“You bet,” Trask said. “Trish has been itching to get rid of your deadweight ass for quite some time. So she had me coincidentally bump into you on that audition. She knew a slime bag such as you would jump at the chance to get ALL of her holdings and the life insurance to boot, which would be the case if she were dead. It was almost too easy.”
“But Tess?” Crease said, looking at Trish in disbelief. “You had your own sister sleep with me?”
“Oh, it was no big deal,” Tess chimed in. “Literally, Crease. I was in show business too, back in my younger days, if you get my drift. A little soft core. This was just another role. Only one that pays a lot better.”
“Pays better?”
“Yes, dear,” Trish said. “You didn’t think I just got life insurance on myself, did you? No, I got you a policy of your very own. And with your imminent demise, not only will I retain all of my assets, but I get thirty percent of the insurance payoff.”
“Thirty percent?”
“That’s right. A thirty-thirty-forty split between the three of us. Though there was some disagreement between Tess and Trask about who got the forty. You know, about who had to do the dirtiest deed.”
“It was a close one,” Trask said as he pulled a .357 from inside his equally festive holiday blazer and aimed it at Crease. “But I won. Whacking a piece of shit always trumps banging one.” He took Crease’s handkerchief to pick up the Luger and set it next to Crease on the counter.
“Wait! No! You can’t!” Crease pleaded. “The cops will never buy the fact that you shot a vomitous, shit-ridden man in his own home…on Thanksgiving!”
“Sure they will,” Trask said. “Tess, if you will.”
Tess opened her purse, pulled out another stack of photos and fanned them along the crowded counter in front of Crease. More shots of a couple enthusiastically engaged in sexual gymnastics. Only this time, the participants were Trish and…Trask!
“See, it’s simple,” Trask said. “You confronted your wife with evidence of infidelity. You flew into a jealous rage. You pulled a gun, threatening to kill her and then me, of course. But just in the nick of time, you are shot by yours truly, a licensed private investigator with a legal concealed weapons permit. Stopped before you could commit another heinous crime.”
“Another crime?”
“That’s the best part. That Luger that you have?”
“YOU gave it to me!”
“Yeah, and I’m gonna miss it. Well, not only will it be found in your hand, with a round discharged into the wall behind us, and gunshot residue all over your paw, but it can also be tied to three other unsolved homicides. Which makes you not only a jealous lunatic, but also the prime suspect in those cases. And with no witnesses to alibi you for the times of those killings…” Trask looked over at Trish and Tess, who both shook their heads no. “It looks like those cases will soon be closed.”
“Trish! No! Please, you can’t,” Crease pleaded, the panic rising in his voice as Trask thumbed back the hammer on his gun. “Please, I didn’t mean it! It’s the holidays, for God’s sake!”
“Look on the upside, Crease,” Trish said, going back to her wine.
“Upside! What upside!”
“You won’t have to shop for a gift for me this year. Those holiday crowds are murder!”
Cheese It, The Cops
By Sharon Daynard
Cletus Harper waited quiet as a mouse in the threadbare La-Z-Boy. What was left of a broccoli and cheddar casserole sat in his lap, a cooler filled with cubes and Coors on the end table, and a shotgun at his side. Flo was out on the front steps waiting to flag down the cops.
“He’s at it again!” Cletus heard her shout across the way to the neighbors.
He could just picture Flo standing there in her moth-eaten housecoat and filthy scuffs, hands planted on her expanse of hips, pink foam curlers poking out from under her hairnet, and a Lucky Strike dangling from her flame-red lipstick-smeared yap. Fifty years ago, she had a face that could stop a clock. These days, he swore she’d gone and stopped a freight train with it.
“Drunk as a skunk and talkin’ twaddle. Don’t matter none to him that it was Thanksgivin’ and my sister Celine and her husband Jasper drove all the way down from Madawaska for dinner. No siree, the old fart had himself hell-bent on ruinin’ everyone’s holiday. Celine went and baked those key lime coconut bars she won the blue ribbon with back in ‘72 at the county fair. There ain’t a soul in Aroostook County that wouldn’t kill to know the secret ingredient in her recipe. Yours truly included. One bite and you’ll think you’ve been whisked off to one of them Hawaiian Islands.”
