Edgar Allan Cozy

by Sheila Connolly et al.

  Peter spun toward me, his lips turned up into a smile exaggerated by the garish makeup with which he’d outlined them. “Having trouble, Cherie? You didn’t hurt yourself, did you?” His tone was solicitous, as always. As though we were still a happily married couple. As though everything was fine. “Need me to stitch you up?” He chuckled, then sat by me on the bed as I untangled the thread. He put a costumed armed around my shoulders, and I tried not to flinch as he leaned in close to my cheek, my ear, then whispered, “Too bad I’m already dressed for the show. We could…”

  An acid ball of bile rose in my throat at the smell of his soap, which I could just distinguish under the scents of all the products he’d used to transform himself into Lucky Ducky, the clown. There was another woman out there, a nurse at the children’s hospital where Peter worked as a pediatrician, who was also smelling that soap on a regular basis. Perhaps she got a kick out of the costume. Perhaps it even turned her on. I no longer got a kick out of anything my cheating husband said or did.

  In through the fabric. Out through the fabric. Through the shank of the bell. Jingle. Jingle. Through the fabric again. “We could,” I finally said, when I had composed myself. “But then you’d be late for the circus. You can’t disappoint the children.”

  He nodded. His hair didn’t move from its upright position. “I’m first to pile out of the clown car this performance. I won the drawing at the Shrine.” He stood.

  I made a knot, on purpose this time, and snipped off the thread. Peter took the vest from me and put it on. He gave a little shimmy, laughing, and all the bells went off at once. If he’d been trying to torture me, he couldn’t have chosen a better method. Until he added insult to injury.

  “You sure you don’t want to come? I think the ladies are shorthanded at the Kotton Kandy Kart.” Somehow, I could hear those Ks replacing the Cs.

  I did my best to hide my irritation. The circus was for a good cause. I’d gladly put in my time over the years, always a useful helpmeet to my more important husband, who’d never wanted me to work outside the home. Who encouraged me to pursue my own interests, as long as they didn’t interfere with his requirements of a perfect wife, a perfect life, in our now far too large house in the Boston suburbs.

  “You know I’m headed up to Raven Harbor to see what needs to be done to get the house ready to sell.”

  Peter’s expression was unreadable under the makeup. “I’ll be there tomorrow,” he said. “You don’t need to sell the place, you know. It’s been in your family so long, it seems a shame. We could fix it up. Make it less gloomy. Then we could spend summers there. I could stay here during the week and travel up there every weekend.” The damn bells jingled again as he leaned over to tie the laces on the shoes.

  Wouldn’t that be convenient? I would live in the house my great-aunt left me on the rocky coast of Maine, and my adoring husband would have five days—and nights—a week free to … pursue his own interests.

  “I already have a buyer lined up. I can’t back out of it now. With the money the sale will bring, invested now, I can fund college for all the grandchildren when they come along.”

  “Well, it’s your house, your decision of course. Though I hope you’re keeping the contents of the wine cellar. There are some rare bottles there. I’m off. Wish me luck,” he said, blowing me a kiss so as not to smear his makeup with a touch. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “See you,” I repeated. Oh yes, I’d see him tomorrow. Temporarily.

  *****

  My spirits lifted as I pulled into the crushed stone and shell driveway of Montresor House. Beyond the east side of the home my ancestors had built long ago, I could see the outline of the Raven Harbor Lighthouse and the Atlantic churning in a rough gray chop around its base. The waves hit the shore with rhythmic, audible crashes. Not that they were visible from this vantage. The house, covered in weathered brown shakes which no occupant had ever bothered to paint, sat high above the water on Fortune’s Bluff, which marked the end of the limits of the village of Raven Harbor. Built by my great-great-great-grandfather, the whaling captain Jacob Montresor, the house where I’d spent summers with my maiden great-aunt Lodusky had stood more or less unchanged for a hundred and fifty years.

  I exited my car and put my key in the lock. But for the creaking of the hinges on the paneled wood front door, only silence greeted me as I entered the magnificent foyer. For of course Auntie was gone. Had been gone for months.

