Penzler, Otto Ed v2

by Murder For Revenge

  “Hey, boys and girls, look who’s here,” Herb bellowed from across the room. “Carlotta, baby. Great to see you. Come give your old pal Chervil a great big smooch.”

  Carlotta stared him down. “So sorry to hear of all your troubles, Herb. I do hope you’re feeling better than you look.” For a specimen hybrid raised in prime hothouse conditions, he was in frightful shape.

  Pinky Goldhaven tittered behind her palm. Googie Nathanson gesticulated with his stogie, spewing ash. “Have to say she got you that time, Herb. Looks like Carlotta’s grown herself a backbone.”

  Herb sniffed. “Hey, I’m terrified. Really.” He loped over, ferrying a full champagne flute, and draped his free arm across Carlotta’s shoulders. “I’ve got a confession to make, kiddo. All that boo-hoo stuff in the letter I wrote was made up. I just wanted to be sure you’d come to our little reunion. Wouldn’t be nearly as much fun without you.”

  “How resourceful, Herb. You wished me here, and here I am.”

  Herb eyed her quizzically. “You’re not mad?”

  “Certainly not. Why? Do I appear to be?”

  “Hell, no. You appear to be zoned out. What are you on? Valium? ‘Ludes?”

  “It’s called inner peace, Herb. Resolution. I believe you’ll find me rather unflappable.”

  “You? Yeah, right.” Pretending to stumble, Herb slopped his bubbly all over Carlotta’s cream silk dress. “Oops. Hey, let me help you with that.” He ducked into the kitchen and returned with a filthy sponge. Muddy blotches bloomed as he dabbed the wet spots. “Oh, my. Look what an awful mess. Not miffed, are you, O unflappable one?”

  “About a little soil and moisture? Heavens no.” Carlotta turned her back on him. “How are you, Pinky? Julia and Apulia, so lovely to see you girls again.”

  For the next three hours, Herb exhausted himself trying to light Carlotta’s fuse. He served her Campari and soda in a dribble glass. He assailed her with shocks and rude noises and plastic vermin. When she needed to use the rest room, he directed her to a toilet rigged to back up with a menacing gurgle, then overflow in a rush of vile debris.

  Slogging forth, Carlotta found Herb waiting in the hall. With a look of revulsion, he sniffed the air. “Nice aroma, honey. What’s that you’re wearing? Eau de Poop?’”

  “I can’t say what it is, actually. But I’m so pleased you find it agreeable.”

  “Anything’s better than the way you usually stink, Carlotta. Reminds me of that puke they used to serve Thursdays in middle school.”

  “How lovely that I bring back fond memories for you, Herb. Childhood was such a happy, carefree time, as I recall.”

  “Yeah? Then I bet you’re going to love the little surprise I’ve planned for you.” Herb squired her back to the living room. “Take a load off, Carlotta. Gather round, boys and ghouls. It’s show time.”

  Carlotta checked the chair for booby traps and sat.

  Holding his fist like a microphone, Herb boomed. “Our pest—I mean, guest—of honour has provided us all with so many laughs, I thought it only fitting that we offer her a special tribute tonight. Come with me now on this amusing jaunt down memory lane. Carlotta Little, this is your life.”

  For the next hour, Carlotta sat through a wrenching rehash of every horrendous stunt Herb Lattimore had ever pulled at her expense. He began with the urine-soaked cafeteria chair in second grade. Next came the time he stole her training bra from the gym locker, and Carlotta saw it raised with the American flag during an all-school assembly. In eighth grade she was sentenced to a month of detentions after Herb scratched her initials in the fresh blacktop paving the schoolyard.

  Some of his confessed mischief was news to Carlotta. She had not known that Herb was behind the premature eruption of her science-fair volcano or the mysterious disappearance of the thirty-page final paper on the life and times of Harry Houdini, over which she’d slaved for months. Because of the zero she received as a result, Carlotta had failed Social Studies and lost her coveted position as recording secretary of the Future Biographers of America.

  “Last but not least, I’d like to present a recorded message from our special guest herself.” Herb worked a remote, activating the sound system.

