Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

  But right now she was Alice. She spread the cards face down on the table and looked directly into Jean’s dulled eyes. “Ruth Sullivan always believed her daughter innocent. It broke up her marriage, and she spent all those lonely years waiting for Elizabeth’s release. But Elizabeth always kept track of you. Elizabeth wanted to know where to find you. Ruth died at sixty-six. The year after Elizabeth came out. It doesn’t seem right you should live longer than she did.”

  Alice chose a card. “It’s time to read your future.” She turned the card over. “A skeleton in black armour astride a white horse, Miss Mayhew. The Death card.” But Jean Mayhew wasn’t listening. She sat with her head slumped against her chest.

  Alice studied her own feelings. Edie-Rose had thought getting back at those who had destroyed them would exorcise the anger and the hatred boiling within them. Looking at Jean, Alice felt no sense of triumph, only the realization that this was something she had to finish in order to start her own life.

  She fetched the wheelchair from the hall. Spreading open a plastic bag from the mattress she’d bought, she laid it on the chair. Manhandling Jean’s sleeping form into the chair wasn’t easy, but she and Edie-Rose had practised this manoeuvre using a prison chair. Getting rid of the body couldn’t be planned; it depended on the circumstances. Alice wished she could tell Edie-Rose how cleverly she’d arranged it.

  Leaning down, she zipped the bag up as far as Jean’s waist and tucked a blanket around her. If anyone were to see them, Jean would look like a sleeping woman. Alice would close it completely before she slid Jean into the big sewage pipe laid to service the new development.

  • • •

  Leaving the parlour, Alice went to the kitchen. She knew the shoe wasn’t there. She’d scrubbed the place after she got back from the construction site. There would be no trace of Jean Mayhew and no fingerprints from Elizabeth Sullivan.

  It must have fallen off, gotten caught between the plastic bag and the footrest and dropped somewhere en route. It wasn’t on Jean’s foot when Alice had pushed her into the pipe. She could picture the body perfectly as it lay face down in the clear plastic bag, could remember thinking Jean would have a peaceful death, suffocating long before the sleeping draught wore off. Why hadn’t she registered the missing shoe then?

  Alice looked out of the window. Daylight was fading. She could at least check that it hadn’t fallen somewhere between the house and the old logging road at the back.

  Head down, searching through grass grown long in the wet spring, Alice suddenly heard voices coming from the front of the house. She had time to reach the shed, duck under the cobwebs and scoot behind the door before the voices got closer.

  “She may be out doing a reading, Andy.” Alice recognized Constable Blain’s voice.

  “Reading?” That must be Andy.

  “Yes. She tells fortunes. Has done ever since she rented this house. Makes a good place for the church ladies who don’t want to be seen.” Constable Blain laughed. “Keeps the place spotless, doesn’t she?”

  Alice imagined them standing, faces pressed against the window.

  “Odd how she went white when she described the body. She hasn’t done that before. That’s why I want to see her face when I ask her what the shoe looked like.”

  Goose bumps rose on Alice’s arms. She listened intently.

  “Yeah. You often see old sneakers lying about, but a woman’s brown leather shoe…how would that suddenly appear on a road construction site?” Andy asked. “Any missing women reported?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What’s the background of this Hartley woman anyway?”

  “That is something I’m about to look into.” The voices fading. “I’ll run a check before I return.”

  God, how stupid she’d been. Why hadn’t she listened to Edie-Rose? “Girl, you got a talent for bringing attention to yourself. Keep quiet, and ain’t no cop gonna think ’bout you.” And what had she done? Been in and out of the police station all year.

  Jean was supposed to have gone on holiday today, so she wouldn’t be missed yet. And they were unlikely to come across the body. That section of the road had been covered with six feet of fill before she’d reported the murder. But as soon as they started looking into Alice Hartley’s background, they would discover she didn’t have one. She waited in the shed until she heard the car turn onto the main road.

