Chesapeake Crimes Page 5

  Blah, blah, blah. She made me sick with her crimson fingernails and milky skin. Her black hair as soft and shimmery as the surface of a calm lake on a summer’s day. Her pencil-thin waist and perfectly small, pretty feet. Sick, sick, sick.

  The hum of the train on the rails, the gentle bobs and turns lulled my churning soul. Lights strobed in the tunnels while the PA announced stop after stop. Smithsonian. Federal Triangle. Metro Center. Finally, three stations later, they’d call it, “Next stop, Foggy Bottom.”

  For other passengers, relief was in store. But not for me. She never stopped talking on that damn phone even as she stepped off the train and walked the four long blocks to the office of Hillard, Smithwick, and Rowe. “Mom,” she’d say. “I want you to meet Terry before the wedding. Come for Mother’s Day.” Then she’d laugh. “Wait until you see the diamond. It’s the size of Texas.” Her graceful arm would be crooked at the elbow, holding a fancy bag, while the diamond twinkled. Truthfully, she exaggerated. It was more the size of Vermont, but either way, it was big. Bigger than my all of my pathetic chips put together.

  Then a full day at the office where she held the title of office manager, but played the part of office beauty queen. She probably would have worn a swimsuit to work if allowed, just to add pizzazz to her already disgusting flirtations. “Oh, Mr. Hillard,” she’d coo to the hundred-something founding partner, “if I didn’t already have a fiancé…” On a daily basis, my mind simmered, figuring out ways to shut her up.

  She would even talk to strangers on the underground platform at Foggy Bottom while waiting for the train home. “My fiancé,” she once told some bored lady in a gray suit and tennis shoes, “said I could have the biggest wedding I wanted, so I’m making him keep his promise.” Her bleached white teeth gleamed when she smiled, her fancy bag dangling effortlessly from her arm while she tapped a lime green pointy toe. I never could have stayed upright in heels as high as the ones Athena wore. Black flats were more my style.

  Once I decided to kill Athena Papas, I had to calculate the most effective method. I wasn’t very strong so I never would have been able to strangle her. Not even close. I couldn’t shoot a gun. Poisoning was out of the question. My options were limited. After following her for some time, it became obvious that the best plan would be to push her off the platform at Foggy Bottom. The trains there moved fast, the platform was quite high, and the crowds were big enough to make it look like an accident.

  My problem was that Athena didn’t have a habit of standing particularly close to the edge. She often hung back, chatting with some stranger or on her cell, waiting till the last minute when the train arrived, then relying on her beauty and the kindness of willing men to let her pass through the crowd. Irksome. But I had all the time in the world to be patient. I knew that one day, the time would be right.

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to wait very long.

  She must have been distracted by her own conversation. “But, Terry, sweetie, handsome man that you are,” she purred. “You don’t understand. I don’t care…what? Margaret? I don’t care about appearances. I want…hello? I said, I want my wedding my way!” She shook her head and tapped her foot. “Hello? Terry? I can barely hear you.” Her shiny tresses bounced around her shoulders like in a shampoo ad. “Terry, we’ll talk about this when I get… I don’t care about Margaret’s family. Who are they to me?”

  Luckily, poor Athena was becoming increasingly frustrated. Her voice raised by octaves and decibels. She was inching closer and closer to the edge of that big, beautiful, dangerous platform at Foggy Bottom. I looked at the digital clock. The express train to New Carrollton would pass soon. Because it didn’t stop at Foggy Bottom, it would sail right through at breakneck speed. The Fates were on my side. My time would soon come. So would hers.

  Athena Papas would pay for what she had done to me.

  For stealing my husband.

  It happened at that office Christmas party—I know it. With her unblemished skin and her soft hair. Her fancy bags and her perfect teeth. She had everything I didn’t, and he fell for it like a fat man on a tightrope. It didn’t matter that I loved and adored him. That I slaved for hours every Sunday making his favorite meal of roast lamb with orange marmalade sauce, fresh steamed, French-cut string beans, and mashed red potatoes with a four-layer, double-chocolate cake for dessert. That I washed his underwear, ironed his shirts, and remembered his mother’s birthday. None of that mattered to Terry, who I once called husband and now called The Devil. The man she called Sweetie, Handsome Man.

