by Joan Boswell
Buddy said. “Bummer.”
Call 911. That’s what you were supposed to do. The nearest phone was Mrs. Wilkins’s. Buddy didn’t want to run through the corn field and set off another shotgun. He could hardly leave Mick lying in the dirt. What if a biker came along? Buddy was in another tight spot.
It wasn’t easy getting Mick into the back of the idling cruiser. Mick was breathing funny. Buddy got behind the wheel. First time he’d been in the front seat of a cop car. He couldn’t help sweating. He flicked switches and pressed buttons in the hope he’d get the siren and the roof lights going. Then he burned rubber to Mrs. Wilkins’s place.
Maybe it was a delayed reaction to the shock of the gunshots. Or the blow to his head when he knocked Mick to the ground. Or all that blood. Even stress from borrowing a cop car. For whatever reason, Buddy had a crystal-clear analytical moment. In that second, everything that happened made sense. But who’d believe what he’d just figured out?
An ambulance wailed in the distance as Buddy hurried Mrs. Wilkins toward the cruiser. He’d ended up parked in the bed of day lilies on the front lawn. The roof lights on the cruiser were still flashing. Buddy was a bundle of nerves.
Mrs. Wilkins carried a wool blanket. She wrapped it around Mick and spoke to him softly, firmly and kindly. Like he was still in her Grade Five class. “You just hold on, Mick.”
Buddy’s voice wobbled. “I couldn’t leave him there, eh. Too risky.”
“You did the right thing, Buddy.” Mrs. Wilkins was pale as fog. For the first time ever, she hadn’t offered Buddy anything to eat when he pounded on her door with the news. Buddy was so freaked out by the whole situation with Mick that he barely noticed her special chocolate hazelnut torte on the big pine table. Buddy felt too sick to eat anyway.
“I figured out what’s going on,” Buddy said. “If they wanted to kill me, they’d have set up the shotguns at my end.”
Mrs. Wilkins said, “Start at the beginning, Buddy.”
“Okay, they probably weren’t trying to get anyone coming on foot from your house, because the shotguns were aimed the other way.”
Mrs. Wilkins said. “Take a deep breath. Start at the very very beginning.”
Buddy started. Mrs. Wilkins didn’t interrupt once. Not even when he got to his idea.
“I think someone was trying to get Mick. That’s why they were calling him up and telling him about my, um, you know... They knew he’d go and check out that field. He’d have to drive up that old logging track, because that’s the only way he could get in with his cruiser. You know what Mick’s like. Stubborn, eh. He’d go right through that field looking straight ahead. And he’d get shot full of holes.”
“What a terrible thing.”
“Yeah. And then it would be the perfect crime, because they’d say I set up that booby trap to protect my um... I’d get locked up forever for killing a cop. Especially a guy like Mick, that everyone likes and feels sorry for.”
“We’d both have a problem, Buddy. Who would look after me if you were incarcerated? I’d lose my helper and my friend. Who would appreciate my baking? Who would laugh at my little jokes? I’d end up in some institution, with my home and property sold off to a developer.”
Buddy sat right down on the grass in stunned silence.
“That’s how it goes, Buddy. Nice place like this, view of the hills and the river. Fifty acres can handle a lot of fancy condos, a golf course and a crowd of city people. You think I don’t know what it’s worth?”
Buddy bleated, “What can we do?”
“We’ll have to fix it.”
“But like how? Mick is still alive. These guys could try again. Maybe the next time we won’t be there. Anyway, the cops will never believe me. Mick didn’t, and he’s known me all my life.”
“I will deal with the police,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
At that moment, Mick opened his good eye. “Why don’t you leave it to me?” Mick said before he passed out again, and the paramedics loaded him onto a stretcher.
Three hours later at the Rusty Lock, Wanda spilt her gin martini on the table. She stared at Mrs. Wilkins and Buddy. Then she let out a long high wail. “No, not my Mick. Is he...?”
“Well,” Buddy said.
Wanda fished a wad of tissue out of her cleavage and honked her nose. “Tell me he didn’t suffer much.”
“Actually...” Buddy said.
“My god, I’m way too young to be a widow.” Wanda took a sideways glance at herself in the mirror.