  In the house, Alice climbed the stairs to her room. Going to the closet she knelt down, moved her winter boots and pulled out a cardboard box. From it she took a black nylon fanny-pack and a pair of black leather running shoes. She didn’t need to look into the fanny-pack; it had been ready from the moment she arrived. Now she would stow it with her get-away vehicle. Then she would clean the house and be ready to leave in the morning. She had no fear that Blain would discover her non-existence before then. Alice Hartley had no police record, and all bureaucrats would have gone home by now.

  The phone rang, and Alice paused. Should she answer it? It could be Blain. Better to talk on the phone than have him come round. She went down to the parlour and lifted the receiver.

  “Is that Miss Hartley? Jack Lee here.”

  “Hello, Mr. Lee.” Why would he be calling? A warden of the Anglican Church wasn’t likely to be wanting his cards read. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m worried about Jean Mayhew.”

  Alice froze. No words would come out of her mouth.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  Trying to gather her wits, Alice managed to make a response.

  “Did Jean come and see you yesterday?” Mr. Lee asked. “She said she was going to.”

  Damn her. She wasn’t supposed to tell anyone.

  “No, no. She never arrived. I think she’s gone on holiday.” Alice knew she sounded flustered.

  “There was a problem. She postponed it until this evening. I was supposed to drive her to the station, but she isn’t home.”

  “Perhaps she forgot and took a cab.”

  “Her luggage is in the hall. I could see it through the window.” He paused, then “You’re sure she didn’t come?”

  “Could she have fallen when walking over? Oh, Mr. Lee,” Alice’s voice trembled, “I did have a dreadful vision this morning. I went to the police, but I don’t think they believed me.”

  “I’m going to call them now.” He hung up, taking Alice by surprise.

  “You are not going to cheat me, Jean Mayhew.” Alice said. Quickly, she returned to the bedroom and looked around. Not much to do here. She ran into the bathroom. Spraying liquid soap onto her facecloth she wiped taps, toothpaste tube, toothbrush, the sink counter and the toilet seat. Then she unclipped the plastic shower curtain. A wash would remove any fingerprints. The machine was in the mudroom next to the kitchen. Alice sped downstairs and stuffed the curtain in. She could hear Edie-Rose’s voice clearly. “Still wearing your gloves, girl? Good. Now the Pledge, jus’ in case youse forgot sometimes.”

  Up the stairs, Pledge in hand, spraying and wiping as she went. First the banisters, then into the bedroom spraying all the fronts, handles, tops. Mentally ticking off the list she and Edie-Rose had memorized, she went around methodically cleaning all surfaces she could have touched without her gloves. The kitchen she had done in the early hours, and in the parlour and entrance hall they would find only the previous tenant’s prints. Alice had never been in them without gloves.

  Back in the mudroom, Alice removed the dust cover from her bicycle. Her “get-away vehicle”. Edie-Rose had laughed at the idea, but Alice felt convinced people didn’t notice bikes. Plus it had the advantage of allowing her to wear a helmet.

  I’m going to make it, Edie-Rose, she vowed silently. She’d practised this next move many times, fantasizing great getaways. Night after night she’d cycled down the paths in the dark, headlight hooded, relishing the freedom, toning her muscles. She knew every bump and grating on her escape route, but she’d never really expected to have to leave in a hurry.

&n
bsp; Into the empty pannier on the bike went the wig, the blouse with the special padding to make her back look crooked, the glasses, watch and skirt. On top of them she placed Alice’s shoes. Wearing a built up shoe had been a brilliant idea. It meant she didn’t have to remember to limp, it happened naturally. From the pannier on the other side came jeans, black ribbed sweater and fleece vest. Taking some baby-wipes she cleaned the beige make-up from her face, checking herself in the mirror behind the door. The dirty wipes went into the pannier too. Running shoes, helmet and fanny-pack completed the change. Only the white gloves stayed.

  Folding the dust cover, she placed it on top of her spare clothes in the pannier. It might be useful if she had to sleep in the rough. Then Alice wheeled the bike out of the house, locking the door behind her. She stood and double-checked everything in her mind. There should be nothing to connect Elizabeth Sullivan to Alice Hartley.

  A siren sounded in the distance. Time to go.

