And not a murderer. Sure, she’d wished Don Viggers dead, but dreaming and doing are two different affairs.
“The wish is father of the deed,” Wickham said. That porker with his flabby beer gut and double chin. Pig Wickham. How she hated him now, she who hated no one, not even Don, she who baked Christmas cookies for prisoners, she who cared for snakes, frogs, bats, and bees, not just butterflies, she who cut everyone more slack than they’d ever cut her.
They'd hung her with her own rope. Her own words.
The old woman and her pig, a children's book, kept playing in Sally's head: Rope! Rope! Hang butcher. Butcher won't kill ox … dog won't bite pig … piggy won't jump over the stile … and I shall not get home tonight.
Forced to sit for hours, idle, unproductive, was cruel and unusual punishment. They might at least let her sew or crochet. She flexed her arms, practicing for the five-pound stein-holding contest.
The front door pushed open and Tom finally waltzed in, he who wouldn’t check his cell phone while dealing with End of Fiscal Year madness at his electronics company.
He looked good. Sally leaped up and trembled in his arms. Tom pulled back to give her a questioning look. “What have you done, Sally?”
“Me?” She shot a glance at Pig Wickham. “Ask him.”
He didn’t. He kept his gaze on her. Tom, lean as a whip, had that stoic look she’d loved in Clint Eastwood’s spaghetti Westerns. Not the warm-fuzzies kind of guy, but dependable. True-blue.
“Crotalus horridus,” she said. Dinner hour had passed, and no one had asked her if she was hungry. She wasn’t, but that was not the point.
“English, please.”
“Timber Rattlesnake--crotalus horridus. As if I could stash a snake in a tomato cage and make sure only Don would come across it, get bitten, and die of anaphylactic shock before Connie could get an ambulance. She chopped the snake with a garden hoe.” Horridus. “She was hysterical, having seen a man die before her very eyes--and says it’s all my doing!”
Tom shot a Clint Eastwood glare at PigWick, who didn’t seem to notice. “How did they get in our house and rummage through your books and papers without a search warrant?”
“They just dropped by for coffee, and we were just chatting. I never dreamed I’d be hauled in for questioning for a snake bite I knew nothing about. Thank God you’re here. I can’t wait to go home.”
“We haven’t said you’re free to go yet.” PigWick waved a stack of computer printouts, nodding at Police Pal Cal--who handcuffed her to a table that sat out in the open for anyone to see. The indignity! She struggled, looking to Tom for help, as if he’d tackle an armed officer.
Wickham held up a page of Sally’s “Acts of Nature” blog. “You sure spend a lot of time thinking about freaky ways people can die, don’t you?”
She tried to keep her gaze steady and neutral. “People call me all the time wanting to know how to kill things or whether something might kill them.”
“We have audio, too.”
Wickham trotted out a device that played Sally’s voice: “Only Don would move an electric fan before unplugging it. Three missing fingertips to go with his missing brain cells. He could’ve earned a dozen Darwin Awards by now. Instead, he survives every disaster, and Connie suffers. She can’t work up the nerve to leave him. He doesn’t have the decency to die of his own stupidity.”
“That recording is over a year old.” Sally’s voice shook with anger. “How many people know the pharmacy phone is tapped? Don’s been dead only half a day, yet you guys found time to dig up all this …?”
Cal snorted. “Nancy isn’t aware of half the shit that goes on under her nose. She can’t even tell a Sons of Silence logo from a lame-ass patch Kenny’s mama sewed onto his jacket. Hell, even he dunno what it means.”
Blow by blow came the list of reasons they had for charging her with the murder of Don Viggers, including video footage from that very morning. Sally’s own words: He should have died in that car wreck.
“I can’t believe you guys,” Sally said. “You’ve known me for years. If I wanted to kill Don, I’d find a smarter way to do it. You know I’d never put a snake in harm’s way.”
“And that,” Wickham said, “makes it the perfect alibi.”
“Connie is terrified of spiders and snakes; why isn’t it her perfect alibi?”
Tom finally spoke up. “You do have an alibi, right?”
“Of course.” Sally frowned at him, then at Wickham. “Where’s all those surveillance videos when you need ‘em? They’d show I was nowhere near Don’s tomatoes. I was in my own garden.”
