Offerings Three Stories

by Mary Anna Evans

  ***

  Our ordeal should have been long past when the sheriff arrived. Quite a crowd had gathered on the river bank to gawk at Gibson by then—news travels fast in places where nothing interesting ever happens—and a more somber group had gathered downstream to look for Mr. Robbins. The sheriff listened soberly as Owen told his story, shaking his head at his description of how Gibson shot Mr. Robbins in cold blood.

  Then Gibson raised his head and said, “The kid’s lying. He shot Robbins, and then he tried to kill me. I shot him in self-defense.”

  I did not, at that time, fully realize the jeopardy that Owen was now in. In those days before fancy forensic work, I doubt that anyone in central Florida could have told whether the bullet that killed Mr. Robbins had come from Owen’s gun or Gibson’s. Assuming their guns could be fished up off the river bottom, I imagine the lawmen could have told that they’d both been fired, but that’s about all. This case would be decided based on eyewitness testimony which, in my mind, wasn’t going to be a problem. It wasn’t a question of Owen’s word against Gibson’s. Iris and I had both seen what happened. Once we got the chance to tell our stories, I knew that everyone would see the truth.

  I didn’t understand that Jeb Gibson was a man of substance and wealth in our county, and the fact that his wealth was built on rum running didn’t bother people all that much. Truth be told, a lot of the gawking onlookers were his customers. Maybe the sheriff was, too, for all I know.

  I also didn’t understand that the word of an eight-year-old child meant nothing then. Still doesn’t, actually. And the testimony of a seventeen-year-old girl who had been caught visiting with her boyfriend in her nightgown could hardly have been taken seriously, not in those days. Women had only been granted the right to vote and sit on juries during my short lifetime, so our word might have been suspect to that crowd, even if we’d been upstanding citizens of legal age. I didn’t understand these matters, but I sensed that things weren’t going Owen’s way, so I leapt into the breach. That seems to have been my lifelong way of doing things.

  “I saw him! I saw Gibson shoot Mr. Robbins, right in the chest.”

  Women started murmuring about how a child hadn’t ought to see such awful sights. They were right, but that was water under the bridge now.

  “Why would he do such a thing?” the sheriff asked, getting down on one knee beside me. I could tell by his tone of voice that he was just humoring me. He had no intention of letting a little girl interfere with the august processes of the law.

  “He thought Mr. Robbins and Owen were cheating him. Mr. Robbins explained to him that they weren’t and I believed him. I think—” I hesitated to expose Gibson’s ignorance but he was a murderer and all, so I plunged ahead. “—I think he can’t read and do his numbers, and he was afraid they were taking advantage.”

  I saw a couple of people, including the sheriff, flick their eyes at the ground, which told me that I wasn’t the only one who knew Gibson’s secret.

  “Tell me exactly what happened,” the sheriff said, so I did. I must have looked like an avenging cherub, standing there in a nightgown wet with riverwater and Owen’s blood. I started at the beginning and I told the story.

  Perhaps I went into too much detail regarding the things Owen and Iris were doing at the landing because, for a time, every eye was fastened on my sister’s mortified face. But when I described the two men floating downriver on a boat loaded with contraband, those eyes swiveled in my direction. When I delivered—word for word—the argument between Gibson, Mr. Robbins, and Owen, people listened. When I got to the part where Gibson shot Mr. Robbins, his widow moaned. Still, I had the sense that I was failing. None of these people would decide which man to put in jail based on the word of a skinny girl-child.

  I imbued my description of the shooting with every lurid detail I could recall. The red spray of blood from the victim’s chest. The smell of gunpowder and mud. The lonely splash of a body striking water. They were there with me, watching the murder. I could see it in their eyes. Yet they could not muster the faith they needed to act. I was still not a plausible witness.

  Then I dropped the final fact onto my teetering pile of details, and they believed. I told them what Gibson had said when he pulled the trigger.

  Everyone there knew me. They knew my mama and my daddy. They could well believe that Iris was capable of misbehaving in the way I described, but they were equally certain that no eight-year-old girl from a good family could possibly know that loathsome word. Some of the women in the crowd turned uncertain eyes on their husbands because they, themselves, had never heard it.

  Later, when I told my story to the judge, I had been advised of how singularly unsuitable that word was for a young lady. Or an old lady or a gentleman of any age, for that matter. I refused to say it again, but the sheriff had heard my testimony the first time, and he explained things to the judge for me. Justice was served.

  Owen did a little time for his rum running, but it was nothing compared to what he would have gotten for killing Mr. Robbins. I don’t know if Gibson ever got out of prison. They may have hanged him, for all I know. That was not the kind of information that was shared with little girls in those long-ago times. Everyone concerned agreed that it was best to let Owen and Iris get married before he went off to jail. Just in case. She was waiting for him when he got home, and they lived together in a little house on the riverbank for the rest of their long lives.

  Eventually, I stopped being a little girl and people started listening to me when I talked.

  I take that back. After that night on the river, people paid heed to what I said, because I had proven myself. I believe some of them were a little afraid of me, which may have been why I came so near to being an old maid. Webster Simpson was the only man, other than my father, who could take me seriously without being afraid of me, so I married him. We lived next door to Iris and Owen for the rest of his long life, and we were happy.

