by Jan Burke
Harriet decided to be big about it; after all, she didn’t want a reputation as the sort of writer who simply couldn’t let go of a word she’d written. She was no rank amateur. She could bear the burden of criticism; being showered with the unwanted opinions of others was inevitable in her profession. And so she set herself to the painful task of revising the ending of Pearls Before Swine. That in turn meant that she had to revise a number of passages in the story, but she did not complain.
In fact, by the time she mailed off her new version, she was quite pleased with it. This time, Lord Wiggins offered Monroe a piece of chocolate cake chock-full of Catapres. It had been a bit tricky for dear Harry to obtain the drug, but she had managed it. Monroe had suffered heart failure thirty minutes after eating his dessert, allowing Lord Harold all the time in the world to leave the scene. It was certainly not as popular in fiction as strychnine, so Harriet thought Kitty might be contented.
Kitty hated it.
“You are going to have to do better than this. Catapres? Could you possibly devise anything more obscure? No reader is going to recognize this as a poison. Crimeny, it sounds like a resort that would appeal to people from the Bronx.”
Not being from New York, Harriet couldn’t guess what Kitty meant by her last remark. She steamed and stewed for a while and then went back to work. Now it was a challenge.
In version three, Lord Harold arranged for Monroe to be bitten repeatedly by a Gila monster.
“What utter nonsense!” Kitty wrote. “How the heck does an English lord happen to have a twenty-inch Arizona desert lizard hanging about?”
Even Harriet had to admit that the Gila monster wasn’t her best effort. She spent a little more time on version four. There might not be many Gila monsters roaming about the English countryside, but she knew that rhododendrons weren’t so rare. And so it was that Lord Harold made tea from the deadly leaves, and served it with scones to the unsuspecting Monroe.
“Harriet, please. You are trying my patience. This is so unimaginative. If you want this to sell anywhere outside of the East Lansing Lawn and Garden Club, rewrite.”
Harriet wasn’t even sure how she found the nerve to try a fifth time. She needed to publish annually to maintain the lifestyle to which she had become accustomed, and Kitty’s demands were delaying the publication date of Pearls Before Swine. She had arranged to attend the annual Mystery World Awards Banquet, the Whodundunits. Her flight from Los Angeles to New York was booked, the hotel arrangements made. But now she wasn’t sure she could face the inquires of her fellow authors; they were bound to notice that the next Lord Harold Wiggins book had not arrived on schedule.
She had grown more bitter about this trial by rewrite as each day passed. But once more she devised an ending, this time with antimony, arranging elaborate plot devices to allow Lord Harold Wiggins access to an industrial poison. And still Kitty wasn’t satisfied.
As she held Kitty’s fifth nasty letter, something snapped inside Harriet. She began to see Kitty as the root of all evil in her life. Before Kitty, she had been happy. Nothing much had disturbed the world dear Harry had shared with her; he had paid her way, she had kept him alive. It seemed to Harriet that Kitty wanted to kill them both. Well, Harriet decided, we’ll see who kills whom.
The idea began to comfort her. She would attend the Whodundunits, slip a little something into Kitty’s wine and sit back and enjoy her evening, knowing that her troubles would soon be over. In a room full of people who were constantly dreaming up ways for other people to die, the death of a woman who was almost universally despised by them would present a monumental problem for New York’s Finest.
Harriet became quite delighted at the prospect. She did not doubt that she would be able to kill. After all, she had already murdered over thirty characters. (Three was Harriet’s lucky number, and so she made it the average body count in her books.) Among those thirty characters were a great many individuals she liked better than Kitty Craig.
For her first real life murder, she would need something special. For weeks, she consulted her reference works on poison. She searched the pages of A Panorama of Poisonous Plants, Powders, and Potions. She studied the listings in Lyle’s Lethal Liquids, even considered Conroy’s Compendium of Caustics. But her most promising candidates were found in Everyday Toxic Substances: Our Dangerous Friends.