Whisked off to the emergency room with food poisoning was more like it. Cletus grimaced at the bitter taste left in his mouth. One bite and he’d figured out Celine’s secret ingredient was an eight-inch strand of her drugstore bleached blonde hair.
“And Jasper brought an imported California dessert wine in a box with its own spigot. But what else would you expect from a white collar professional man? Jasper’s a big name in the excavatin’ business up there in Madawaska.”
Since when was grave digging white collar work? As for that fancy box of wine, it went for a whopping $4.99 at New Hampshire’s finer filling stations and highway rest stops.
“That Celine, she did it right. She married for love. Me, I married for money.” Flo cackled. “Thought I’d gone and landed me Howard Hughes, instead I wound up with Fibber McGee.”
Cletus’ face screwed up into a knot. Flo wasn’t what he’d bargained for either. Cinderella turned into the Wicked Witch of the West at the stroke of “I do.”
“I could’ve had me any man in the county,” Flo sighed.
Did have, was more like it.
“Came in second place in the 1956 Miss Maine Beauty Pageant. Got me a standin’ ovation durin’ the talent portion when I marched in place twirlin’ flamin’ batons and beltin’ out ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ I was on the fast track to fame workin’ the counter at the local diner, waitin’ to be discovered and signed to a million-dollar movie contract like Marilyn Monroe when Cletus wandered in off Route 1 lookin’ like somethin’ the cat dragged in, askin’ for a decent cup of coffee and a copy of the Boston Globe newspaper—like we had either. Pulled out a wad of cash from his pocket, handed me a twenty-dollar bill for a ninety-eight-cent tab and told me to keep the change. Dog-eared as he was, that Cletus Harper was a sweet talker. Promised me the world, he did. Next thing I know, I’m runnin’ off under a July moon with a man I’d only known a few hours. Well, it’s been fifty-six friggin’ years and he still hasn’t made good on that promise.”
Like Flo ever came through with her love, honor, and obeys. She might as well have vowed to nag, dishonor, and do whatever she damned well pleased.
“That’s right, fifty-six years down the toilet and all I’ve got to show for it is that ne’er-do-well drunkin’ excuse for a husband. Couldn’t even put the bottle down long enough to help me set the table with my best Chinet Cut Crystal dinnerware. I’d been up since the crack of dawn slavin’ over a spread that’d put Martha Stewart to shame. Celine said every morsel was a tiny taste of heaven. Yes, she did. And Jasper, well, let’s just say I stopped countin’ after his third helping. Of course, Cletus couldn’t sit there and act civil. Nothin’ was up to his culinary standards. The bird was dry, the mashed taters weren’t lumpy enough for his discernin’ palate, the gravy was too lumpy, the green beans were limp, and the creamed onions weren’t near creamy enough. Turned up that gin blossom nose of his at my sweet-potato biscuits and whipped butter. Don’t even get me started on the, and I quote, ‘woeful wobble of the green Jell-O salad.’ I swear to Jesus those were his exact words.”
Were not! All he’d done was wonder aloud why there weren’t any mini marshmallows on top.
“Oh, it gets better. Cletus had himself a royal fit when he eyed the broccoli and cheddar casserole makin’ its way round the table. Snatched it right out of my hands. Said I had no right t
ouchin’ his cheese. His cheese! Said I’d gone and contaminated it with broccoli. According to Cletus, broccoli’s the devil’s vegetable. All I know is I spent the better part of fifteen minutes perusin’ magazines in the check-out line at the grocery store before I came across that recipe. Called it a fabulous side dish that paired up well with any entree. I cooked it up special in a casserole dish I bought down at the thrift shop just for today, topped it with toasted bread crumbs just like the recipe said and baked it to a bubblin’ cheesy perfection. Not that I got to taste a lick of it. Cletus confiscated what was left of it, casserole dish and all.”
Cletus looked down at the green slop in his lap and wished he’d gone and crammed it down her throat when he’d had the chance.