  Webster was a roofer by trade, but he was an artist at heart. There was nothing that man couldn’t make with a piece of galvanized roofing and a pair of tin snips. He made Iris a toy Model T, complete with tires that rolled and a tiny little crank on the passenger floorboard. She hung it on her Christmas tree every year until she died.

  It’s hanging near the tip-top of my own Christmas tree, right this minute.

  ####

  Mouse House

  By Mary Anna Evans

  If Peter Pan had expired less flamboyantly or, better yet, if he had not expired at all, the murder of Paolo Arrezzo might have remained forever unsolved. If Peter Pan had stayed alive, it is possible (though unlikely) that Mr. Arrezzo’s death certificate might always have read “cardiac arrest.” Medical examiners tend to take special care with the post-mortem examinations of high-level Mafia officials who find themselves without a pulse at the tender age of 42, but there are many chemicals capable of rendering one dead. While the crime lab would certainly have looked for the poison that left him face-down in his apple strudel, some of them are damn hard to find unless you know precisely what noxious agent you’re seeking.

  Young Mr. Pan’s cause of death was much easier to pinpoint. When a human being covered in fake fairy dust leaps out of a castle window, trusting that his safety cable will guide him gently to the ground, it’s best for that cable to be in one piece. I was in my office, using a dozen security cameras to scan the excitable crowd below the unfortunate Pete, when the cable failed and sent him to his fate.

  Parents snatched their children—some of them teenaged and quite large—and carried them bodily toward the park exit. Within ten seconds, Main Street was a bottleneck with the potential to kill hundreds of panic-stricken guests. In the array of security monitors, I could see my staff, efficient and well-trained, leap into action. Opening seldom-used gates, they began funneling guests down into the basement that serves as the backstage for the biggest show in the world. Each guest who was shuttled through the basement and out an emergency exit was o
ne more person who would not trample someone else or be trampled themselves. If our luck held, Mr. Arrezzo and Pete would be the only people to die in the park today.

  Two deaths in one day. In a single morning. Mr. Arrezzo had expired over breakfast, and Pete had been flying the pre-noon show designed to welcome latecomers into the park. It was also timed to make the earlybirds stop in the tracks and wonder whether it wasn’t time to grab an overpriced hot dog for lunch. The sooner they ate, the sooner the Corporation would have a chance to sell them another meal.

  I pitied the PR chief. The Corporation does not appreciate publicity that can’t be manipulated into a favorable slant. That’s why they hired me. Good security does not make news. It is invisible. While my job application said all the right things—a degree in criminology, fifteen years of law enforcement experience, and specialized training in surveillance technology—my interview won me the job.

  My employers have a deep and abiding knowledge of psychology. If you doubt that, spend a week at the park sometime. Ride all the rides once for pleasure, then ride them again for understanding. Watch how they use costumed characters and mildly humorous films to distract you from the fact that you just spent half-an-hour standing in line outdoors.

  In Florida.

  In August.

  Then ride all the rides again. Make an effort not to look where they want you to look. Ignore the charming dolls chanting about how small the world is, and look for the underwater tracks that branch off from the ride’s main line.

  Where do you think they go? To a maintenance area, of course. When some destructive kid carves his name in a boat’s shiny finish, somebody’s got to hustle that watercraft to the repair shop. Maintaining the illusion of magical perfection is tough when 70,000 imperfect human beings troop through the park on any given day.

  Now, ride something else and look for tell-tale gaps in the scenery where a door might hide. If some idiot stomps on your daughter’s finger while they’re clambering into one of those fake mine cars, do you think they’re going to let you carry her, screaming and crying and bleeding, out the front entrance in front of all those waiting guests? Nope, they’ll send a cast member to spirit your whole family away through a hidden exit, down into the basement where you’ll find a friendly nurse with a first-aid kit and a lollipop for your young one. Hell, they might even send a dwarf to the emergency station to apply the antibiotic ointment.

  My point is this: I’ve never personally met a colleague who admitted to being a psychologist, but I’m convinced the Corporation employs a whole staff of folks whose sole purpose is to keep 70,000 people happy every day. (I wish somebody would turn them loose in the Middle East. We might achieve peace in our time.)

  I am convinced that those psychologists are intimately involved in the hiring process, and I believe that is why I was hired for this job. I am a man of utmost discretion. I consider the ramifications of my words and my actions. If anyone is less likely to say something stupid to the press or to a law enforcement official, I don’t know who that person might be. I communicated that quality to my interviewers five years ago, and I was rewarded with my dream job. Two rather theatrical deaths made today a more difficult day than most, but I love my work. I knew I could handle this.

  I backed up the surveillance video and took a close look at Peter Pan’s final flight. He’d paused on the specially built balcony high up the castle’s tallest tower, swashing and buckling with his faux sword until the crowd noticed him, then he’d launched himself into his trademark tumbling dive.