She made a long list of factors to consider. Reaction time. What would dear Harry say? Quick, she decided. Very quick and highly toxic. Kitty in prolonged, relentless pain was a tempting picture, but she concluded that having Ms. Craig dead before the salads were served was preferable; attention-getting though agonizing death throes are, it might put a bit of a damper on the evening’s festivities.
The poison would need to be something that could be transported easily; if discovered among her belongings, it could not seem out of place. Her final prerequisite was that it be something she could obtain without raising suspicions.
After hours of concentrated effort, she finally had the means in hand and the logistics of delivering it well planned.
She hummed a happy little tune as she latched her suitcase closed and carried it to the front door. She sat in the entry, lovingly caressing the corners of her carry-on bag. Harriet was far too careful to have her plans spoiled by the possibility of lost luggage. She could hardly contain her excitement when the taxicab pulled up in her driveway and tooted its horn.
She was pleased to learn that she was not the type to get the pre-homicidal jitters. Dear Harry would be thrilled to find his creator so calm, so poised, so at ease with this new role. Indeed, both flight attendants and Mr. Johnson, the gentleman seated next to her in first class, found her a charming traveling companion.
Harriet couldn’t remember the last time she had really noticed or been noticed by a man, and she gloried in the handsome Mr. Johnson’s attentions. At first she wondered if deadly intentions might somehow serve as an aphrodisiac. But then Mr. Johnson confessed himself to be a great fan of Lord Harold Wiggins, and said he recognized Harriet from her cover photo. This was sheer flattery, she was certain, as she hadn’t updated that photo in ten years.
In New York, he accompanied her to baggage claim, and helped her to retrieve her suitcase. As he carried it for her, she learned that he was staying at the same hotel. Harriet was sure at that moment that this was her lucky day.
It was as they stood waiting for a taxi that Harriet saw the young woman. Ticket jacket in hand, no doubt late for a plane, she ran across the opposite sidewalk. Looking directly at Harriet, she took two quick steps off the curb; Harriet screamed a warning in her mind that never reached her lips—the driver had even less of a chance to stop the car in time. The car struck the young woman and hurled her several yards down the street.
Harriet experienced the moments of intense awareness that come to those who are caught as unwilling spectators to such events: with absolute clarity she heard the grating screech of the car’s brakes, saw the disbelief on the woman’s face at the moment of impact, heard the dull thud as it launched her into an unnatural and graceless flight, watched the awful landing.
Harriet rushed toward the woman and stood frozen above her. There could be no doubt that the woman was dead. Heads and necks are not configured in the same way on the living. Harriet had never before stood so close to the dead.
In contrast to the clarity of those few moments was the enveloping confusion which followed. Somehow, she ended up back inside the terminal, sitting on a plastic chair next to Mr. Johnson, who held her as she cried.
He didn’t question Harriet’s purchase of an immediate return flight; he took the same one back to Los Angeles. She left her carry-on bag on the plane.
* * *
MRS. JOHNSON OPENED THE ENVELOPE from Shoehorn, Dunstreet and Matthews without the sense of dread she had come to expect.
Dear Harriet,
You are no doubt as saddened as we are about the unfortunate
incident at the Whodundunits. Why no one who knew the Heimlich manuever could have been there at the moment Ms. Craig choked on that chicken bone is beyond me. We’re all brushing up on our CPR here at SDM.
I look forward to serving as your new editor. I’ve browsed through several of the drafts you sent to Ms. Craig, and I hope you won’t mind my saying that I believe your first effort was the best. Will you be too angry with me if I send it along as is?
Lord Harold’s Biggest Fan,
Lana Dunstreet
P.S. Best wishes on your recent marriage. I hope Mr. Johnson realizes how lucky he is.
“Jordy!” Ralph Kendall bellowed.
When homicide detective Frank Harriman arrived, Kendall had been watching the Cartoon Network—a Bugs Bunny episode. Kendall had opened the door with a smile. The minute Frank explained why he was there, though, Kendall had grown serious, and turned the set off.