  She patted her fanny-pack. Alice Hartley was dead. Michelle Roubillard was born. French passport, wallet, sunglasses and snapshots of family in France. All the things a tourist might be expected to carry. She smiled to herself. She had received an excellent education in prison.

  Michelle tucked the white gloves into her pocket and cycled down the lane to the bike path that ran parallel to the highway. Richardson Falls boasted of its network of trails, and Michelle knew them all. She travelled two hundred yards then took the fork leading away from the road. As she turned, an ambulance flashed by with a police car right behind it. So the siren hadn’t been for her. An accident would occupy Blain for a while. She could imagine his language when he eventually arrived at the farmhouse and found it empty.

  The kilometres flew by. Michelle settled into a steady rhythm. She had a long way to go before morning. Thoughts floated in her mind. She’d planned well. Apart from losing Jean’s shoe, she’d made no mistakes. Not bad, considering she’d been playing “Alice” too long for her to wait. Maybe she ought to have heeded Edie-Rose and been unobtrusive. But it wasn’t in her nature.

  Wheels humming, Michelle picked up speed. She wanted to be across the Ottawa River into Quebec before morning. Not until the lights of Kanata lit the sky did she remember she hadn’t switched on the washing machine.

  LIZ PALMER of Chelsea, Quebec, has recently discovered kayaking. Dividing her time between various volunteer activities, writing and this new addiction is proving difficult. She is currently searching for a waterproof laptop that floats.

  TEE’D OFF

  MARY KEENAN

  It’s just bizarre to think that because of the murder, I’ll be able to do whatever I feel like when I grow up. Well, the murder and being good at sports.

  In my high school, being good at sports makes you kind of like a god. The popular kids here are the jocks and jockettes, and they’re so competitive, they’ll ignore all sorts of things that would get a kid beaten up someplace else if that kid can help them win all the big games. With me, they mostly ignore the fact that I think sports are stupid, especially when they’re pointless. I mean, what’s the good of a lot of girls running from one end of a field to another, chasing a big white ball and getting all out of breath? It’s like mom on her treadmill. She never actually gets anywhere. I’m not saying exercise is stupid, but I’d rather do it for a good reason. Like when my cousin Judy and I play golf so we can talk about stuff for a few hours without our folks listening in. I really like that about golf.

  Anyway, because I’m good at sports, Coach Flannigan kept me late after swim class that day, trying to talk me into trying out for some special synchronized swim team he’d heard about. Totally pointless. I couldn’t get out of that pool fast enough. And I really didn’t, either, because when I got into the change room all the other girls had staked out a place to strip out of their swimsuits, and the only privacy stall was taken.

  The whole female bonding thing is super-overrated in my opinion. Especially with the jockettes, who spend all their time together either coming up with some sports strategy, figuring out the theme for our big grad party this spring or talking about Dex Monaghan being hot for them.

  “He asked me about my lipstick today,” Heather Lane was bragging when I came in from the fast shower I had taken with my suit still on. No way was I showing off my tush to this crowd, at least not for a week. “He leaned real close and asked me if it tasted good.”

  Kelly Baxter, a pretty good hitter on the softball team, one-upped her as always. “He asked me about my underwear. Wanted to know whether I go for red nylon or black lace.”

  The jockettes all started swooning, so I rolled my eyes and turned around and smacked into one of the dopeheads who must’ve thought she could see my tush through my bathing suit if she just stared hard enough.

  “What did you get, Allie? A butterfly?”

  “Please. Butterflies are so yesterday.”

  The dopehead girls want me to join their clique just as much as the jockettes do, and for pretty much the same reason. They figure my being fit and coordinated makes me their poster girl for all the perfect body, perfect mind crap they puff out the window with every drag on the weed they smoke to prove they’ve cornered the market on inner peace. They are so lame. I think it was their lameness that made me tell them I’d gotten a multi-coloured tattoo on my tush, just to see how many of them would pull a lemming and get an even more daring tattoo in a more private spot. I’d bet Dex that at least a dozen would show up at Eddie’s Tattoo Shop by next Tuesday and turn my hypothetical act of bravado into a total cliché.