Uh-oh. What if she’d muttered Fuck Kenny out loud?
“You’ll like this one, Tom.” Cal trotted out another video: Sally’s Can’t you just see him in Lederhosen, and Nancy’s No, but you obviously can.
“You can’t arrest a woman for gossip.” Tom, God bless him, never the jealous type, aimed his cold stare at the officers, not her. “You gain nothing by locking up my wife, but the whole town loses. She does more community service than everyone else put together. Tomorrow is Oktoberfest. Without Sally, nobody else--”
“--Cares,” Cal interrupted. “Serve the beer, minus the bad music and stupid leather pants, and you’d get twice the crowd.”
Oh, that hurt. That was the lowest of the low blows.
“Your little Oktoberfest is history.”
Sally’s fists clenched. Tom’s eyes widened; he shook his head at her, in vain. She stood, but the handcuffs pulled her short.
“You pig! I will NEVER bake another cinnamon roll for you! Ever!”
Cal gasped as if he’d been punched by the playground bully.
“And you,” she gritted her teeth at Wickham, “will never taste another gingersnap from my kitchen. Fuck you.”
From the looks on their faces, Sally’s words hit harder than bullets.
“Damn. You need to chill.” Cal grinned. “Hell, you need to get laid.”
Tom whipped out his coldest, most evil stare. A blast of cold air came whooshing in from the front door, as if he had summoned it.
A tall, dark silhouette loomed into station and came into focus.
Kenny.
Lesson #3: Do Not Try to Bargain
As a rule, you don’t have to answer any questions the police ask you. This comes from the Fifth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution, which protects you against self-incrimination.
Kenny. Those deep blue eyes flared, bright as ever, in a weathered face. He didn’t snarl, exactly, but his shaggy gray hair and feral physique made him look scary in a supremely bad-ass way.
Sally felt faint. Prolonged stress, an empty stomach, shock and outrage, and her recent outburst in the garden, f- Kenny, tumbled in her head while he fired verbal missiles at the police.
“All you got is some hysterics from Connie Viggers, some snark from Nancy, and a shit load of circumstantial evidence that won’t hold up in court,” Kenny said. “I know for a fact you failed to remind Sally of her rights. You took advantage of her trusting, innocent nature. You plowed through her home. You hauled her in like a common criminal.”
“After pigging out on my gingersnaps!” Sally added.
“Not to mention insulting her favorite holiday,” Tom said.
As if on cue, the tubas and accordions of a polka band sounded outside the station walls. Wickham opened the door as strangers in Lederhosen marched past playing “In Heaven There Is No Beer.”
Kenny smirked. “The band won’t stop playing until you let her go.” He favored Sally with that smile of his. The man who’d toyed with every girl in town except her, because she didn’t count, was here now, for her. Why?
And how did Kenny “know” the police never read Sally her rights?
Cal moved to the door. “We’ll arrest them for disturbing the peace.” He frowned. “What the hell. Who are these freaks? I still hear ‘em, but now I can’t see ‘em.”
“Because you’re delusional,” Kenny said. “Premeditated mur
der by snakebite. What the hell you and Connie been smoking? You oughtta haul her sad, sorry little ass in here.”
“Well, look who’s the expert on police procedurals.” Wickham smiled at Kenny like a bully who’d spotted a new target.
“Then again,” Kenny paused, eyes shifting like a sly Border Collie’s from pig to pig, “framing Sally was your idea, not Connie’s, wasn’t it? You planted that one in her head.”
No quick comeback now.
From the sidewalk, “Roll Out the Barrel” sounded.
Kenny smirked. “How’s that Coats for Kids campaign coming along?”
Oof! That startled the pigs into a minute of silence.
“Actually, Kenny,” Cal said, as if hatching a new idea, “we’ve been counting on you to tell us all about it.”
PigWick pulled a key ring from his pocket unlocked Sally’s cuffs, and yanked her up by an arm. “Don’t leave town anytime soon, Sally. We’ll catch up with you tomorrow.” He motioned to the seat she vacated. “Have a seat. Kenny. You get to shoot off your big mouth off all you want now.”