Mrs. Wilkins said, “If a policeman dies in the line of duty, the widow gets a pension, Wanda. That could provide some comfort.”
Wanda wiped her eyes and stared at her aunt. “What’s a pension without my husband? Now look what’s happened. How many times did I tell you not to let this useless stoner hang around all the time?” Then she pointed an accusing red fingernail toward Buddy.
Mrs. Wilkins said. “What does Buddy have to do with it?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Mick was planning to catch Buddy red-handed. A nice grow-op bust just before he retired. Something to be proud of. But Buddy killed Mick in cold blood to keep out of jail.”
Big Bob came around the bar and laid a meaty hand on Wanda’s bare shoulder. “That Buddy’s an animal. A shotgun can make a real mess of a guy,” he said.
“Poor Mick,” Wanda moaned.
Buddy protested, “Hey man, I wouldn’t kill Mick, even to stay out of jail, if I needed to, which I don’t.”
Mrs. Wilkins said, “Who said anything about shotguns?”
Big Bob sputtered. “What else would there be up there in that corn field?”
“And what corn field would that be, Robert?” Mrs. Wilkins said in her best teacher’s voice.
Wanda whacked Big Bob with the back of her hand. “Shut up, you doorknob.”
Big Bob looked hurt, “Well what other kind of booby-trap would there be in Buddy’s crop? Shotguns is what everyone uses.”
“I am not sure what you’re talking about, Robert. Shotguns? Booby-trap? Mick just has a headache. He’ll be fine.”
Wanda whirled. “A headache?”
“All’s well that ends well,” Mrs. Wilkins said. “Wouldn’t you say, Wanda?”
Big Bob frowned. “You mean he’s still alive?”
Wanda blurted, “But you said...”
Mrs. Wilkins said, “I told you something terrible had happened to Mick. I was talking about betrayal.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Mick said from the doorway. He might have looked funny with the splint on his nose, the patch on his left eye and the gauze on his temple, but he sure wasn’t laughing.
Real tears welled up in Wanda’s eyes.
Mick said, “If you didn’t want to come north with me, Wanda, all you had to do was say so. You’d get half of everything. But half wasn’t enough, was it? You wanted it all.”
Wanda said, “What are you talking about, ‘it all’? You’re a cop, not Donald friggin’ Trump.”
Mick let that slide, “I mean the pension, the RRSPS, the proceeds from the house, the savings to buy the fishing lodge.”
“You’re so full of it,” Wanda said.
“So you and Big Bob decided rig up a bunch of guns, make some anonymous tips so I’d head to the field where Buddy’s got his little crop. I’m out of the way, Buddy takes the rap, you’re a merry widow and you and Scumbag Bob here laugh all the way to the bank.”
“Come on, eh,” Big Bob said.
“Buddy and I had a really close call because of you two.”
“That’s such crap,” Wanda huffed.
“Crap yes, but true crap,” Mick said. “Plus the shock of my murder in Mrs. Wilkins’s corn field and finding out that Buddy’s got this grow-op on her property would probably kill her.”
“Kill Mrs. Wilkins!” Buddy gasped. “That’s awful.”
Mick said, “Sure is. Then Wanda would get everything and sell it to some developer. Maybe Big Blob here.”
“These
are serious charges, Mick,” Mrs. Wilkins said. Buddy noticed she had a certain familiar look on her face. The one she used to use when she was dealing with her Grade Five boys. The look that meant she’d had enough funny business.
Mick didn’t seem to have noticed that look. “Yes, ma’am. Attempted murder of a peace officer is very serious. So is running a grow-op.”
Buddy’s eyes widened. Wait a minute. Hadn’t they agreed to cooperate before they arranged to trick Wanda and Big Bob? Had Mrs. Wilkins forgotten how stubborn Mick LeMay could be? Even if he did have a good reason to be stubborn this time.
Mrs. Wilkins said, “True enough, Mick. I imagine such a serious matter will mean a long and complex trial.”
“Sure will,” Mick said.
“We want a lawyer,” Wanda said.
Big Bob said, “Listen, Wanda, you said nothing could go wrong.”
Wanda said, “Make that two lawyers.”
Mrs. Wilkins said, “Are you sure you want a trial, Mick? Give some thought to it.”
