WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER

by Joslyn Chase

  She sat down to dinner with the two brothers.

  “Was the suicide drama really necessary?” she asked.

  Jordy sighed. “I really did want to end it all. I wanted to die, without dying. If I engineered it right, I could walk away, all ties neatly cut and no one the wiser. I craved a simpler life, and didn’t like who I’d become. I thought it would be best for everyone if I cleanly ceased to be.”

  “You should have known better,” Cathryn chided. “Poor Abel’s been put through a world of torment.”

  “I never intended—“

  “Road to hell, Jordy, road to hell. You will return with me and make your apologies to Abel.”

  Jordy waved a fork at her, but quelled under her stern gaze. “Yes, ma’am.” He chewed and swallowed. “How did you know?”

  Cathryn pushed back from the table. “There were a number of things that didn’t sit right with me, but it was your suicide note that clinched it.”

  Jordy’s eyebrow quivered. “In what way?”

  “You said, I choose to end my life here. In the context of the note, you seemed to mean here, as in this point in time. But I realized you may have meant here, as in physical space. You planned to end your life in Kentucky and begin a new life elsewhere. This was the logical place.”

  Jordy looked stunned. “One little word.”

  Cathryn smiled. “To a writer, every word carries weight.”

  ~~~~

  Abel was angry. His face grew scarlet and his eyes pulsed in his head. Who could blame him? Words were exchanged, each carrying a weight of grief and rage, but by the end of the tirade, they were lightened by relief, and even joy. Abel’s shadow had evaporated. He and Belinda could stand in the light.

  They gathered in the dining room of the Kentucky ranch for a congratulatory drink.

  Margot raised her glass. “To another mystery solved.”

  “Here, here,” was murmured around the table and Cathryn met Jordy’s eyes with an ironic smile.

  “I almost feel sorry there wasn’t a murder involved,” said Margot. “Since that is your specialty.”

  “But my dear,” said Cathryn, “There is a murder involved, and I’m afraid the truth will be quite painful.”

  They all stared at her.

  “Your druggist friend betrayed you. Unless I am mistaken, he and the woman he later married engineered the murder of the pilot.” She looked at Jordy. “A very ruthless couple. They didn’t allow the death of your wife and child to stand in their way. I’m sorry.”

  Jordy fell into his chair, a spill of red wine staining his lap.

  “I tipped my hand a little with my phone call, and he may have scrambled. But I doubt it. He’ll stand and fight. He’s arrogant, and he’s got too much at stake.” She put down her glass. “I’ll leave it to you to call the police. I really must get back. Deadlines await.”

  She rose and nodded her goodbyes, moving to the foyer where she stopped, grimacing in pain.

  Margot took her elbow. “Aunt Cathryn, what’s wrong.”

  Cathryn massaged her leg. “Next time you insist I dance to your tune, remind me to stretch out my calves first. Let’s go home.”

  NOTES

  I wrote this story as a guest post for The Write Destination, Amber Meyer’s author website, dedicated to improving writing skills by learning from and imitating the greats. It was published in November 2016 in honor, and imitation, of Agatha Christie.

  In writing this story, I played with two themes that are ubiquitous in the stories of Agatha Christie. She frequently used the device of deceiving appearances in her mysteries, much like the conjuring trick of a stage magician, and her detectives often made comments on human nature, in regard to such deceptions.

  Another theme that pervades Christie’s fiction is that of innocence—how the innocent are affected by crime and injustice, and how, when suspicion falls, the innocent suffer under a cruel shadow, thus compounding the wickedness of the guilty.

  I also had to face the decisions whether I would set my story in England, or transport my version to America (which I did) and whether I would set the story in Christie’s own time-frame, or move it to modern days (which I did). I had so much fun writing this piece that I may want to use Aunt Cathryn as a series character, and I picture more longevity in the modern, American version.

  I’m a whole-hearted Agatha Christie fan. She was a genius plotter, and though she is sometimes criticized for shallow characterization, I disagree with that assessment. Without going into deep detail, she nevertheless pointed to the habits, desires, lusts, and weaknesses that make us human, and she revealed her characters through their behavior. There’s no better way, in my opinion.

  Trying to walk in her footsteps, even in a small way, was a daunting task, and yet, it had its pleasures. I hope you enjoyed it, as well.

  Blessings and Curses on a Calico Cat

  ________________

  Step on a crack, break your mama’s back.

  One family, steeped in superstition. One daughter,

  learning to stand on her own.

  Pull up a chair and find out how a leaky roof,

  a dead cat, and a persnickety mama combine with

  buried treasure and a white Chrysler LeBaron

  in a story sure to charm and amuse you.