The man was broad-shouldered and tall, only an inch or so shorter than Frank’s own six-four. He was wearing a white T-shirt and shorts that barely met over his middle. His face and arms were sunburned, and his blond hair was thinning. His eyes were blue and—before Frank had told him of his neighbor’s death—full of laughter.
“Jordy!” he called again. “You get down here right now, you hear me?”
An upstairs bedroom door opened—no more than a crack. “Coming!” a young man called down in an exasperated voice, then shut the door again.
“Teenagers,” his father said on a sigh. “He was out all night, didn’t get home until God knows when—you have any children, Detective Harriman?”
Frank Harriman shook his head. “No, Mr. Kendall, I don’t. About the Toller boy—”
“Poor kid. I guess Lexie’s an orphan now, isn’t he?” Kendall said.
Harriman thought he would feel relieved if that turned out to be the worst of eight-year-old Lexington Toller’s troubles.
“Maybe for the best, though,” Kendall said, before Frank could reply. “I never did like Victor Toller,” he said now. “I can’t say I’ll miss him. Guy was a jerk. Still, murder . . . I mean, you think he was robbed or something?”
“We’re not certain, but we don’t think so.”
“So some maniac is running around in my neighborhood?”
“That’s unlikely. There was no sign of forced entry.”
“Well, Toller, he was a specialist at pissing people off, so who knows. I sure hope nothing has happened to Lexie, though. He’s a cute little kid. Real quiet. Shy. Can’t ever get two words out of him at a time. I guess the aunt will get Lexie after all—say, wait a minute! Did you check with her?”
“He isn’t with Sarah Crane,” Frank said. “We’ve checked.”
Kendall frowned, then turned toward the stairs. “Jordy!” he called again.
“When you said Ms. Crane would ‘get Lexie after all,’ ” Frank asked, “what did you mean?”
“Oh, she’s been trying to get custody of the kid for about a year now. Lexie’s mother has been dead for four years or so, and I guess she was on the outs with her folks—they didn’t like Toller. Sarah told us she didn’t even know her sister had died, and that it took her a while to track down Toller and the kid.”
“It seems you know her fairly well?”
“Sure, because Gabe—my youngest boy—and Lexie are friends. My wife is always trying to fatten that kid up, too. I keep telling her he’s stronger than he looks—you ought to see him play ball with Jordy and Gabe. Mary doesn’t listen to me though—Lex comes over to see Gabe, and she fixes him lunch or a snack.”
“So you’ve met his aunt—”
“Oh, gosh, I let myself get blown off course there, didn’t I? Yes, we know her. One day, Sarah comes over to pick him up, and we all get to talking. Nice woman. And I tell you, even though it took her a while to locate him, there isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for that boy.”
“She sees a lot of him?”
“Well, at first, yes. Toller liked the idea of someone taking the kid off his hands for a few hours. But then she started talking about having Lexie live with her, and the two of them have been—had been—at war ever since. And I can’t say I blame Toller for being mad at her. Jordan’s mother died when he was just two, and if my first wife’s sister ever tried to take him away from me—well, he’s an adult now, isn’t he?”
“Yes. About Ms. Crane—”
Kendall was not to be hurried, though. “Mary, my wife—she’s my second wife. Gabe is my son by this marriage, but long before he came along, Mary loved Jordy like he was her own. Even adopted him. And I think having a little brother like Gabe makes Jordan more patient with younger kids. But that wasn’t what you asked about, was it?”
“Even though Toller was angry with her,” Frank asked, “did Ms. Crane still visit Lex?”
“Oh, yes. I thought I saw her over there last night.” From interviews with other neighbors, Frank already knew that Sarah Crane had visited Toller the previous evening, and that she had argued loudly with her brother-in-law. But he asked, “About what time was that?”
“Oh, I guess it was about six-thirty that she came by. It was getting dark, and I went out to call Gabe in. She was already there, helping Lex carry his bat and glove.” He frowned for a moment.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh—just trying to make sure I had that time right. But that’s right. About six-thirty.”
“Gabe is Lex’s age?”