“What’s to think about?” Mick said. But he glanced at Mrs. Wilkins in a way that made Buddy think Mick had picked up on the look.
Mrs. Wilkins said, “How about this? With appeals and everything, I imagine Wanda’s and Big Bob’s case could take years in court.”
Mick frowned. “That’s good, isn’t it?”
“Wanda’s still your wife, Mick. She’s entided to half your assets. That would put her way over the limit for legal aid, I’m sure.”
Buddy said, “Wow, yeah, it would, eh?”
Wanda said, “Damn right I’m entitled.”
Mrs. Wilkins said, “I imagine the legal fees for a long case will eat up your savings and the profit from your house. That would be a shame, so close your retirement, Mick.”
Mick didn’t say anything. Buddy could see that he was thinking it though.
Mrs. Wilkins said, “I imagine there’d be nothing left even before an appeal.”
Wanda said, “You’d help me, Auntie.”
“Why certainly, Wanda. You are my niece. I’ll help by proposing that if Mick wants to retire up north next month, he’ll need his assets intact to do that. In other words, he won’t be charging you or Big Bob with attempted anything.”
Wanda’s mean and snake-like smile emerged. “Hear that, Mick? You won’t be charging us.”
Mrs. Wilkins wasn’t finished. “In order to achieve that, Wanda, naturally you would have to agree to forego your share in the matrimonial home and other joint assets such as Mick’s pension. In writing, it goes without saying.”
The snake-like smile vanished. “But I’m family, Auntie.”
Mrs. Wilkins continued, “Indeed you are, and as such you may be surprised to learn that if anything were to happen to me, even such an ordinary event as a heart attack or a stroke, you will not be inheriting any part of my estate. I’ve left it to Buddy in trust for his lifetime. After that, the trust will pass to the Village Nature Fund. If you think about contesting my will, remember this: I already have a lawyer, and she’s very good. At any rate, I’m sure you would not want your role in the unfortunate matter of the shotguns and Mick’s injuries to come to light. Therefore, I think it’s a good thing you have Big Bob to look after you.”
Big Bob said, “What?”
Mrs. Wilkins turned to Mick. “I’m sorry you fell and broke your nose. I am glad your brush with that rock didn’t cost you your eye. I hope the other fellows don’t tease you too much at your retirement party.”
“My nose is none of anybody’s business,” Mick said.
“I feel exactly the same way about my corn field,” Mrs. Wilkins said, her bright blue eyes back to their usual level of twinkliness.
“Point taken,” Mick said.
Mrs. Wilkins said, “And Buddy feels that way about his gardening venture. Now, are we all clear on that?”
Mick and Big Bob nodded. Wanda pouted. Buddy looked from one face to the other. Wow. Just like Grade Five.
“I’m glad we’re all agreed. Now we can all get back to normal,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
Buddy was impressed. It looked like Mick would get to retire to his fishing lodge, free of Wanda. Wanda and Big Bob would get to stay together and out of jail. Buddy would get to keep his crop, and no one would get killed. Mrs. Wilkins hadn’t lost her touch. Buddy wasn’t a hundred per cent sure what in trust meant, but it sounded impressive too.
“Time for us to go, Buddy,” Mrs. Wilkins said.
Buddy grinned. Best of all, there was still that chocolate hazelnut torte back on the pine table waiting for him and Mrs. Wilkins.
Cool.
Mary Jane Maffini is the author of the Ottawa-based Camilla MacPhee mysteries and Lament for a Lounge Lizard, the first in a comic series set in West Quebec. Her short stories have appeared in six Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies, Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Storyteller and Death Dines In. A former librarian and mystery bookseller, she holds two Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis Awards for short stories. She’s not nearly as dangerous as she looks.
Dear Tabby
Vicky Cameron
Dear Tabby,
I don’t know who to turn to, I feel so bad. I decided you would be able to help, because I read you in the paper every day, because you know so much, and because I can be anonymous with you. So I can tell you the truth.