  Guests have thrilled to Tinkerbell’s nightly flight for decades, but there are stunts that only a male body can do. When the park added a second circus-trained aerialist to the lineup, the official website lit up with messages from awe-struck guests describing Peter Pan’s daring entrance, so Pete the Aerialist became a permanent part of each day’s entertainment…

  …until tonight, when his flashy dive accelerated downward toward the point at which the safety cable should have pulled taut, yanking him out of gravity’s grip. Only it didn’t.

  Perfectly toned arms and legs flailed at the air, trying to save an acrobat’s body that could do nearly everything except fly. He landed on a paved area amid bushes and shadows that obscured my view, and I was glad for that. I had never liked Peter Pan’s alter ego, a bitchy egotist whose real name was Merrill Chatham, but that didn’t mean I was anxious for a look at his broken body. I would get a look at Merrill’s remains soon enough, as well as a blow-by-blow description of the autopsy, but I was in no hurry.

  I buzzed my assistant Keith. “Get every staff member who’s not working crowd control in here. Tell them to sift through every second of surveillance video of the castle’s exterior and interior, starting just after Merrill’s flight last night. If someone cut that cable, we should have them on video.”

  “We’ve already got all available staff here, running through the videos and trying to re-trace Mr. Arrezzo’s last few hours.”

  Pulling my cell phone out of my pocket and heading out the door into the makeshift workroom where all those people were, I said, “I knew that. Watching Merrill die just got me rattled. Tell them to keep an eye out for him, too, while they’re scanning the video. I want to know everything he did today, and that includes what time he took his last piss. Call in some off-duty staff to go through the castle videos, if that’s what it takes.”

  Letting the door slam behind me, I dialed James, the person most likely to know things about the dead Peter Pan that no surveillance camera could ever pick up.

  “James—” He cut me off before I got any further.

  “You’re calling me during working hours—” James took a breath and I knew he was checking his Caller ID. “—and you’re on your company cell phone. Is that completely safe?”

  “Please don’t start. This is not the time. Merrill is dead.”

  “Dead? Merrill? He’s the healthiest man I know. God. And you’re calling me on your company phone, so I’m guessing he died in the park on your watch. Whatever happened?”

  Striding through the broad underground corridors alongside staffers muttering amongst themselves about Peter Pan’s fall, I wished I’d made this call before leaving my office. Reaching the infirmary where Merrill’s body would be brought, I told James to hold on a second and stepped into an empty examining room, closing the door.

  “He fell. His wire broke. We’re trying to find out whether it was an accident. Can you tell me whether he had any enemies?”

  “How should I know? What makes you think I knew anything about Merrill’s friends or enemies? We had absolutely nothing in common. Other than being flaming faggots.”

  “The dressing room, James. Please don’t make this into something it’s not. I just thought you might know something about his personal life because you see him every day in the dancers’ dressing room.”

  “Well, it is the single-gender Peyton Place of central Florida,” James purred. The prospect of being asked to gossip on the company payroll had driven the knowledge that he was angry with me clean out of his mind. “Merrill cheats on Aaron quite regularly, and he flaunts it in his face, too.”

  “Would Aaron have killed him for it?”

  “Sweetheart, that dressing room is filled right up every day with men that could just kill Merrill. First, there’s Aaron. Then, there’s all the other men he’s loved and left. Also, he’s stolen a few boyfriends from a few people who don’t like him much any more. And don’t forget the classic culprit—his understudy. Me. How far do you think I might go for a chance at that job, not to mention the glory and the money that come with it?”

  “James, come on. You? A murderer? Who stomps the palmetto bugs at our house?”

  “Well, you do. But I like palmetto bugs more than I liked Merrill.”

  I shifted the cell phone to my other ear. “So you’re telling me that every male dancer in the park had some reason to want Merrill dead?”

  “Pretty much. Any more questions? W
ant to know what I’m cooking for dinner?”

  “I don’t think I’ll be home for dinner tonight.”

  ***

  My professional observation of Merrill’s body was much more unpleasant than viewing Mr. Arezzo’s body had been. The Mafia chief had simply been a middle-aged man, limp and pale. The apple strudel smeared on his blank face had impaired his dignity, but it had not destroyed it.

  Merrill, on the other hand…well, I happen to believe that God never intended a man to die with his green, pointy-toed boots on. And He damn sure didn’t mean for him to do it in sparkly tights.

  Merrill’s broken body had nothing to tell me. All I needed was the identity of the person who sabotaged his cable. And I knew now that it was sabotage. My people had examined both ends of the cable. A clean cut had extended almost all the way through its diameter, leaving just enough material to hold the thing together, but not enough to support Merrill’s weight.

  This was murder.

  I moved through the emergency center in Keith’s office, peering first over one shoulder, then another.

  “Anybody got anything?” I asked.

  Keith caught up with my frenetic pacing long enough to say, “We’ve got nothing on who cut Merrill’s cable. There’s no security camera up there.” Of course there wasn’t, I reflected. Why would there be?

  A young blonde woman whose name had escaped me beckoned. “Mr. Arrezzo seems to have been…difficult. I’ve got video of him arguing with his wife, browbeating a ride attendant, yelling at his kids. And the park was only open two hours before he died. Who brings their kids someplace like this, then makes them cry?”