  But now, I was here.

  And I was planning to stay.

  It hadn’t been a lie I’d told my husband. My deceitful husband, who didn’t actually deserve the truth. But I was better than that. Honest. Perhaps not quite forthcoming, but honest. Or I would be for a little while longer, at least. After tomorrow I’d be living a lovely lie. I set my keys down on the round oak table that sat precisely in the center of the mariner’s compass depicted in the black and white marble floor, got a better grip on the leather handles of my overnight bag, and began my trek up the winding oak staircase.

  I was selling the house. But I was selling it to an irrevocable trust, of which I was the sole trustee and beneficiary for my lifetime. Then it would pass to my children, with the caveat that it could never be sold. And when it finally did pass, and one of my children or future grandchildren moved in and discovered my secret, I’d be beyond prosecution.

  My legs used to ache when I climbed these stairs. But one of the advantages of being a stay-at-home wife with very little to do was that I had time—all the time in the world!—to work out. In the last few months I’d added strength training to my routine and it had clearly paid off. I didn’t anticipate a struggle tomorrow, but if one ensued, if my dear Lucky Ducky didn’t cooperate, I was ready. The thought of my impending freedom, of the release of my pent-up anger of thirty years, made me giddy.

  When I reached the turret room, I set down the bag containing my clothes on the bed and hung the strap of my purse on the ornate iron headboard. The mattress was long and narrow, covered in a satin-and-velvet crazy quilt Aunt Lodusky had made. Or perhaps it went back even to her mother. I’d never asked her when she was alive and now it didn’t really matter. I stared at the colors until they began to undulate, then swirl into an unrecognizable pattern. I closed my eyes and the colors reconfigured into the harlequin diamond shapes that covered Peter’s clown pants. The blood rushed to my head and then the sound of those damn bells filled my head. Jingle. Jingle!

  I ripped the quilt from the bed, knocking my bag to the floor, and the trowel fell out with a dull clink. Panting, I willed myself to focus on the shine of the metal and the dull wood handle. After tomorrow its work would be done. And it would have a new home somewhere on the rocky bottom of Raven’s Harbor.

  I dumped the rest of the items—a small spade, a negligee—onto the quilt and pulled the corners together like a Chinese dumpling and tossed it out onto the landing outside the door. Then I lay down on the bed as I had so many times before—this had always been my room, when I visited—and slept.

  *****

  The next day dawned gray and overcast, promising rain, but the foreboding sky did nothing to quell the quiet buzz of excitement that was building within me. Every nerve was alive. Everything I touched seemed to sizzle beneath my fingers. The air had a silvery shimmer. I skipped my morning coffee but downed half a Xanax. Just to take the edge off. Because I needed to be seen today and it wouldn’t do to let my excitement show.

  It was only a three-minute drive into downtown Raven Harbor. Luck was with me because there was a parking spot right in front of Local Diner. There were only townies here today, no tourists, which was good. I wanted to be identified. Booth or stool? I debated only a moment, then took the table next to the door instead. Anyone coming or going would have to pass me.

  “Hey, Cherie,” the waitress, Angie, said, pulling a notepad out of the pocket of her pink ruffled apron and a pen from behind her ear. “The usual?”

  I craved a Spanish omelette but today was n
ot a day to order anything out of the ordinary, anything uncharacteristic, lest she think I was behaving oddly. I smiled at Angie. “Coffee and the stuffed French toast.”

  “The same thing you’ve been ordering for years. You up for the weekend?”

  “Yes. Taking care of some things at the house. Peter is joining me this evening.”

  Angie wrote down the order and ripped the page from the notebook. “Dinner special’s ham and beans tonight. Not fancy like you get in Boston, but you wouldn’t have to cook.”

  “Peter’s usually tired when he gets in from a day at the hospital.” Or a hard day doing other things with someone he shouldn’t. “So I brought something from home. I imagine we’ll be here again at some point during the weekend, though.”