  I had practiced the push for weeks, building up the strength and the ability to get it just right. It wasn’t easy. There’s an immense learning curve to mastering the art of moving mass. Not all of us can do it. I needed the right amount of power to bump her skinny, taut body right over the edge, into the path of an oncoming train.

  A heavy hum from the tunnel let me know the train was on its way. Lights on the platform blinked to warn passengers back. Athena was too engrossed in her own world. “Margaret is not my problem, I’m telling you—.” Her eyes flashed with anger; her free arm waved about like a marionette limb on strings. “Not my problem!”

  She didn’t know the train was there. She didn’t know I was there.

  It wasn’t hard to access my own anger—the energy I needed to pull this off. It boiled endlessly within me like a desperate, churning volcano.

  With the train in sight, I did the deed. Exactly as I had practiced time after time. One simple bump.

  “Next stop, Foggy Bottom!” I shouted the words, rejoicing in the triumph.

  Athena toppled, as if in slow motion. Her cell phone sailed high into the air. Her fancy bag fell to the platform, where it teetered helplessly on the edge. Time stood still as the lime green, glittery show of materialism seemed to struggle to hang on—as if it had a life of its own and did not want to die. Eventually the bag lost its fight. It tipped too far and fell onto the rails, just in time for the cars to slice them both like a hot knife through butter. Athena and her fancy bag. Dead. I wondered if the ring survived.

  Then came screaming and mayhem. Not one person considered it anything but a tragic and unfortunate accident that this beautiful woman had tripped on her own tall, spiked heels at just the wrong time. No one noticed me at all.

  For a moment, I almost felt sorry for her. I knew how it felt after all. To die. To have my life stolen from me when I was still so young. Of course, I was murdered by my own husband who wanted to be rid of me and, more importantly, needed the insurance money to marry his new, popular, prettier love. And since Athena was the reason I was dead, the pity never came.

  When the dust settled and passengers were moved from the scene, Athena stood on the platform next to me in her new form. Confused, no cell phone, no fancy bag, she batted her long lashes at me.

  “Margaret?” she asked. “I…I don’t understand.” She scanned the platform, as if looking for answers. A fireman passed right through her. She yelped. Her eyes reflected the fear I remembered so well when I discovered that my body and I were no longer one. When, from across the room, I first viewed my carcass sprawled on the hard tile of my kitchen floor while Terry scurried about, testing different locations on the floor to place the unused EpiPen I’d “dropped.” Wiping down the counters then placing one tiny shrimp in my bowl of leftover fried rice from Hunan Feast. I had no one there to greet me as I greeted Athena now.

  “Down there,” I said, motioning to the bloody scene on the tracks. “That’s what you get, Athena Papas.” I was so pleased with myself.

  “You did that to me?”

  I smiled. She wasn’t as stupid as I thought. “What do you think, pretty feet? And your Terry, sweetie, handsome man—he’s next.”

  Leaving Athena behind to contemplate her earthly demise, I found my way to Terry. We spirits move effortlessly, once we learn the ropes. Then I waited. I wanted to be there when the police rang the doorbell to notify Terry about this oh-so-tragic accident.


  Later, at the kitchen table that was once mine, he sobbed uncontrollably. The tears he’d cried for me were only for show. When family and friends left the room, his eyes had dried faster than desert sand. It felt good to watch him suffer for real.

  Fully intending to capitalize on my newfound power, I had planned to continue my reign of revenge, exacting a similar fate on the man whose bed I once shared, whose love I practically begged for. The man I despised even more than the wretched Athena Papas. But as I observed his obvious despair, it occurred to me that death would be too good for him. They would only end up in each other’s arms again.

  No, I decided. Death would not suffice.

  His suffering must be greater. Longer. Enduring.

  And so it is.

  Athena has found us, but she’s weak. All she does is moan.

