by Jon L. Breen
“I’m with you,” agreed Mullins. “A year into retirement I was honeydewed out and ready to strangle Muriel and bury her in the basement. I even started on a list of what I’d need: Sledge hammer, shovel, gravel, sand, cement, one of those trowels for smoothing out.
“This particular night I came to the dinner table trying to figure in my head how the drainpipe ran before I started digging. Suddenly Muriel said the sweetest thing she’s ever said to me.” He prompted his wife with a smile.
“I said, ‘Don’t eat the shepherd’s pie, Lorne,’” said Muriel.
“Well, I dropped that fork like a red hot poker. And she came clean about how I’d driven her so crazy hanging around all the time she was going to poison me. And I came clean about what I had in mind to do to her. Then and there we knew if our marriage was going to survive we needed an outside interest. So we decided to go into business for ourselves. Muriel said, ‘Let’s do something nobody else is doing. Let’s find our own niche.’ and I said. . . .”
“And he said, ‘A niche that hasn’t been scratched,’” laughed Muriel.
“But what?” said Mullins. “That was the big question. But what? Suddenly there it was, plain as the nose on your face, Cozy Disposal, a boon to our fellow golden agers. Or so we hoped.”
“Lorne was afraid there wouldn’t be call enough call for it,” said Muriel. “But I told him, ‘Provide the service. The need will follow.’”
“Darned if it didn’t,” said Mullins. “And all by word of mouth.”
“You’re right,” said Mrs. Wilmot in amazement. “This morning when I decided to kill Leland I never gave a thought to what to do with the damn body. Because I’d heard about Cozy Disposal.”
“Good for you,” smiled Mullins and took a paper from his order book. “Now here’s our rate card. That first figure’s our standard service. We remove Mr. Wilmot’s remains and you will never be troubled by them again.”
Mrs. Wilmot studied the card for a moment. “It seems so expensive.”
“Have you priced a funeral lately?”
Mrs. Wilmot cocked her head thoughtfully as if conceding his point. “And what happens to the body?”
Muriel leaned forward. “Nothing disrespectful, I assure you, dear.”
Mullins leaned back in his chair so his wife couldn’t see him. Showing his well-calloused palms he winked at Mrs. Wilmot and made the motion of shoveling air over his shoulder.
Muriel asked, “Am I correct that you mean to do the dirty deed—or the ‘event’, as we like to call it—yourself?”
“If I do it. It’s certainly not the sort of thing to leave to strangers.”
Mullins agreed. “Muriel only brings it up because if you so desire we can put you in touch with an individual who does that sort of thing and who offers Cozy Disposal customers a special discount rate. This option, by the way, comes at no extra charge. We are recompensed by a finders fee paid by this individual.”
“He’s also familiar with the Cozy Disposal way,” said Muriel. “We like to think our name evokes wisteria-covered cottages. Teacups. The vicarage down the lane. The polite constable at the door. A world where murder acts with taste and restraint. Think Agatha Christie and you won’t go far wrong.”
“In other words,” Mullins chimed in, “Cozy Disposal doesn’t do dismembered bodies. Or corpses done in with uzis at close range or hammers in a fit of jealous rage.”
“We recommend the old heave-ho down a carpeted staircase,” said Muriel, “Or off the belfry tower if you’re churchgoers. We will also accept a shot from a small caliber revolver with mother-of-pearl handle or a single thrust with a dagger from the display on the wall. But nine times out of ten what we get is poison or the trusty blunt instrument. Women go for poison. I guess it’s a nurturing thing. Men are blunt instruments.”
“I was never handy in the kitchen,” confessed Mrs. Wilmot. “In my mind’s eye I saw myself hitting him with something.”
“And why not, dear?” smiled Muriel. Then she paused and turned to other matters. “Now here’s a bridge you should cross before you come to it. Have you given any thought to how you’ll explain your husband’s disappearance?”
“I guess I was going to tell people he was visiting his sick sister in Vancouver. Leland is definitely an out-of-sight-out-of-mind sort. After a bit I’d rather hoped his name just wouldn’t come up any more.”
“Chancy, dear. Chancy.”
Mullins murmured agreement and leaned over to point at the rate card. “We at Cozy Disposal offer our clients some helpful extras in that regard. Like the ‘Party Animal’ option there.”
“To make a long story short,” explained Muriel, “I allow myself to be picked up by your husband. He then wines and dine me for a week or two where your friends will see us. Bingo games, dancing behind the waterfall at the Cataract Lounge on senior citizen night. That sets the stage. Afterwards you simply announce that Leland’s run off with another woman.”
Muriel patted her husband’s sleeve, adding, “When it’s a woman who’s about to disappear the lucky lady gets to go on the town with Lorne wearing his European suit and the cutest little mustache.”
Mrs. Wilmot fretted over the rate card. “This is all so expensive.” She chewed her lip, brightened a bit and asked, “I don’t suppose you offer a widow’s discount.”
The Mullinses laughed. “Hardly,” said Muriel. “But let’s move down to our economy option there, the mock around-the-world cruise. Give us a sample of your husband’s handwriting and we’ll even arrange for postcards mailed from various ports of call along the way. It’s customary to top the whole thing off with a death certificate from Smyrna in Turkey.”
“Which we don’t recommend if a life insurance policy is involved,” said Mullins. “Something about a Smyrna death certificate really gets insurance people’s hackles up.”
Here a side door to the garage opened spilling light into the garden. A man with a healthy head of gray hair in portly, paint-spattered overalls emerged. As the Mullinses leaned back so they were hidden by the hydrangea the man hurried along the patio to the French doors. There he stopped and called, “Eunice, I could use your help in a few minutes, okay?”