  Carlotta’s teenaged voice, ripe and husky, bellowed through the speakers. “That’s it, Herb. Right there. Don’t stop. Oh, my! Hoooo, baby. Yes!”

  Everyone roared with laughter while the tape played on in a jeering, relentless loop. “Hooo, baby. Yes! Hooobabyyeshoooooooooo—bactabeeeee Yesssssss!”

  Carlotta sat, unflinching, until the joke died of natural causes.

  “Still not mad, Betsy Wetsy?” taunted Herb.

  “Certainly not, Herb. In fact, I’m touched to think you’d go to all that trouble on my account.”

  “Hey, it’s my pleasure. Honest,” chortled Herb.

  “Well, that’s grand. Thankfully, I have something to give you in return. You asked that I bring something to share, something from the heart, and I have.”

  Carlotta plucked a small box from her purse. “For you, Herb. I made it myself.”

  “What is it? A bomb?”

  “Don’t be silly. Of course not. It’s poison.”

  Frowning, Herb stepped away.

  “Hey, what’s up, Chervil? You scared?” Googie teased.

  “Yeah, right. I’m sweating bullets.” Herb swaggered toward Carlotta and took the box. He cut the yellow tape around it, slashing through the caution warnings. Inside was a single chocolate, marked with a skull and crossbones. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Carlotta. That’s pretty cute.”

  “Oh, no, Herb.” Carlotta’s face was grave. “It is not cute at all. This is not a game, I assure you. And I’m warning you, in front of all these witnesses, that the chocolate in that box contains a highly lethal poison. One of the deadliest in the plant kingdom, in fact. I extracted it myself from the root of my Aconitwn napellus, prize specimen of the family Ramunculacecte. Poor thing suffered some pain, I’m afraid. Actually, he’s been acting a bit dejected since the surgery, but I’m told he’ll enjoy a complete recovery.”

  “Sure, right. Whatever you say.” Herb chuckled.

  Carlotta’s brow peaked in surprise. “Have you never heard of aconites? How surprising. I was certain you would have. They happen to be fellow herbs. Perennials such as yourself, in fact. Aconites are showy like you as well, Herb. And, like you, their venom has dire, disastrous effects.”

  Herb held the chocolate gingerly.

  “Check it out: he’s terrified.” Googie guffawed.

  “Shut your stupid trap,” hissed Herb. “Let me get this straight, Carlotta. You’re handing me this so-called poison chocolate and warning me not to eat it?”

  “Definitely. Anyone foolish enough to ingest that would start to choke. He’d experience terrible restlessness, drooling, and nausea. Soon, his heartbeat would grow weak and irregular. He’d suffer dreadful chest pains, dizziness, prostration. There would be catastrophic damage to several major organs almost immediately. By the time EMS arrived, it would be too late to reverse the effects. Death would be inevitable, but unfortunately, it could take hours for that sweet mercy. It’s a rather excruciating way to go, I’m told.” Carlotta had to smile at that, but she quickly reverted to a sombre expression. “Sounds like the sort of end you’d only wish on your very worst enemy, Herb. Trust me.”

  Herb’s gaze bounced nervously from the chocolate to Carlotta’s face and back again. Beads of sweat erupted on his brow.

  Googie slapped his chubby knee. “Look how she’s got him going. Score one for Carlotta.”

  The others chimed in. “You should see the look on your face, Herb,” said Raquel.

  “Priceless,” Wendy blurted. “You look like you’re about to go pee-pee in your pants.”

  Herb’s cheeks flamed. “Cut it out!”

  “Buck up, there, Herb old man,” chided Chip Savage. “It’s only a game.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Carlotta insisted. “I’m telling you. This is
perfectly serious.”

  “You’ve got him seriously scared. That’s for sure.” Googie flapped imaginary wings. “Kentucky fried chicken, Herb does chicken right.”

  “Don’t call me that, Googie. I mean it.”

  Julia and Apulia took up the cry. “Chicken. Buck-buck-buckaw.”

  “Stop that, you two. I’m not kidding. And I’m not scared by some dumb joke.” Herb’s fingers quavered as he lifted the chocolate from the box.

  “Don’t do that, Herb. I’m warning you,” said Carlotta.

  “Carlotta’s warning you,” Googie taunted. “You better watch out.”