  Not me. I’m hard at work every day seeing to it that Terry the Murderer, Terry the Devil, Terry, Sweetie Handsome Man understands the true meaning of torment.

  And when his doctors and family and psychiatrists don’t believe him when he tells them of the strange events that befall him—doors opening and slamming of their own accord, mugs shattering in his hands, knives flying through the air, narrowly escaping his throat, the endless wailing—I just laugh.

  And the best part?

  I know he hears me.

  Karen Cantwell has been writing plays and short stories for many years. Her short story “The Recollections of Rosabelle Raines” was published in Chesapeake Crimes: They Had It Comin’. She is also the author of the funny bone-tickling Barbara Marr murder mysteries, Take the Monkeys and Run and Citizen Insane. These days, if she’s not kicking back, watching movies with her kids, Karen can be found at her laptop, conjuring a third Barbara Marr novel, Silenced by the Yams.

  LUCKY IN DEATH, by E. B. Davis

  “Mrs. Decker, you don’t have any sales experience.” The large, bald man looked up from my job application and leaned back in his desk chair.

  Baldy had eaten too many grits and enjoyed a few too many libations around the campfire. I’d known a few like him so he didn’t faze me. Besides, after yet another dog-panting August day of trying to convince someone to hire me despite my age, I was desperate. ProTrout was the last place I wanted to work. But I was experienced in hiding the truth so Baldy would never know.

  “Bet I know ProTrout’s inventory better than most of your sales help,” I replied.

  “Really. How come?”

  Probably not a good idea to tell him what ProTrout had done to my marriage.

  “My husband drooled over every item in this store. In fact, my garage is filled with so many fishing lures, rods, reels, tackle, and accessories, I still can’t get my car inside.”

  “A die-hard customer, I presume.”

  “You can say that again. Joe died a year ago.”

  “Wait…Decker. Are you Joe Decker’s widow?”

  I nodded.

  “What a shame. I couldn’t believe after years of wanting a fishing boat, he up and died after he finally bought one.”

  “He didn’t just buy a boat,” I said. “He bought the whole damned package—outboard motor, GPS, fish finder, even a trailer and a boat cover. All paid for in cash. Forty thousand dollars.” Every penny I’d saved for my granddaughters’ college fund. But Baldy wouldn’t care about that any more than my no-good, long-gone son-in-law did.

  “I remember,” he said. “Nice man. I’m so sorry.” He stared at the floor while he talked, subdued, almost contrite.

  “Thank you,” I said. “He dropped dead the day after he bought it. And you wouldn’t take the merchandise back.”

  “No, once the boat was in the water and the engine immersed, I couldn’t take it back as new. Company policy, I’m sure you understand.” Baldy looked at his shoes like a little boy confessing to soaping the neighbor’s windows. No, I hadn’t understood.

  “I sold it on eBay,” I said. “Only got twelve thousand dollars.”

  “I’m glad you got something from the deal.”

  “Enough to pay for his funeral.”

  “Joe sure was a great fisherman,” Baldy said. He looked uncomfortable, making me glad, but then his discomfort wouldn’t get me the job. And I needed the job to rebuild that college fund.

  “I may not have sales experience,” I said. “But I know the merchandise, what it’s used for and how to use it. I accompanied my husband to every stream, river, gulf, and backwater around here. Who do you think baited all of those hooks?”

  “Sounds like maybe you could sell, but most of our customers are men who wouldn’t take your advice about our gear.”

  “I can soft sell. Offer pointers, pander to them. Let me prove myself.”

  Baldy’s face looked red, and he patted his forehead with a handkerchief. I knew he didn’t want to hire me, but I also could see that his forty-thousand-dollar sale at my expense worked on his conscience.

  “I guess you know our customer profile,” he said, finally. “I’ll give you a try. We’ll start you off in the ladies outdoor-clothing area. After a few weeks, if you do well, we’ll train you for inventory control and on the register. Do you have clothing that fits into our outdoor theme?”

  “Of course, although some are stained. Fishing isn’t a clean hobby.”

  “All you’ll really need are canvas pants and some attractive boots. We’ll supply a shirt with the ProTrout logo.”