Dog bit pig, and pig jumped over the stile, and Sally would make it home tonight, after all.
Would Kenny?
Lesson #4: The Mortification of Silence
Police officers say your cooperation will make things easier for you. The only thing it makes easier is their job. Don’t talk, don’t sign anything, until your lawyer is present.
Oh Connie! Sending Nancy to slam the door in Sally’s face.
She swiped a tear from her eye. No time to sit around feeling sorry for herself. Tom had offered to stay home with her but Sally knew he was hoping she’d say no. Half his employees were on forced “use it or lose it” vacation, and the founder of RF Signals, Inc, had more urgent issues than a death in the family--at least, the death of an in-law nobody liked.
Something thumped her kitchen door. Sally went out to investigate: nobody there, just a rustling in the grass and a note scribbled on the back of Verna Locke’s junk mail: “Meet me at Mom’s. ASAP. Tell no one. DESTROY THIS.” As if she’d go off alone to meet Kenny, telling no one.
Sally had a whole new chapter to add to her Pre-Apocalypse podcast. Climate Change couldn’t be prevented; people should prepare for it instead. Disappearing animal habitats, extinctions, mass migrations, food production--so much to think about!--but instead of educating people, the government was locking up anyone with common sense.
No Oktoberfest. I don’t give a shit. That’s what she told herself, anyway.
A knock on the front door. Kenny again? Sally stuffed the note into her pocket and looked through the peephole.
A man in Lederhosen. Even strangers were mocking her, now? Her days of being a good sport were over. Sally tiptoed back to the kitchen, pretending not to be home.
Maybe she’d drive off to some other town and enjoy her favorite holiday with people who cared. Once she figured out who that might be.
Busy writing, she hadn’t spared a second thought for the man at her door until he materialized in her kitchen. Oh! An intruder. A very nice looking intruder. Leaning on a walking stick, dressed in the most authentic looking Lederhosen she’d ever seen. Wait a minute. The man from the sidewalk. Like an actor, he somehow managed to look younger with a little body language.
He tipped his hat to her, smiling. “I am from the government,” he said with a wink, “and I am here to help.”
Old Reagan joke. What was this character doing in her house?
“Okay. I’m from the future, and I am here to help.” He flung his arms and gave her a show-biz smile. Tongue stud. The twinkle in his eye, the energy and mischief, reminded her of Peter Pan. “This time, no joke.”
Sally blinked. “How did you get into my house?”
“Ach, Sally.” The sharp corners of his face, his knife-edge cheekbones and darkening eyes, made him seem old again. “First you ignore Kenny’s note, then the handsome and mysterious stranger at your door.” He reached into a shirt pocket. “I really am here to help.”
The papers he handed her--impossible! Years melted away and Sally was fourteen again, reading her own handwriting, her lost words: The sounds an old house makes are usually just the wind, but sometimes they’re the footsteps of secret travelers who come from the future, like tourists, to see how we lived, but they must never let us see them. They’re harder to catch sight of than Santa.
Her time travel story, the one Connie burned. “How on earth…”
“It was Verna Locke’s idea. What kind of sister burns your story, then steals the idea years later? The Two-Timing Time Traveler.” He snorted. “Verna says it only has three good lines--the ones she stole from you.”
“Let her have ‘em. I’ve had a good life, while Connie’s had nothing but misery. Writing pulp fiction does her heart good.” She managed a grateful smile. “How did you get my story back?”
“Let me tell you, it was tricky. Time-traveling to your childhood home--”
“Why?” She shook her head. “Who cares about some teenage girl’s story, or her mean sister? I saw the fire myself, but no one ever saw you.”
“Ah, but you heard me, Sally.” His twinkling smile came back. “Watch.”
He positioned the tongue stud between his teeth and bit down. Sally rubbed her eyes; her vision was going blurry. But no. Everything in her kitchen was in sharp focus except for the invisible man with the German accent.
“I think I’m low on sleep,” she murmured, taking a seat at the table.
“Ach, Sally.” He materialized and sat across from her. “Forget your sister, your cousin, your small-minded town. I know how it is. You want to help, not come across as a know-it-all, but people can’t handle the truth. Nobody listens. Well, all but maybe one percent.”