  “I’ll eat the damned chocolate,” Herb mewled. “I’ll show you, Googie Nathanson. I’ll show all of you.” By shaky millimetres he moved the candy closer to his mouth.

  “Wait just a darned minute,” Carlotta demanded. “You’ve heard me, Herb. All of you have heard me. Do you want your dear buddy to die, Google? Is that what you’re after?”

  “You’re really a scream, Carlotta,” Googie said. “Go on, Herb. We dare you.”

  Carlotta puffed her disgust. “I simply cannot watch this. I’m leaving.”

  “Come on, Carlotta,” Googie whined. “You can’t go until he sucks down that deadly poison you brought. You’d be missing all the fun.”

  “Encouraging a dear friend to die is not my idea of fun, Googie.”

  The chocolate was five inches from Herb’s mouth now. Four.

  “Eat it, eat it,” chorused the guests.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Carlotta said.

  Scrunching his eyes, Herb popped the chocolate in his mouth, chewed and quickly swallowed. A moment later, his eyes bugged and he made a harsh choking sound.

  “Check him out,” roared Googie. “That’s priceless, Herb.”

  “You’re too much, Herb. What a card,” Myron whooped.

  Carlotta sighed. “Poor Herb. Someone should call nine one one, not that they’ll be able to do any good.” She watched Herb clutch his throat and crumple to the floor. Then, she headed toward the foyer. “Au revoir, everyone. And to you, dear Herb: Good-bye.”

  An ebullient Carlotta misted and sprayed. “So sorry I’m late, my precious gloxinia. I do hope you weren’t worried, darling Cymbidium. I’m afraid I simply lost track of the time.”

  The death of Herbert Alton Lattimore IV still commanded headlines. On her way home from the unemployment office, Carlotta had stopped to pick up the day’s bounty of papers and magazines.

  The coroner had closed the case this morning, deeming the incident a suicide. Oddly, Carlotta had not been called as a witness at the inquest, though she’d been fully prepared to tell the absolute, unadulterated truth. Several local friends had testified that Herb Lattimore was despondent in recent months. Googie Nathanson was quoted as saying, “He must have been even more depressed than I imagined. Why else would he do such a desperate, crazy thing?”

  Why indeed? Carlotta mused. What could possibly drive a man to put his life on the line for some silly game? It was all too dreary and foolish to even consider.

  She turned her full attention to her precious plants. Lovingly, she dusted the droopy leaves and parched blossoms of her ailing Aconitum napellus. The stem was lolling a bit as well. Carlotta propped it with a Popsicle stick and a bit of twine. “There now, sweetheart. I hope you aren’t terribly, horribly angry with me for clipping your roots. You know I wouldn’t have done such a thing if it weren’t for a just and worthy cause.”

  Carlotta brushed aside a bit of soil and peered at the roots. Her heart soared. Things were healing just beautifully beneath the surface. All good things would follow in time.

  Eric Lustbader

  For many years, Eric Lustbader was identified on his dust jackets as Eric Van Lustbader, and the books were martial arts adventures that regularly found their way onto the best-seller lists. Having seen a Bruce Lee movie once, and years later a Chuck Norris movie, I viewed these martial arts productions as analogous to the wit they offered viewers—it was halfway there. However much ‘martial’ there was on display, there was precious little ‘art’.

  Because I found no pleasure in the movies, I expected to find equally little to enchant me in books devoted to descriptions of the scenes I found so improbable on the screen.

  Then I read a book by Marc Olden, which I liked. The author later recommended Eric Van Lustbader to me, and I learned that I’d been missing something after all. As time passed, however, Lustbader dropped the Van and his novels became more mainstream crime novels set against a big canvas, much of it in the Far East, and they are a thrill a minute. Now, of course, I’m baffled that these thrilling adventure novels aren’t made into movies. Preferably starring Steven Seagal or Sylvester Stallone or Bruce Willis or another of those bulked-up guys who can perform remarkable physical feats.

  The following story is nothing at all like those novels, it should be noted. Nor like the movies.

  Dead Cat Bounce

  The night of my daughter’s wedding, my husband, William VanDam, broke one of his inviolable rules.

