The Lottery Winner

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “That won’t do you any good,” Alvirah said. “Come on over this afternoon and I’ll show you how to work the pin.”

  * * *

  The next day at nine o’clock, Nelly was about to put on her coat when the doorbell rang. It was Dennis O’Shea, the nice retired lawyer who lived down the hall in 8F. He’d moved there about six months ago. A number of times he’d fallen in step with her when they met at the elevator. He was on the small side, maybe five seven or so, with a neat, compact build, kindly eyes behind frameless glasses, and a pleasant, intelligent face.

  He’d told her that his wife had died two years ago, and when he’d retired from the Legal Aid Society at age sixty-five, he decided to sell the house in Syosset and move back to the city. He split his time now between the apartment and his cottage on Cape Cod.

  Nelly could tell that, like her, Dennis had a strong sense of justice and didn’t like the underdog to be pushed around. That was why she’d had the courage to ask him for advice when Roxie turned in the winning ticket.

  This morning, Dennis looked worried. “Nelly,” he said, “are you sure you know how to turn on that recorder?”

  “Oh, sure, you just sort of run your hand over the fake diamond in the center.”

  “Show me.”

  She did.

  “Say something.”

  “Go to hell, Tim.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now play it back.”

  She snapped the cassette out of the pin and put it in the machine Alvirah had also given her and then pushed the replay button. Nothing happened.

  “I guess you told your friend Alvirah Meehan about me,” Dennis said. “She called a few minutes ago and explained what’s going on. She said that you seemed to have trouble turning on the recorder.”

  Nelly felt her fingers tremble. She hadn’t been able to sleep all night. Her share of the winnings was just maybe, possibly within her grasp. But if this didn’t work, it was all over. She hadn’t shed one tear all this year, but right now, looking at the concern on Dennis O’Shea’s face, she felt her eyes fill up. “Show me what I’m doing wrong,” she said.

  For the next ten minutes they tried turning the recorder on and off, saying a few words, then playing it back. The trick was to snap that little switch firmly. Finally Nelly said, “I have it. Thanks, Dennis.

  “My pleasure. Nelly, you get them on record saying they cheated you, and I’ll have them in Matrimonial Court so fast they won’t know what hit them.”

  “But they’re moving to Florida.”

  “The lottery checks are issued in New York. Let me worry about that part of it.”

  He waited with her at the elevator. “You know what bus to take.”

  “It’s not that far to Christopher Street. I’ll walk at least one way.”

  * * *

  Alvirah had a busy morning. At eight she started vigorously cleaning the already spotless apartment. At quarter to nine she had looked up Dennis O’Shea’s phone number and called him, explaining her worry that Nelly might not have the hang of using the recorder; then she got back to polishing the polished. To Willy, it was an unmistakable sign that she was deeply concerned.

  “What’s eating you, honey?” he asked finally.

  “I have a bad feeling,” she admitted.

  “You’re afraid Nelly won’t be able to handle the recorder?”

  “I’m worried about that, and I’m worried that she may not be able to get them to say a word, and most of all I’m worried that they tell her everything and she doesn’t get it on tape.”

  Nelly was meeting her ex-husband and Roxie at ten. At ten-thirty Alvirah sat down and stared at the phone. At ten thirty-five it rang. It was Cordelia, looking for Willy. “One of our old girls has a leak in her kitchen ceiling,” Cordelia said. “The whole apartment is starting to smell mildewed. Send Willy right over.”

  “Later, Cordelia. We’re waiting for an important message.” Alvirah knew there was no getting off without explaining the problem.

  “You should have told me before,” Cordelia snapped. “I’ll start praying.”

  By noon Alvirah was a total wreck. She called Dennis O’Shea again. “Any word from Nelly?”

  “No. Mrs. Meehan, Nelly told me that Tim Monahan was only going to give her fifteen minutes.”

  “I know.”

  Finally, at twelve-fifteen, the phone rang. Alvirah grabbed it. “Hello.”

  “Alvirah.”

  It was Nelly. Alvirah tried to analyze the tone of her voice. Strained? No. Shocked. Yes, that’s what it was. Shocked. Nelly sounded as though she was in a trance.