  “I’ll put in your order.” She turned and headed for the pass-through to the kitchen.

  After breakfast, which was delicious—there was a reason I always ordered the same thing—I took a walk down the main drag. Most of the shops were still shuttered, the owners probably figuring that the dull weather would keep the tourists at home so there was no need to hurry to open up. So I went to the public library and parked myself in a chair with a romance novel. No police procedurals, and for heaven’s sake no true crime story for me today. A Madeline Wilson Tell-Tale Heart romantic mystery fit the bill perfectly, with its flashy cover that the librarian would remember.

  I’d only intended to stay for an hour, but the book was engrossing, could almost have made me believe in love again, and before I knew it, it was nearly lunch time. I checked out the book—there would be time to pass before Peter arrived, and besides, now I had to find out what would happen next—and left the library. A few stops in several of the now-open downtown shops, with a few well-placed remarks about Peter’s imminent arrival by train, and my presence in Raven Harbor had been established.

  So tomorrow, when I reported to the police that Peter wasn’t on the train and I couldn’t reach him by phone or at the hospital, there would be witnesses who could testify to my whereabouts. Peter would be at work with plenty of people around until at least five o’clock. I’d make a phone call to a friend from the Montresor House landline about the same time—a call that could be identified as coming from Raven Harbor. And I would send my husband a text confirming what time the train got in so I could pick him up.

  But he wouldn’t be on that train.

  He’d be driving his own car. Which I would insist he’d put in the carriage house tonight, so it couldn’t be seen from the road.

  I’d paid someone a lot of cash to make that car vanish tomorrow before I called in Peter’s disappearance. Whether it would end up stripped in some unincorporated township to the northwest, or at the bottom of one of the hundreds of lakes somewhere else in Maine, I didn’t know. Was paying someone so I wouldn’t have to know.

  The only thing that could go wrong was if Peter decided to make a stop in town before coming to Montresor House. If he did, I’d simply say I’d misunderstood about the train, and postpone my plan. What was another few weeks? I could stand it. Stand the bells, the greasepaint, the coming home to me when he’d been with her.

  When I got back to the house, I began my final preparations.

  I placed two antique crystal glasses on the dining room table, then arranged a platter of grapes and cheese, which I covered with plastic wrap and put in the refrigerator for later. I uncorked a bottle of expensive amontillado sherry and added half a dozen Xanax pills, then replaced the cork.

  The negligee—made of lavender silk, which I’d bought on a trip to Paris when I still thought my marriage was a good one—I artfully draped over the back of one of the dining room tables as bait. We’d pour drinks, which I would only pretend to ingest. I’d ask if I should put on the negligee. He’d agree. I was vain enough to think I could still tempt him. I’d send him to the cellar for another bottle of wine, so we wouldn’t have to interrupt our tryst later.

  And I’d push the bastard down the stairs.

  I opened the door next to the sideboard and, spade and trowel in hand, made my way to the cellar.

  A bag of mortar lay where I had left it, next to a large plastic tray, a hose, and a stack of antique bricks I’d found in another part of the cellar. It was unfortunate that the mortar had to be mixed just before use, which meant I couldn’t get it done ahead of time, but the sedative combination of the Xanax and alcohol should give me enough time to drag Peter into the small room I’d discovered, then finish him off with a blow to the head. Then I would seal up the wall. How hard could it be? Those “Masonry for Dummies” videos on YouTube made it look simple. And he’d never be found. At least, not while I was alive.

  All was as ready as it could be. Now I could go upstairs and read some more of that novel while I waited for Peter to arrive.

  What was that? A faint noise.

  A breath.

  The rustle of fabric.

  Bells.

  Bells!

  I whipped around. Peter stood there, a gun in his hand. He wore the clown costume, to taunt me, no doubt. The damned clown costume. He must have come to town early and waited down here while I was in town. “Hello, darling,” he said. “What are you doing, Cherie?”