  They say curiosity killed the cat, but in the case of Mrs. Friskers, it was a white Chrysler LeBaron.

  I sure wish she’d looked before venturing into that street. The house was bloomin’ with a bumper crop of mice and she was the best mouser I ever had. But an ill wind was blowin’ that day and Mrs. Friskers died, leaving me with a houseful of mice and a cat to bury. Regarding the house, it was left to me by my Grandma Sarah, though Mama warned her not to do it.

  That girl (Mama said) will never catch herself a man and she’s got no sense. The house will go to rack and ruin in her hands. Best leave it to Sylas. He’s got a good wife to care for it and money to keep it up with.

  But Grandma Sarah, bless her, owed Mama some spite and she went right ahead and left the house to me. I’ll show Mama. Sundays she comes over, bringin’ her white gloves, and leaves with not much to say ‘cause I been a-dusting and sweeping all Saturday, with Mrs. Friskers sitting pretty on the rag rug I braided with my own hands, keeping the mice in their hidey holes.

  I’m mad enough to spit, when I think on it. Mrs. Friskers was too busy to die, and that’s the truth. To add to my troubles, the roof over the bathtub sprung a leak. If Mama saw that, she’d go away shakin’ her own hand. So now I had a roof that needed patching and no way to pay for it. Seems I must have walked under about six ladders, though I don’t recollect it.

  I had a job of work to do and I considered on waiting until midnight and burying the cat down at Holly Grove, ‘cause I got two warts on my left elbow I wouldn’t mind saying goodbye to. But I don’t like to go in the cemetery at night, so I dug me a hole by day, beside the dead rose bush in the backyard, and I found a nice shoe box, the big and sturdy kind that come with a stout pair of boots. I lined it with a baby blanket knitted by Aunt Mae so Mrs. Friskers could rest in peace, with a measure of comfort besides. Just as I was fixin’ to put that box in the ground, I saw something wink at me out of the dirt, a-glintin’ in the sun.

  I laid Mrs. Friskers aside—respectful-like, mind you—and I reached down into that hole and pulled up a golden coin. It was old and awful tarnished, but I figured it was worth a peck. Cats are known to lead to treasure and where there’s one coin, there’s bound to be a passel more. I determined to dig ‘til I found ‘em.

  In truth, I’m not much for keeping up the yard and I had only the one little spade I’d used to dig Mrs. Friskers grave. I put on my good hat, turning the bill forward, and went into town to get some proper tools. I bought a shovel and a pair of garden gloves with purple cats printed on ‘em. In memory of Mrs. Friskers, who started this whole thing by running out in front of that Chrysler LeBaron.

  I put my items in the shopping cart and sta
rted wheeling up to the register, but the shovel stuck out so far in front that I turned the corner and face-spanked a young fellow coming around from the other direction.

  Oh, I beg your pardon (I said). He stammered something incomprehensible, clutching a toilet plunger and a length of copper piping to his chest. I noticed right off how handsome he was, and I reckon we stood gawking at one another, trading blush for blush, for a considerable stretch of time until he ducked his head and disappeared behind a display of garden hoses.

  Well, I bought my shovel and gloves and threw in a box of rat poison, then I went home and commenced to digging. I’ve heard tell that if a single woman wants to know the profession of her future husband, she should dig a hole in the earth on Midsummer’s Day and put her ear to it and she will hear what it is, and I grew mighty sorry to be digging that hole in October, ‘stead of June.

  But there was nothing for it ‘cept to keep digging. For an hour I swung that shovel and not a single coin came to light. But I found seven black stones, one with a hole in it. And a key. I became mighty interested to know what that key might open, but I had no thought about where to start looking, so I dug a little more and turned up a rusty horseshoe.

  By this time, I was real thirsty, but not a bit discouraged, because seven is lucky and everyone knows black stones bring good luck. Keys point to fortune and it’s a solid fact that horseshoes, hung like a smile, draw blessings like metal to a magnet. So, I went inside for a glass of cider and sat, drinking, at the kitchen table. I saw that I’d tracked in a mess of dirt. Well, shoot (I said) and got my lucky broom, which I’d christened proper when I moved into the house, throwing in old dirt and sweeping it out with the new broom, so’s I will always have a clean floor. I’ll show Mama.

  As I swept that dirt, a thought came into my head and I near slapped myself. I was digging in the wrong direction. I must be! I dropped that broom and ran out to look at Mrs. Friskers. I broke the tape I’d used to fasten shut that shoe box and I peeked inside. Sure enough, Mrs. Friskers was pointing toward the house and I’d been digging the other way.

  So, I picked up that shovel with renewed energy and I started digging faster, ‘cause the sun was thinking on going down, and it was a Saturday and I still had a passel of cleaning to do, what with Mama coming on Sunday with her white gloves. Why, oh why, did Mrs. Friskers have to leave me now?