“Yes, they’re in the same class at school. Not that you’d know it if they were standing side-by-side. Lex is kind of shrimpy, you know? Gabe’s taller. I wish he was here. Mary will be bringing him home from his Little League game in about an hour or so, if you can wait.”
Wondering if he had been going house-to-house when a trip to the local ballpark would have done the trick, he asked, “Is Lex on the Little League team?”
“Hell, no. Toller doesn’t let that poor kid do anything!” Kendall said in disgust. “And he loves baseball. Toller tends to—uh, take naps in the late afternoon. Works early in the morning, gets off about two, and—well, not to mince words, he drinks. There. I’ve said it. So if Toller tied one on, which was more often than not, Lex would sneak out and play street ball with the other kids. Wasn’t so hot at it at first, but Jordan talked them into letting the kid play, and he’s darned good at it now. Got a home run last night, Gabe said.”
“I’ll probably still be in the area when your wife gets back, so if you don’t mind—”
He heard the creak of stairs and looked up to see a tall young man coming toward them. Jordan Kendall had just turned eighteen, according to the neighbors, but Frank thought he looked older. He wore jeans and a tank top, and was barefoot. He was a younger, more handsome version of his father. He had dark circles under his blue eyes, but those eyes were watchful. He rubbed a hand over his short-cropped hair.
“Welcome to the land of the living, Sleeping Beauty,” Kendall said to him, then turned to Frank. “Detective Harriman, this is Jordan.”
“Detective?” Jordan’s eyes widened. “What’s going on?”
“We’re trying to locate one of your neighbors, Lexington Toller. Can you tell me when you last saw him?”
He shrugged. “Lex? Last night, I guess. Is he in trouble?”
“His dad has been murdered, Jordy,” Mr. Kendall said.
“Murdered?” He looked to Frank. “Someone murdered Mr. Toller?”
“Yes. We’re investigating that, but at the moment our first concern is for Lexington. What time was it that you saw him?”
“I don’t remember—evening, I think. Maybe six or seven o’clock, something like that. I waved to him when he was going into his house. His aunt was over there.”
Frank asked him a few questions about what the younger boy had been wearing, if he had seen anyone else at the house, when he had last talked to Lex
. His answers fit those he had heard from others: Lex Toller had been wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, his aunt had been at the house, and he had last spoken to him when they had been playing softball in the street. Jordan had been the umpire for a game played by the younger kids.
“Do you have any idea where he might go if he was scared?” Frank asked.
“No. I mean, you might ask my brother. He hangs out with him. To me, he’s just a little pest—you know, always tagging along.”
“Jordan!” Mr. Kendall said, frowning. “Lexie—”
“He’s okay, but he’s Gabe’s friend. You should ask Gabe.”
“Thanks, I will. Can you name any of his other friends?”
Jordan shrugged. “He’s kind of shy. Ask Gabe.” He looked to his father. “Can I go now? I have a bunch of stuff I gotta do.”
Kendall looked to Frank. “Sure,” Frank said.
Frank watched the teenager speculatively as he hurried out of the house. He turned back to Kendall. “Did you know Mr. Toller’s wife?”
“Oh, gosh, that’s been what—three, four years ago now? Barely knew her then—just to nod to. Skinny blonde. Didn’t come out of the house much. Guess she was sick most the time.” Kendall shifted on his feet, then said, “I’m sorry about Jordy being so—abrupt, I guess you’d call it. Teenagers, you know, sometimes they’re scared and don’t want to show it. I know he didn’t seem upset, but—”
“Oh, no need to apologize. People take that kind of news in different ways. I think Jordan was upset.” He wasn’t sure it was about Toller, but he kept that to himself.
Kendall smiled. “Well, yes. I’m glad you understand.”
* * *
BEN SHERIDAN HEARD A TAPPING sound on the driver’s side window of his pickup truck, just a few inches away from his head. His neighbor’s fake fingernails, drumming on the glass. For a moment he was tempted to pretend that he didn’t hear it. With luck, he’d kill her as he backed out, and get a reduced sentence based on the testimony of his other neighbors. He could claim the camper shell blocked his view, or that the dogs distracted him . . .