  “Persis,” he said to me, “I’ve made a terrible mistake.” He had never before admitted such a thing. To do so in his securities business would have meant immeasurable loss of reputation.

  The best way to deal with this revelation, I decided, was to do nothing. Nothing spins so well as on its own momentum, I once heard him tell a junior partner. “Dear, why don’t you take off your tux?” I said. I was sitting in my champagne silk charmeuse slip, at the dressing table in the truly hot hotel suite we had rented for the week. By hot I mean designer hot.

  Observing Willie in the mirror, I could not help also seeing myself: black hair framing the pale oval face of a Madonna. “It’s what, almost three-thirty in the morning?” I had removed my makeup as expertly as I had applied it hours ago, and was now massaging one of those botanical creams into the skin of my hands.

  Because I was a concert pianist, I took extraordinary care of my hands. I confess my one abiding fear was that I would develop arthritis. I never went outside without donning butter-soft doeskin gloves, of which I had pairs in a virtual rainbow of colours. “You must be exhausted. I know I am. It was a truly glorious wedding, wasn’t it?”

  The air smelled of evening primrose as I stared at him in the mirror: a big man with a rough-hewn, handsome face. When we had first met, I had felt utterly transported by his commanding presence. He had given me shivers all over.

  “I’m not in the least bit tired;”

  I could smell his sweat like a halo of rage. He never perspired like this in his office, not even during the excruciatingly complicated corporate mergers his securities firm brokered. It was the details that could kill you, as he had drummed into me time and again. Which was why people came to him: they knew he’d sew up every detail without reaching for the Zantac. He didn’t miss one.

  But he looked like he’d missed this one and now he was ready to tear his hair out.

  “I may never sleep again. It’s like ants crawling over my skin.”

  I swivelled around to face him. I heard the tone in his voice and was instantly warned. He had this wild streak—a volatile temper that had taken me quite some time to figure out. Often enough, he’d cruelly thrown back at me the fact that I was an orphan. “Shape up or I’ll abandon you as quickly as your mother did,” he used to tell me when I disobeyed. He could always make me cry with that, even now.

  I knew I needed to be calm. I rose, slipped off his black Armani tuxedo jacket, and hung it over a chair back. Then, leaning in so that my breasts pressed against his chest, I kissed him hard on the lips, the way he liked. “Come to bed now. Whatever’s troubling you, can’t it wait until morning?”

  He leaned forward and slipped his left arm around my slender waist. But instead of embracing me fully, he slashed out with his right arm in a vicious arc, smashing my bottles of cream and lotion and nail polish to smithereens. Smears of colours ran down the mirror like blood.


  “Does that answer your question?” His voice was acid; the fist he made trembled as nails dug into skin. My smooth surface had inflamed him all the more.

  “Willie, for God’s sake, calm down.”

  “If you’ve nothing else to contribute to the conversation, kindly keep quiet.” He dropped his arm from around my waist. “Christ, what do you really know about the real world, Perse?” He was always lecturing about the real world, a place I apparently knew nothing about. “I took you out of the mess you had made of your life. I’ve kept you protected, safe from all the evil you were getting yourself into.” He was quite correct in that. My parents had left me in a hospital, and seventeen years later, it was a hospital in which Willie had found me. If I looked at the insides of my wrists in the proper light I could still see the scars, straight as the razor blade that had caused them. By that time, I’d had it with evil. Every form of lowlife imaginable had gotten his claws into me. They were outsiders, and you might think so was I. But you’d be wrong. I wasn’t even that. I was a parasite on the naked butt of an outsider. I have to admit, he had cause to despise what I’d been.

  “Caroline is just like you, ignorant of life,” he went on. “You can’t expect me to do less for her.”

  “Is it Caro who’s somehow upset you so?”

  “In a manner of speaking. She just married that sonuvabitch Eddie.”

  My eyes opened wide.

  “Oh, I know that look, Perse. You don’t want to hear anything bad about him.”

  “He’s Caroline’s husband. Our son-in-law. Eddie’s family now.”

  Now he seemed disgusted, impatient to turn away. But I held him to me with my sure and comforting artist’s touch. “They love each other, Willie. I’ve rarely seen two people so crazy in love.