“What difference does it make what magazine it was?” Flo huffed. “All I know is I wasn’t spendin’ five dollars on a cookin’ magazine that’s pages fell out with the gentlest of yanks. I wouldn’t even have been lookin’ for a recipe if it weren’t for Cletus’ sudden fascination with cheese. Had I known what a miserable cuss he was goin’ to be, I’d have locked him and his precious cheese up in the attic ‘til spring. He went and spat out a mouthful of key lime coconut bar onto my new vinyl tablecloth. Accordin’ to the ‘Gasbag Gourmet’ it tasted like a road apple rolled in toasted coconut. Celine’s jaw dropped so hard it near ‘nough hit the tabletop. And bein’ that Cletus is a life-long member of the Skid Row Winos Association, he felt compelled to tell Jasper he’d sampled cat pee with a better flavor profile. That went over like a fart at a funeral. Between Celine’s bawlin’ and the way Jasper tore out of the driveway I doubt we’ll be gettin’ a Christmas card from them this year. Oh, we had us a doozy of a Thanksgivin’ thanks to that loon.”
Cletus slipped off his work boots, tossed a cheese-coated broccoli floret in the corner and grabbed himself a cold one. Cletus Harper was in it for the long haul.
“Third time this week he’s gone wadin’ waist-deep in the crazy pool,” Flo hollered to the neighbors. “Claims that mouse up and stole his bottom dentures this time.”
Cletus rolled his eyes, figuring she’d gone and curled her fingers ‘round the word “mouse” just to be a pest. He couldn’t make out what the neighbors said, but based on Flo’s cackle, it didn’t involve inducting him into the local Mensa chapter. Flo could laugh all she wanted, sooner or later the joke was gonna be on her.
“Just sits in that ratty recliner all day, itchin’ his privates, and throwin’ cheese ‘bout like we were the Rockafellas,” Flo filled them in. “Today it’s cheddar at four-ninety-nine a pound. Last week it was imported Swiss and before that, Eye-talian provolone. Next thing he’ll be jettin’ off to them Greek Isles for a bit of that feta. Oh, he’s an international wonder, that Cletus is.”
Dang that woman! It was a scientific process of elimination, not a smorgasbord. If she was gonna air his laundry, the least she could do was get it right. As it was, he’d specifically asked for orange cheddar and she went and got white just to make him look stupid. When he called her on it, she told him cheddar was cheddar. It didn’t make a difference if it were orange, white, polka-dot or plaid. And he’d sure as buttons never said anything about ruining it with broccoli. That was all Flo’s doing. Like any mouse in his right mind would risk life and limb for a nibble of broccoli. Flo’d been a kick in the can from the get-go.
“Cheese popcorn, Cheese Doodles, Cheez-Its, mac and cheese, cheese nachos…”
He conjured up an image of Flo counting off his failures on those nicotine-stained fingers of hers, pausing just long enough to take a drag, and switch hands.
“Mozzarella sticks, cheese in a spray can, cheese in a jar, cream and cottage. If it’s cheese, it’s made its way onto that sittin’ room carpet.”
That was an out-and-out lie and Flo knew it. Just like last month when she fed the mailman a whopper ‘bout his dementia. Dementia, his Aunt Millie’s behind! He was as sane as she was, maybe more so. Flo was one of them women that wasn’t happy ‘less there was a crisis in her life to harp on. When there weren’t one, she’d latch onto the littlest bit of nothing and work it ‘til it was something guaranteed to give even the hounds heartburn.
“I can’t hardly sleep any more worryin’ ‘bout the old buzzard.”
Sweet Mother of Pearl, she did not say that! The last time he could remember Flo worrying about him was never. Back in October the brakes on his pickup went out and he ended up in a ditch out along the creek. He was pinned inside that wreck for two days before somebody came across it. Flo never even knew he was gone. If he’d been driving home that night with a bucket of extra-crispy and was late, you’d best believe she’d have called the FBI to get a search party out after him.
“Then there’s them voices he heard when Jasper was carving the turkey.” Flo brought folks up to speed.
Cletus figured she jiggled her fingers around “voices” this time, followed up with a tilt of her head, and an oh-yes-he-did nod in case there were any doubts. Flo knew full well it wasn’t voices he’d heard. It was that mouse’s itty-bitty nails scratching behind the walls and up in the ceiling.
“They must have been whisperin’, because I didn’t hear ‘em.”
She did too hear them! He saw the way she grinned all toothless and nasty while it taunted him. She didn’t even try to hide it. The more the fool thing made them scratchy noises, the more she’d hoot ‘n’ holler.
