Why did you choose me?"
"Because we think you can do it. And because of what you did two years ago."
"So you know that I'm good with weapons, is that it?"
"We also know other things. But what's important right now isn't what we know, but what we hope to know."
He smiled.
Martinez opened the drawer and took out an envelope. As he leaned forward, he got a whiff of her perfume.
"Here's the information about Señor Cavero. Where he lives, where he goes, what he likes to do."
"And what does he like to do?"
"Lots of things. But always accompanied by women. His kind of women."
"A real ladies’ man, eh?"
"Señor Cavero isn't very good-looking."
She took the envelope.
"This is how they deliver drugs, isn't it?"
Martinez raised his head. The light from the window revealed droplets of sweat on his forehead.
"Let's just get the job done,” he muttered.
For the first time, an emotion seemed to alter the lines of his face.
"You think I'm charging too much, don't you?” she said.
"I don't discuss the fees."
"There's a reason for that. For charging a bit more."
Martinez leaned forward in his chair.
"A reason?"
"Yes. I know him. I know Adolfo. And it's much harder to betray someone you know. Understand?"
"Yes."
The woman stands up and draws near. Her mouth travels to Martinez's lips. He feels the hot, hard membrane of her mouth, the hand brushing his neck. And he realizes, in a fraction of a second, that this woman is working for Cavero and the other guy, and that she's going to kill him right here, in the chair that he's been occupying for so many years ("He tried to rape me. I defended myself as any woman would"), and that this is the end of his career, of his life. Only now does he realize how absurd it was to have entrusted the information he had to her, as well as the security of his office, his government, and himself. What a pathetic way to die—and she would have a good laugh about it that night while lying with the man she was supposed to betray and whom she had just saved.
"Ciao," said a voice.
Señorita Cali was once again standing before him. She watched him for a few seconds, then slowly walked out.
"Why'd she do that?” said Martinez, aloud.
Probably so I won't forget to pay her, he thought as he got up to pour himself a glass of water.
* * * *
A few days later, when Señor Martinez gets to his office, he goes to his chair and finds the newspaper headline spread across the desk like a banner: OWNER OF HOTEL CHAIN FOUND DEAD
A smile slowly brightens his face.
Señor Adolfo Cavero Schon was found dead yesterday in his apartment, under suspicious circumstances. The police are investigating. His body is lying in state in the Chapel of Our Lady of Fatima.
Señor Martinez raises his head.
"How did you get in here?” he says suddenly.
Señorita Cali is standing right there, towering over him. This time she's wearing a long white dress, with a pleasant expression on her face.
EQMM, May 2010 Page 12