  The thought of wearing that damned leaping fish on my chest made me angry again, but I managed to smile.

  “Thank you for giving me the opportunity,” I said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  He barely looked at me, so he probably didn’t realize how I was seething at having to take such a low-paid, menial job at my age.

  The next day I started work. The store was busiest at night and on weekends when men were off work looking to spend their paychecks, but I started out working days in ladies clothing, the slowest department. I knew women also fished, but they didn’t often shop at ProTrout, which reeked of testosterone and pandered to all of those erogenous male ego zones—the slickest reels, the largest boat, the most powerful engine, the most expensive hunting rifles, and all those electronic gadgets like fish finders—taking the sport out of any sport.

  After two weeks and register training, I rotated to fishing tackle. It wasn’t a hard sales area, and I knew the merchandise. Most of the customers were replacing lost or worn out items in their tackle boxes. The tackle manager must have reported favorably on my performance, because Baldy switched me to the higher-traffic night shift and gave me a twenty-five-cent-an-hour raise. I didn’t like the hours, but I found they passed more quickly when the store was busier.

  The weeks went by and daylight savings time changed to standard time. I fell into the routine of the store and took my dinner break just after sunset. Since the employee lounge was unappetizing, I ate in, or by, my car and then smoked a cigarette. I’d quit years ago, but the second after Joe died I’d lit up. Stress will kill you, they say. Down to two per day again, I enjoyed my smoke, hidden by the all-terrain vehicles showcased next to the parking lot.

  Customer traffic slowed at the beginning of November. Management assured me this was the calm before the Christmas storm. One quiet night I noticed a thirty-something man over in the hunting section. Bored, I listened in on his conversation with the salesman.

  “How’d you like the Arctic Cat ATV you bought?”

  “Sweet. Goes anywhere. I went deer hunting last Saturday and bagged a stag.”

  “Great! So what can I do for you this time?”

  “One of the guys I hunt with used a crossbow. Said it was more sporting.”

  “Well, it is more challenging. Maybe you should try it.” The salesman took out an expensive crossbow and demonstrated how easy it was to use. “Just attach the bow to this pulley. Reels in just like a fishing rod. Put in an arrow, aim, and release. This model uses twenty-inch arrows.”

  “How much is it?”

  �
��The bow’s $500. You can get the whole package for just $699.”

  “Whew boy! My wife will kill me. The ATV set me back almost eight grand.”

  “Up to you, but I don’t let my wife dictate,” the salesman said.

  What a jerk! Maybe Baldy had said the same thing when he sold Joe the boat. I wondered if they shared their techniques. Coming from another guy, the remark about the wife hit home like high school peer pressure, and the male customers succumbed.

  “Wrap it up,” the customer said. “If she complains, I’ll just tell her she bought my Christmas present early.”

  “Great! I’ll have to tell the other guys that excuse when they come in to buy.” He made the customer’s comment sound as brilliant as Einstein’s equations.

  Disgusted, I left a few minutes early for my dinner break. The weather was mild, so I pulled a beach chair from my trunk and swabbed my hands with the packaged bleach wipes I kept there. In my low chair on the edge of the ATV lot, I was practically invisible—always my preference especially when I’d heard something like tonight’s nauseating crossbow sale.

  As I bit into my sandwich, I heard the customer and the salesman out back testing the new toy on our demonstration targets. The salesman fell all over himself praising his customer’s skill. Sickened by their banter, I stopped eating and lit up a cigarette. Eventually the salesman went inside, but I could still hear the thunk of the crossbow arrows hitting the target.

  The headlights of a car whirled around the lot. I heard the driver pull into a spot and cut the engine. A few seconds later, the headlights blacked out, and a door slammed. The sound of high heels crossed the lot. A woman wearing a business suit emerged, walking near me. Just off work, I presumed. In the gathering dark, she didn’t spot me until she was almost on top of me. She hesitated.

  Even though I was on break, out of habit, I asked, “Can I help you?”

  “I doubt if anyone can help me.” Her voice sounded ragged and resigned.

  “Why?”