And the truth is I am totally and completely fed up with “Brian”, my husband of thirty years. Everything was fine until he retired from the factory. Then his Ward Cleaver became Archie Bunker. I don’t think I can stand his whining, complaining, fault-finding ways for one more minute. He wants a beer. The beer isn’t cold enough. The beer is the wrong brand. He wants lunch. He wants to eat on time, and why was I running out to the beer store when it was almost noon? Twenty years I’ve been teaching children to play the piano, and he made me quit because he didn’t want to listen to fractured versions of “Twinkle Twinkle Little Star” every afternoon. He never lifts a finger to help me. He says he’s done his time, and now he doesn’t have to do anything. He says that’s my job, handling the house.
I feel like I’m doing time. My June Cleaver has become Princess Leia chained to Jabba the Hutt. I was feeling edgy, with him slouched in front of the television like a greasy lump of Hutt, and me vacuuming, chained to the wall with an electrical cord, and I thought, what’s wrong with this picture? Some blonde woman on the television was going on about the hot new home decor colours, so I thought, why not? Off to the hardware store, back with a gallon of tangerine paint for the bedroom wall. He says there’s nothing wrong with the pink that’s been there since we bought the house in the Seventies, left from some stodgy homeowner who decorated it in the Fifties. He says walls only need one coat of paint, ever, to keep the dust in. If I insist upon change, he’d rather see it beige, but does he offer to go to the hardware store and exchange it? No. Does he offer to help with the painting? No. Does he at least help move the furniture and carry in the ladder? No. But by now I’m dying for fresh paint on the walls. It’s become a Holy Grail. If I can’t have this, I don’t want anything in this house or this marriage. The blonde woman said colours can influence your actions. Like soft blues and greens slow you down, and reds and oranges speed you up. So I do all the hefting myself, and he watches me paint from his lounge chair, complains that I’m not going to serve his lunch on time, and says I’m painting myself into a corner.
I feel like I am cornered. Princess Leia didn’t stand for this kind of treatment. She strangled that slug-monster with her chain. I’d like to climb down off this ladder and smack my Jabba’s head open with the paint can. I’d like to push his pudgy face into the paint tray and hold him under until he drowns. I’d like to paint him into that chair so he’s stuck there forever when it dries. Someday I’d like to start all over again, ride off into the sunset and never come back.
Please help me, Tabby. I feel so bad.
Had It in Halifax
Dear Had It,
You go, girl! Someday is not a day of the week. Seize the day. Life is too short. Wise up. It’s not too late to turn your life around. Don’t let him take the wind out of your sails; take your sails out of his wind. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Don’t get mad, get even. Be happy. Write to me again. I care.
Dear Tabby,
You were so right! I knew you could help me. I guess advising people on their problems every single day gives you an edge, a gift for seeing through the junk right to the heart of the problem. I’m not doing time for him. I walked out that door with a loaded suitcase, got in the car and started driving. Thank you for convincing me to change my life. I owe you. I’m a new woman, with a dotted yellow line ahead of me and tangerine paint under my nails.
Fleeing in Fredericton
Dear Fleeing,
You go, girl! You have to turn your own life around. Nobody else will do it for you. Turn your back on your troubles and never look back. Ride the horse in the direction it’s going. This is where the rubber hits the road. Write to me again. I care.
Dear Tabby,
By the time I got to Woodstock, I wasn’t feeling quite so strong. Where’s the fun in liberation? Where’s the adventure of the open road?
I missed all the adventure when I was young and innocent. Everyone told me the white picket fence and the two-car garage was the ultimate goal for a woman. I missed all the rock concerts, and then the folk festivals, because I was planting marigolds around my picket fence. I raised my allotted 2.3 children, but they’re long gone, to their own lives in other cities, their own families, their own two-car garages.
I’ve got nothing left. It’s just me, and my purse on the passenger seat, hurtling along this ribbon of highway. My life is as empty as Edmundston at three in the morning.
Funny, isn’t it, how you can trade one kind of hell for another? Living with “Brian” was bad, but maybe this is worse. I’m sitting here at a truck stop near Blind River. I’m so tired. Sure, when I started I had a real adrenaline surge. But I’ve been driving and driving, with no end in sight. I’ve been napping in the car and eating donuts and French fries. Did I make a mistake? Should I have kept on painting that wall, making lunch, buying beer? I should feel free, liberated, buoyant with the energy of a new lease on life. But I’m a wreck. And I’m nearly broke. I don’t know what to do.