“Jasper tried telling Cletus it was just the house settlin’, but he stormed off and got the shotgun. You try sittin’ down to a holiday meal at a table with a shotgun centerpiece. I warned Cletus, I did. Told him the cops were gonna haul him away this time and frankly I don’t give a gnat’s whisker if it’s in cuffs or a straitjacket.”
If Flo had any say, he was sure it’d be the straitjacket. He wouldn’t put it past her to stick him with a great big darning needle while they were parading him down the driveway just so he’d let out a banshee wail and get himself tased. Oh, she’d love that, all right. Folks would be jawing ‘bout it clear through to Christmas, bringing over condolence casseroles and pity pies while she filled them eye-high with her lies. He’d be sporting a lobotomy and drooling in his slippers while she was brainstorming his long-awaited obituary over tea and marmalade biscuits with the reverend and his missus.
“Gunned down the mudroom radiator last week, blew a hole the size of my head in the bathroom ceiling on Monday, and damned near shot the cat last night. To be honest, I think he’s finally up and lost his mind.”
When in her whole entire life had Flo ever been honest with anyone? It was a space heater he’d shot, and unless her head was the size of his fist, she was talking out of her hat. As for the cat, they didn’t even have one. That Pinocchio fella had nothing on Florence Laverne Harper.
“Folks down at the clinic think it might be a case of that Alzheimer’s that’s been goin’ round. It’s only a matter of time before I find him up on the roof dancin’ the merengue in his skivvies and a coconut bra.”
There she went again, twisting and turning nothing into front page news. The doc down at the clinic said his blood pressure needed tending, period.
“I don’t know what to do with him anymore,” Flo whined. “He bought up every snap trap they had down at the Aubuchon. I can’t hardly walk around inside without steppin’ on one of those poisoned pellets. There’s petrified slices of cheese curled up like old flypaper in every corner of the house, behind the sofa, and under the bed. He’s worried about mice, it’s a wonder we don’t got rats sleepin’ in the tub.”
Cletus tossed another cheese-caked piece of broccoli and watched the flashing blue lights dance along the living room walls. The cops couldn’t have been all that impressed with Flo’s blistering 9-1-1 call if they hadn’t even bothered putting on the sirens. Flo must have been ticked. He almost felt sorry for the poor fella in the cruiser. She was going to tear into him like an all-you-can-eat buffet.
“What’s the point of putting on a light show if you ain’t go
nna blare the sirens!” Flo hollered loud enough for folks clear into the next county to get an earful. “It’s eleven o’clock at night, the liquor cabinet’s been emptied and the moron’s got a loaded shotgun!”
A grin worked its way across Cletus’ unshaven face as the siren hiccupped and the flashing blues went out. If Flo didn’t bust every blood vessel in her brain right then and there, she never would. He almost felt giddy at the thought of her dropping dead on the front steps. When it didn’t happen, he braced himself.
“Well, ain’t you the pope’s nose,” Flo cursed.
“What seems to be the problem this time, Mrs. Harper?” Cletus heard the cop ask.
“What seems to be the problem! Ask them,” Flo barked.
Cletus figured she flapped one of her flabby arms in the general direction of their neighbors and any rubberneckers that might have wandered on over for a look-see. Flo called it audience participation. The more folks that had a say in his madness, the better her chances were of having him certified nuts.
“Flo’s got mice and Cletus’ got a gun!” one of the neighbors shouted.
“There ain’t no mice,” Flo shot back.
Knowing Flo, she flipped the bird to whoever said it.
“Mr. Harper,” the cop said, knocking on the front door. “Mr. Harper, mind if I come in? Mr. Harper…?”
“Cletus!” Flo screeched loud enough to peel the paper off the walls.
“What!” Cletus broke his silence.
* * *
“I’ve got every right to shoot the thieving varmint! The damned thing stole my lowers,” Cletus told the cop while Flo twirled a finger round her ear. “Scampered right up the nightstand while I was in bed, looked me straight in the eye like it was calling me out, and snatched them out of my water glass.”
“You gettin’ any of this down?” Flo asked the cop. “I believe it comes under the headin’ of Grand Theft Dental.”
The Killer Wore Cranberry Page 14