  I froze, then found my voice. “I could ask you the same question, Peter. I thought you weren’t coming until tomorrow. And since when do you have a gun?” My heart raced. My temples pounded. This wasn’t how my perfectly planned scenario was supposed to play out.

  He’d spoiled everything. Again.

  Then a figure stepped out from behind Peter. A woman. Model thin. Blond hair pulled back in a messy bun. The nurse. “Do it, Peter, and get it over with. We need to get out of town before anyone recognizes your car.”

  The colors swirled behind my eyes. My ears filled to bursting with the tiny sounds of the bells on Peter’s vest. I felt dizzy, nauseous, as though I’d drunk the drugged amontillado. They couldn’t get away with this. I wouldn’t allow it.

  When I opened my eyes again, I lunged.

  Jingle. Jingle.

  A gunshot.

  Jing—

  *****

  “Don’t put too much water in the mortar,” the nurse said. “It won’t set up properly.”

  “What are the odds,” Peter said, “that I’d take up with the daughter—the beautiful daughter, I might add—of a bricklayer?”

  “Just lucky, I guess,” the blonde said. “Now hand me that stack of bricks. There’s just enough here to finish the job. Then you promised me a glass of that expensive wine.”

  Sadie Hartwell grew up near the Canadian border in northern New York State, where it’s cold, dark, and snowy almost half the year—a perfect environment for nurturing a simultaneous love of mystery fiction, needlework, and cooking. She attended St. Lawrence University, graduating with a degree in history, and has worked as a waitress, handbag designer/manufacturer, office drone, and copy editor before turning to writing full time. Now she gets to play with yarn and make up stories whenever she wants, and wishes everyone had a job as much fun as hers.

  Sadie is the author of the Tangled Web Mysteries (Yarned and Dangerous, 2015, A Knit Before Dying, 2016). Writing as Susannah Hardy, she writes the Greek to Me Mysteries (Feta Attraction, 2015, Olive and Let Die, 2015, A Killer Kebab, November 2016). You can find her at www.sadiehartwell.com and www.susannahhardy.com.

  Anna, Belle, and Lee

  by Sherry Harris

  It was many and many a year ago,

  In a kindergarten by the sea,

  That three children lived whom you may know

  Their names Anna, Belle and Lee;

  And these three lived with no other thought

  Than to play together by the sea.

  They loved each other like no other,

  In this kindergarten by the sea,

  And as they grew their love did too

  Anna, Belle and Lee

  But one day their love was twisted

  Because Lee loved Belle and Anna lov
ed Lee.

  And this was the reason that, long ago,

  In this haven by the sea,

  A wind of change blew through the town

  affecting Anna, Belle, and Lee;

  Anna left for college,

  A train bore her away from Lee,

  To study in an ivory tower

  Far from the haven by the sea.

  Belle was very happy,

  Anna envied her and Lee—

  Yes, Belle said, now Lee is mine

  In this haven by the sea

  But Anna snuck back on a cloudy night,

  Chilling and killing her once love Lee.

  Belle took a dagger

  And struck down Anna for Lee

  then took her own life, the last of the three

  Neither the seniors in the haven

  or the children playing by the sea

  Ever understood the love

  of Anna, Belle and Lee.

  For the moon never beams, without haunting the town’s dreams

  Of the beautiful Anna, Belle, and Lee;

  And the stars no longer rise, but they feel the dead eyes

  Of the beautiful Anna, Belle and Lee;

  And so, now in what once was a haven by the sea

  The darling beautiful three,

  Haunt the town there by the sea—

  Cursing all by the sounding sea.

  Sherry Harris, a former director of marketing for a financial planning company, started bargain hunting in second grade at her best friend’s yard sale. She honed her bartering skills as she moved around the country while her husband served in the Air Force. Sherry uses her love of garage sales, her life as a military spouse, and her time living in Massachusetts as inspiration for the Sarah Winston Garage Sale series. Tagged for Death, the first in the series, was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best First Novel. She is the president of the Chesapeake Chapter of Sisters in Crime. www.sherryharrisauthor.com