  “What happened?” Alvirah demanded. “Did they admit it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you get it on tape?”

  “No.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry.”

  “That’s not the worst of it.”

  “What do you mean, Nelly?”

  There was a long pause, then Nelly sighed. “Alvirah, Tim’s dead. I shot him.”

  * * *

  Five hours later, Alvirah and Willy posted bond after Dennis O’Shea, Nelly’s self-appointed lawyer, pled her not guilty to charges of second-degree murder, first-degree manslaughter and carrying a concealed weapon. Nelly rose from her trancelike lethargy only long enough to say in a surprised voice, “But I did kill him.”

  They took her home. Half a Sara Lee crumb cake, neatly enveloped in plastic, was on the kitchen counter. “Tim always loved that cake,” Nelly said sadly. “He looked awful today even before he died. I don’t think Roxie cooked much for him.”

  Alvirah was feeling wretched. All this had been her big idea. Now Nelly was facing long years in prison. At her age that could mean the rest of her life. Yesterday Nelly had said that she could kill Tim. And I joked about it, Alvirah thought. I told her that wouldn’t do any good. I never thought she meant it. How did she happen to have a gun?

  She put on the kettle. “I think we’d better talk,” she said. “But first I’ll make a nice strong cup of tea for you, Nelly.”

  * * *

  Nelly told her story in a flat, emotionless voice. “I decided to walk down to Christopher Street, to get my thoughts together, you know what I mean? I took the pin off and put it in my pocketbook. It’s so pretty I was afraid I’d get mugged for it. Then on Tenth Street and Avenue B, I saw a couple of kids. They couldn’t have been more than ten or eleven. Can you believe one of them was showing the other a gun?”

  She stared ahead. “Let me tell you, I saw red. Those boys were not only playing hookey but treating that gun like a cap pistol. I marched up to them and told them to hand it over.”

  “You what?” Dennis O’Shea blinked.

  “The one who wasn’t holding the gun said, ‘Shoot her,’ but I think the other kid must’ve thought I was an undercover cop or something,” Nelly continued. “Anyhow, he looked scared and handed it to me. I told them that kids their age should be in school and should play stickball, the way boys did when we were growing up.”

  Alvirah nodded. “So you had the gun with you when you went to see Tim and Roxie?”

  “I couldn’t take time to turn it in at the police station. Tim was only giving me fifteen minutes. As it turned out, I didn’t need more than ten.”

  Alvirah saw that Willy was about to ask a question. She shook her head. It was obvious that Nelly was about to relive the scene in her mind. “All right, Nelly,” she said softly. “What happened when you were with them?”

  “I was a couple of minutes late. They’re making a movie on Christopher Street, and I had to push through a lot of people who were gawking at the actors. The movers were just leaving when I got there. Roxie let me in. I don’t think Tim had told her I was coming. Her mouth sort of dropped open when she saw me. The living room was empty except for Tim’s old recliner, and he was camped in it, as usual. Didn’t even get up like a gentleman. Then Mrs. Tim Monahan the Second, bold as brass, says to me, ‘Get lost.’

  “I was so nervo
us by then that I looked right at Tim and just blurted out everything I had rehearsed, that I only had a month left and that I wanted his forgiveness for being so angry at him, that it didn’t matter about the ticket, that I was glad he had someone to take care of him. But before I died, just like his mother, I wanted to hear the truth.”

  “You told them that!” Willy exclaimed.

  “You’re smart,” Alvirah breathed.

  “Anyhow, Tim had a funny look on his face, like he was going to laugh, and he said that it had been bothering him from the start. That yes, he had bought the winning ticket and switched it with Roxie and he had kept it in a safe-deposit box at the bank on West Fourth Street until he took it out and gave it to Roxie to cash in last month and he was sorry for my trouble and I was a fine, generous woman.”

  “He admitted it just like that!” Alvirah said.