  But there was no use lamentin’ over it with time a-wastin’, so I kept on with the shovel and pretty soon I hit something. Only, it wasn’t no treasure box. It was a water pipe and it burst, spewing water everywhere. Oh, Lordy, I had to call a plumber.

  So, I ran inside and opened up the telephone directory and as I sat at that table, running my finger down the list of plumbers, I saw I’d tracked dirt over the floor again, only this time it was mud and wouldn’t sweep out so easy.

  I cursed some then—I’ll own up to it. I picked a plumber from the phone book and punched in the number. It rung and it rung, six times, and I hung up quick. Allowing a telephone to ring unanswered is an invitation to bad fortune and I wanted none of that. I tried a different number and someone picked up right away. I spoke to the man and he told me he’d come right over. And he did.

  My eyes about bugged out o’ my head when I saw it was the bashful man from the hardware store, the one I’d face-spanked with the very shovel that broke that pipe. We stood in the dirt of my backyard, blushin’ back and forth again, then he got right to work and fixed that pipe. Talk about your lucky day.

  I’ll show Mama yet, and it’s all down to Mrs. Friskers. Bless that cat.

  NOTES

  Another magazine prompt is the source for this story. This time, it was The First Line Literary Journal. Here’s the fun idea behind The First Line: every quarter, the editor, David LaBounty, releases a first line and the challenge is to produce a story using that first line, verbatim.

  You can even go so far as to take all four first lines, Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall, and write a story incorporating all four, to be published as a series. I attempted this once and although David did not publish the result, I certainly will some day. It led to what I feel is some of my best work and a very compelling story set during the aftermath of WWII.

  The first line that inspired Blessings and Curses on a Calico Cat was:

  Mrs. Morrison was too busy to die.

  I wanted to come up with something original, so I thought, “What if Mrs. Morrison was a cat?” How would she have died? What would keep a cat so busy that she didn’t have time to die?

  My finished story is more or less the one you just read, though I had to tweak it a little for this anthology. First off, I didn’t want to publish a story using David’s first line, so I changed the cat’s name and opened my story with a different first line.

  I also altered my original title, which was How Mr. Lee Iacocca Changed My Life. I liked this title and found it amusing, but a survey of readers found that many didn’t get the joke, so I decided to rename the story.

  I put together a fun Superstition quiz based on the research I did for this story. Go to the Extras tab on my website, joslynchase.com and find out how much you know about the collected wisdom of the ages that resulted in these folk beliefs and superstitions.

  Bedtime Story

  __________

  A dark creature comes to Pine Hollow.

  Unbidden, unseen, it invades

  the homes—and children—of the neighborhood.

  A bright young boy makes a horrifying discovery

  that will put his name on the scientific map.

  And doom his classmates to an unthinkable fate.

  The dilemma tests the limits of Adam Sterling’s

  courage…and his conscience.

  The creature hunched over the carcass, stripping the last bits of flesh from the fur and tallowed bones. Instinct whispered, ancient as the song of a beating heart, and she knew these morsels would sustain her final moments, her last plaintive thrust for a toehold on eternity. A mewling neigh escaped her throat and hung, like a tattered pennant, in the fog of her breath. Before her, the night stretched cold, dripping with stars.

  Gathering strength, she stretched her wings and lifted into the sky, struggling to rise above the canopy of skeletal branches. Two antennae stretched above her head, guiding her clear of telephone poles and the roofs of houses, swiveling slightly in their search for one last place, a place where she might spawn…and die.

  A heavy lassitude pulled at her wings, each flap more feeble than the last, and she scraped once or twice on the upturned twigs of trees and was nearly impaled on the flagpole at Pine Hollow Elementary. Mustering the dregs of her life force, she flapped again, rising on an upward gust until a lightning rod caught her, spinning her into a nose dive, and she crashed headlong into a window at the top of 529 Loblolly Lane.

  Sprawled among shards of glass on the dusty boards of the attic floor, the creature panted and shuddered, and then went still. Moonlight spilled through broken panes, gilding the planked floor, outlining the blades of a broken fan, glinting off the pedals of a neglected bicycle. Into that moonlight, from under the stilled and silent wings, spores as tiny as grains of black sand crept and squirmed like earthworms when the rock has been lifted. Leaving the tiniest of dust trails, they writhed across the floor seeking a dark and quiet place, a place where they might feed…and live.