“You sound like Verna. You know where she is, don’t you?”
He leaned forward. “She’s had an eye on that drug runner Don Viggers. Guess who’s trafficking heroin in those coats? Guess who followed Don and dug up his stash of cash? Thanks to her, Don couldn’t explain fifty thousand dollars that went missing. But guess what! Your police pals are not the only ones with hidden cameras. Let me show you what you missed today while wasting your condolences on Connie.”
Slicker than a snake-oil salesman, he projected a video onto Sally’s table from a tiny gadget. Invisible, he’d traveled back in time to film the Falls City police rattling Don’s cage, then plotting Don’s demise.
“Now watch as Sally innocently takes home a little coat. Uh-oh!” His voice went comically high in pitch.
The can of worms this man had opened was growing faster than those charcoal snakes that sprouted like magic on a Fourth of July sidewalk.
“You see how it is. Don has to go down for the missing money. Sally takes the fall for Don. Kill two birds with one… snake.”
“Our own police… drug trafficking… framing people for murder?”
“Tale as old as time.” He smiled. “Keep watching. My polka band has many talents, no?”
“Oh! The band? I thought that was Kenny’s doing.” Sally watched the video of four young men in Lederhosen handcuffing the pigs.
“FBI should have arrived by now. Ah, Kodak moments! If only I could capture them all.”
Sally shook her head in amazement. “I don’t even know your name.”
“For now, you’re safer if you don’t. Verna calls me Credo Man. Others call me Traveler. Or Silas, for Silesian. After we relocate to the future, you can--”
“What? Me, relocate? I’m going back to bed.” This had to be a dream.
“No. Later, you sleep.” His voice was dynamic and boyishly cute, like his smile. “Get your Dirndl, Fräulein. We’re going to Oktoberfest.”
Lesson #5: Fight or Flight
When all else fails, get out of Dodge.
In a barn Sally had never seen before, Oktoberfest was in full swing with brats, sauerkraut, a heavenly aroma of fresh bread, a giant keg of beer, and men in feathered caps, and busty babes in beau
tiful, embroidered Dirndls. The people gathered here were themselves antiquities, re-purposed, salvaged from the past by a mad German scientist preparing for a post-apocalypse future.
The sidewalk sisters presented Sally with a beer stein made of Ceramika Bolesławiecka. Or, no--the original Silesian pottery! Sally read the fine print on the bottom in disbelief.
“Silas is a genius. Back in time he went, right before the factory was bombed, smuggling out what he could, burying things in 1940s Germany until he could come back years later and dig it up again,” the silver lady explained. “We used to work there. This, we knew you’d appreciate.”
Tears blurred her vision. Credo Man’s techno-wonders were beyond her, but Sally grasped his logic. Travel back in time to rescue only people who were about to be killed, and bury as many artifacts as they could in secret locations. Return to the present day. Retrieve the buried treasures, recruit new members, and deliver his people and their cultural artifacts to a far-distant future.
Something electric drew near, making hairs stand on Sally’s arms. Kenny. In Lederhosen. With way too much chutzpah. His eyes moved like a caress, taking in her curves with the complete opposite of Connie’s disdain.
Sally’s dress had grown so tight over the years, the laces had to be loosened as far as they could go. Her bosom swelled like bread rising over the edge of a pan.
“Ein Prosit!” came a familiar voice. Verna Locke, wearing “Lady Hosen” rather than a dress, raised her stein.
“Ein Prosit!” everyone shouted back, glasses clinking.
“It's been Oktoberfest-proven,” Credo Man said with a wink, “that when you wear Lederhosen, your Bier tastes better and the Fräuleins find you irresistible.”
“To the Dirndl!” Kenny proposed. “German-engineered to highlight a woman's assets!” More clinking and drinking ensued. Ah, Kenny knew the Brüderschaft toast: right arms interlocked, two people drain their glasses, kiss each other and become Brüder, brothers, ever after.
Sally dodged his lips to offer him a cheek. "I'm a Frau, not a Fräulein."
“You sure look good to me, whatever you call yourself.”
Freedom's Light: Short Stories Page 19