  “So fast that I almost collapsed, and he was laughing when he said it. Now I’m pretty sure that he was just making fun of me. I realized I didn’t have the pin on and I opened my pocketbook and started to fumble for it and Roxie yelled something about the gun and I took it out to explain and it went off and Tim went down like a load of blubber. And after that it’s all vague. Roxie tried to grab the gun, and the next thing I knew I was in the police station.”

  She reached for her cup. “So I guess I don’t have to worry about keeping this apartment or about going to my cousin’s in New Brunswick. Do you think they’ll send me to the same prison where they keep that woman who had her husband shot because she wanted to keep the dog when they were divorced?”

  She put the cup down and slowly stood up. As Alvirah and Willy and Dennis O’Shea watched, her face crumbled. “Oh my God,” she said, “how could I have shot Tim?”

  Then she fainted.

  * * *

  The next morning, Alvirah came back from visiting Nelly in the hospital. “They’re going to keep her for a few days,” she told Willy. “It’s just as well. The newspapers are having a field day. Take a look.” She handed him the Post. The front page showed an hysterically weeping Roxie watching Tim’s corpse being carried from the apartment.

  “According to this, Roxie claims that Nelly just showed up and started shooting.”

  “We can testify that she had made an appointment with Tim,” Willy said, “but Nelly did say that Roxie didn’t seem to expect her.” His forehead furrowed as he considered the situation. “Dennis O’Shea phoned while you were out. He thinks it would be a good idea to plea-bargain.”

  Alvirah flicked a piece of lint from the sleeve of her smartly tailored pantsuit. It was an outfit she usually enjoyed wearing. It was only a size 14 and she could close the button at the waist of the slacks without too much yanking. But today nothing could give her comfort. Nelly may have been cheated out of her lottery ticket, but I’m the one who gave her a ticket to prison, she thought.

  “I’ve been thinking that if I could possibly find those kids Nelly took the gun from, it would at least prove that she didn’t intend to go there with it. I made her describe them to me.”

  The thought of action brought a little relief. “I’d better change into some old duds so I can just hang around. That isn’t a great neighborhood.”

  An hour later, wearing ancient jeans, a tired Mickey Mouse sweatshirt, and her sunburst pin, Alvirah took up her vigil on the corner of Avenue B and Tenth Street. The boys Nelly had described were about ten or eleven years old. One was short and thin with curly hair and brown eyes, the other was taller and heavyset. They both had duck haircuts and wore gold chains and an earring.

  The odds of just running into them were small, and after thirty minutes Alvirah began to systematically work her way through the neighborhood stores. She bought a newspaper in one, two apples in another, aspirin in the drugstore. In each place she began a conversation. It was with the shoemaker that she finally hit pay dirt.

  “Sure I know those two. The little guy is big trouble. The other isn’t a bad kid. They usually hang around that corner.” He pointed out the window. “This morning the cops were picking up truants and taking them back to school, so I guess they won’t be here till three o’clock.”

  Delighted with the information, Alvirah rewarded the shoemaker by purchasing an assortment of polishes, none of which she needed. As he slowly counted out change, he explained that he’d dropped and stepped on his reading glasses, but that at a distance he could see a gnat sneeze. Then, glancing past her, he exclaimed, “There are the kids you’re looking for.” He pointed across the street. “They musta sneaked out of school again.”

  Alvirah spun around. “Forget about the change,” she called as she dashed out of the store.

  * * *

  An hour later she dejectedly related to Willy and Dennis O’Shea what had happened. “When I talked to them, they’d just seen Nelly’s picture in the Post and recognized her. Those little skunks were on their way to the police station to report that Nelly came up to them and asked where she could buy a gun because she needed one right away and offered them a hundred bucks. They claim they didn’t know where to get one but later some other kid bragged about selling one to her.”

  “That’s a damn lie,” Dennis said flatly. “Just before Nelly left her apartment yesterday morning she checked her wallet. I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t have more than three or four dollars in it. Why would those kids lie like that?”

  “Because Nelly took their gun away,” Alvirah told him, “and this is their chance to get even.” She realized she did not know why Dennis had been sitting in the living room talking to Willy when she arrived home.