  Anyway, having the dopeheads staring at my tush made me even more interested in getting out of my swimsuit and into my jeans so I could go home and have a long bath out of Mom’s way. And, judging by the purple toenails on the feet sticking out of the bottom of our only stall, Caitlin was still in there, which was bad news for me. She always did hog that stall. Looked like I’d be changing in the toilets.

  Then I had to look closer, because I couldn’t figure out why there’d be all that thick red stuff on the floor around her feet. Caitlin’s red cotton swimsuit was too old to bleed out colour like that. Not to mention that this stuff didn’t look like water. I didn’t like it. I knocked on the stall door and asked if she was okay. She didn’t answer. I pushed it open and looked at Caitlin sort of wedged on the bench inside, and what I saw wasn’t very nice. Teenaged girls shouldn’t have big knives sticking out of their chests.

  “You.” I pointed at Heather Lane, who was the closest to being dressed. “Go to the office right now and get somebody to call the police.”

  After that, you can imagine what happened. School was closed for a couple of days, and all the kids went around kind of shocked, and some social workers came out to talk to us about our feelings. And of course, right away the police were turning up, asking a lot of questions about Caitlin. Please.

  “Caitlin didn’t kill herself,” I told the cop who interviewed me, Detective Stewart. He’s a tall weedy guy with a big nose, kind of like a picture of a monk I saw once, except the monk had more hair.

  “I didn’t say she did, Allison. But now that you mention it, there was some fresh graffiti on the inside of the stall, and it suggested that Caitlin had been doing bad things with one of the boys.” I got the feeling that if I pushed, he’d start coming up with some more super hilarious ways to protect my virgin ears, but I had other things to do.

  “You think she carried a knife around in her gym bag so that if her reputation got ruined one day she could just end it all right there, huh? Which boy?”

  Stewart coughed. “It said ‘Dex’. I understand there is a Dex Monaghan in this school?”

  “Sure, and there’s a Serious State of Denial in this school, too. Dex is the best athlete this town has ever had, so practically all the kids here pretend not to know he’s gay. I mean, the guys need him to win their games for them, so they just act like he’s joking when he makes passes at them, which he almost never does because the guys here are s
o lame. And the girls don’t understand why a guy would want to do it with another guy anyway, so they keep thinking he just needs to meet the right girl. If he’d fooled around with Caitlin, she would have been totally in with the jockettes. They’d want to know how she got him.”

  “I see.” Stewart looked totally confused. He probably wasn’t old enough to have any teenagers of his own.

  “I’ll make this simple for you, Detective Stewart. Caitlin Anderson was a fringe girl. Even if she was going to kill herself, she would never have done it at school.” Stewart didn’t seem to be getting it. “Look, just last month she tried to get in with the jockettes by bringing a bunch of marbles to school from her mother’s glassblowing studio. Thought she could get them to sit down on the ground like fourth-graders and shoot marbles for fun. Social suicide.” Bad choice of words, Allie.

  Detective Stewart must have thought so too, because he got all soothing on me. “All we’re trying to do is figure out how Caitlin ended up in that stall. So far, the only thing we know for certain is that she’d been a little down this year.”

  “Of course she was down. She was an unpopular fringe girl, and her parents just split up. But there’s no way she’d decide to off herself, and then do it with a knife wearing her oldest swimsuit while she’s in a crummy change room stall surrounded by a lot of people who didn’t like her.

  “Here’s how I see it. When swim class is in last period, Caitlin had permission to get out of the pool ten minutes early so she could make her piano lesson. Today Coach Flannigan kept me back to talk about some new team thing, and I was super-bored about it and I was watching the door to the change rooms. I can tell you that all the other girls went through it in clumps. Nobody in our swim class could have stabbed Caitlin without all of the girls being in on it, and that just wouldn’t happen, because most of the class is made up of two cliques, and they’d never side together on anything. But I figure there were maybe five minutes when somebody could have gone into the change room from the hallway, stabbed Caitlin, and gone back out before anybody noticed.”