  ~~~~

  Two doors down, where Loblolly intersects Fir, Adam Sterling stood crouched over his microscope, counting the broken cell walls in a sample of decaying squirrel he’d found in the woods. Beside him, on the desk, was a shoebox containing a dozen or more zip lock baggies which he’d carefully labeled with a Sharpie, denoting sample type, date, and where he’d collected them. Adam was proud of the box. He counted again and made some notes on a pad before placing the items back in the shoebox and returning it to the top shelf of his closet where his mother never poked.

  As he switched off the microscope light, he heard a ponderous flapping outsid
e his window and the slight thud of something heavy brush against the house. Oh wow! He grabbed his binoculars, raised the shade and heaved open the window to lean into the night sky. The faintest echo of passing wings drifted back like smoke on the air. Nuts!

  “Adam! Close that window and go to bed.” His mother’s slippers slapped along the oak-floored hallway. “Unless you’d like me to take the heating bill out of your allowance.”

  Adam slammed down the window. “I think I heard the creature, mom. If I had my own camera I could take a picture if it comes back. Then you’d believe me. And I could show it to Dr. Blanding.”

  “Cameras cost money, Adam, and we’re squeezed dry. Maybe for Christmas.”

  “We just had Christmas. It won’t come again for ages.”

  “Your birthday, then.”

  “That’s not ‘til July!”

  Adam watched her eyes narrow and her lips grow thin. “Leave it, Adam,” she said. “Go to sleep.”

  Adam grumbled into his pillow as his mother switched off the light. He listened to the slip-slapping of her worn-out mules, letting his thoughts return to the squirrel’s remains and the odd way the bones had been stripped, just like the dog he’d found last week. It meshed with the rest of the picture that was forming in his mind and he felt a curious and delicious shock run through him, like the time he’d stuck his finger into a light socket. He was on the track of something thrilling.

  ~~~~

  In the master bedroom at 529 Loblolly Lane, Irene Benjamin lay curled in an orb of golden light. She licked a finger, turning the pages of her book with avid frequency as her eyes devoured the words. Her body, swathed in plaid flannel, was a solid lump in the bed, but her mind was centuries away, chasing across volcanic sands and swinging from the mast of a South Seas galleon. A sudden crash above her head jolted the book from her hands and she stared at the ceiling in confusion.