  But when he told her the reason, she was sorry she’d asked. The autopsy was complete. One bullet had grazed Tim’s forehead. The other two had lodged in his heart, and from the angle of entry it was clear they’d been fired after he was lying on the floor. The district attorney had called Dennis to tell him the plea bargain was now first-degree aggravated manslaughter with a minimum of fifteen years in prison. Take it or leave it. “And when I spoke to him he hadn’t heard from those kids,” Dennis concluded.

  “Does Nelly know about this yet?” Alvirah asked.

  “I saw her this morning just after you left. She intends to check out of the hospital tomorrow and get her affairs in order. She said she has to pay for her crime.”

  “I kind of hate to bring this up,” Willy offered, “but is it possible that Nelly did buy the gun and was mad enough to mean to kill Tim?”

  “She pointed the gun at his heart when he was on the floor?” Alvirah exclaimed. “I can’t believe it.”

  “I don’t think she did it deliberately,” O’Shea agreed. “But she did kill him. Her prints are on the gun.” He got up. “I’d better call and get the plea bargain in motion. I’ll see if they’ll give Nelly a little time before she has to start serving her sentence.”

  “He likes Nelly,” Willy observed when he’d let Dennis O’Shea out.

  “He’s the kind of man she should have been with all these years,” Alvirah agreed. Suddenly she felt old and tired. I’m just a meddling fool, she thought. Once again she could hear herself advising Nelly to go see Tim. And she could also hear Nelly saying, “I could kill him.”

  Willy patted her hand, and she looked up at him gratefully. He was her best friend as well as the best husband in the world. Poor Nelly had put up with a guy who couldn’t hold a job, who fought with everyone, who drank too much, and who was the size of a beached whale.

  Why the heck did Roxie marry him?

  For the ticket, of course.

  That night Alvirah could not sleep. Over and over she considered every single detail, and it all added up to one thing: fifteen years in prison for Nelly Monahan. Finally, at two o’clock, she got out of bed, being careful not to disturb Willy, who was clearly in the second stage of sleep. A few minutes later, armed with a steaming pot of tea, she sat at the dining table and played back the recording she had made of the first meeting with Nelly and then her confession after they
bailed her out.

  She was missing something. What was it? She got up, went to the desk, got a spiral notebook and pen, returned to the table and rewound the tape. Then as she played it back, she took notes.

  When he got up at seven o’clock, Willy found her poring over her notes. He knew what she was doing. He put on the kettle and settled at the table across from her. “Can’t figure out what you’re missing,” he commented. “Let me take a look.”

  A half hour passed. And then Willy said, “I can’t see anything. But reading about Tim’s recliner makes me think of old Buster Kelly. Remember he had a recliner too. Even insisted on moving it into the nursing home with him.”

  “Willy, say that again.”

  “Buster Kelly insisted on moving his recliner—” “Willy, that’s it. Tim was sitting in his recliner when Nelly went to the apartment.” Alvirah reached across the table and grabbed her notebook. “Look. Nelly says that the moving men were just pulling away when she got there. Why didn’t the recliner go with them?” She jumped up. “Willy, don’t you see? Tim had a reason for telling Nelly he’d cheated her. I bet you anything Roxie had just told him to go stuff it. She stuck with him until he handed her the lottery ticket and she turned it in. Then she didn’t need him anymore.”

  The more she said, the surer Alvirah was that she’d hit the nail on the head. Her voice rose in excitement as she continued. “Tim was trying to keep Nelly from claiming a share in the ticket and never thought that Roxie would double-cross him. I’ll bet her telling those moving men to leave the recliner was the first notice he’d gotten that Roxie was going to dump him.”

  “And by admitting to Nelly that he’d cheated her, he thought he’d get the ticket back and have half the money. It makes sense,” Willy agreed.

  “Nelly didn’t kill Tim. That first bullet just grazed his forehead. Roxie didn’t grab her hand to take the gun away but to aim it at Tim.”

  They stared at each other. Willy’s eyes shone with admiration. “Smartest redhead in the world,” he said. “There’s just one problem, honey. How are you going to prove it?”

  * * *