“I didn’t forget,” she called back. When the man disappeared into the house she said, “Leland asked me to hold the ladder for him while he paints the ceiling where it peaks.”
The night deepened and the crickets started up from the damper corners of the garden.
“Well,” continued Mullins, “that’s how we can help you. Now here’s what you can do to make our job a little easier. First, we recommend the actual ‘event’ take place with the subject standing on a six-by-eight-foot sheet of heavy plastic.”
Mrs. Wilmot looked as if she didn’t understand.
“It saves on clean-up,” he explained. “There’s bound to be some bleeding, either during the ‘event’ or when the victim hits the floor. That’s why the plastic. No blood on the rug.”
“I’m clear on that,” she said. “What I meant was how do I get him to stand on the sheet of plastic?”
“Hey, he’s your husband. I bet you’ll think of something. Anyway, we arrive, roll him up in the plastic, cover it with old carpeting and wheel it out to our van on a gurney. Anybody spots us will figure you’re getting new wall-to-wall.”
“I believe Leland bought plastic to use as a drop-sheet in the garage. The roll said 4 mil. Is that thick enough?”
“Just what the doctor ordered,” said Mullins. “Second, please make sure the subject is really dead. That’s why the little plastic mirror is our free gift to you. If it doesn’t fog up under his nose it’s time to call Cozy Disposal. If it does, he’s still breathing and you’ll have to try a little harder. Many’s the time we’re on our merry way only to hear groans and have to come back so the client can finish the job right.”
“Well, that’s it, dear,” said Muriel. “Take all the time you need to make up your mind.” She sat back and folded her hands in her lap.
Her husband looked away and drummed his fingers lightly on his order book.
Mrs. Wilmot stared down at the ashtray for several minutes. Then she raised her head and looked around at the garden. It was just that moment when the colors of the flowers brightened and stepped forward as if to up-stage the darkness.
She turned back to her visitors with her face at peace. “I appreciate your coming,” she said. “And I thank you for your little gift. I’m sorry. It isn’t just the money. When you come right down to it I guess I don’t feel right about the ‘event.’”
“But you haven’t even heard about our sign-up premiums,” coaxed Mullins. “Either a bottle of Mother Mullins’ Shepherd’s Pie Helper or—and I know you’re going to like this one—our own blunt instrument, the ever-popular Mullins Sock-’O-Sand.” From his briefcase he pulled a black nylon stocking stuffed with an eight-inch sausage of sand, then knotted tight. Mullins demonstrated, wrapping the empty pigtail of material around his hand.
“Take it, dear,” Muriel advised her. “You don’t want your Rookwood vases ending up what the police call ‘blunt weapons of opportunity.’”
“So that’s what the damn thing is.” said Mrs. Wilmot, her voice suddenly hard and deliberate. She pulled an identically stuffed stocking from beneath the pillow of her chair. “I came across this one months ago hidden at the back of Leland’s sock drawer. Never knew what it was for. Never cared enough to ask. I forgot all about it until this morning when I needed something blunt to kill him with.”
“Yipes,” said Mullins and turned to his wife. “I knew we’d been here before. But it was daylight and winter-time. And we talked to a guy. Out in the garage. Remember? Boy, is our face red!”
“I remember him now,” said Muriel. “Took the world cruise option. And the Smyrna death certificate. Said it would be nice for cloture.”
“I’ll show him cloture,” shouted Mrs. Wilmot, jumping from her chair. Then she lowered her voice and started wrapping the Sock-’O-Sand around her hand. “This is what he went back into the house for. Well, I’ve got it now.”
Mullins stood to block her way. “Listen, Mrs. Wilmot, hear me out,” he said earnestly. “Maybe you two still have a chance. Muriel and I have been talking about selling Cozy Disposal what-do-you-call-’ems. Franchises. A little money up front and you and hubby could get in on the ground floor in an emerging field using proven sales techniques. Might save your marriage. It’s happened before.”
“It’s too late for that, Mr. Mullins. It’s him or me.”
Mullins’ briefcase chirped amid the crickets. He pulled out a cell phone. “Cozy Disposal,” he said. “Lorne speaking. How can I help you? Yes, sir. Yes, sir. I understand. No need. We have your address on file. We’ll be there in half an hour. Thank you for calling Cozy Disposal.”
Mullins shook his head and said, “Maybe Mr. Wilmot doesn’t have his Sock-’O-Sand anymore. But he sure talks like he’s found himself a blunt instrument of opportunity.”
“Oh-ho,” said Muriel.
“That’s fine with me,” announced Mrs. Wilmot.
Muriel lay a hand on the woman’s arm, thought for a moment and said, “Dear, Cozy Disposal finds itself in an embarrassing situation here, business-ethics and conflict-of-interest-wise. Since snap decisions are my department, here’s what we’re prepared to do. Promise not to mention this little contretemps to anyone ever again and we at Cozy Disposal are prepared to consider our agreement with your husband to be an agreement with you, too. On a which-ever-comes-first basis. If you follow me.”
“Cozy Disposal’s got itself a deal.” Mrs. Wilmot strode across the garden slapping the business end of the Sock’O-Sand in her one hand into the palm of the other.
As she disappeared inside the garage Leland Wilmot emerged from the house with a wooden rolling pin under his arm. The Mullins’s watched from behind the hydrangea bush. When he saw his wife’s empty chair Wilmot gripped the rolling pin in his right hand and marched purposefully toward the garage.
Mullins grimaced. “That honeydew wine is a bitter, bitter wine,” he remembered.
“My money’s on her,” said Muriel. “But either way, let’s get the gurney.”
Laura Philpot Benedict
“The Hollow Woman”
In its 70-year existence, EQMM has introduced hundreds of debut stories by new writers. One of the most recent additions to the Department of First Stories is the first commercial publication of a Roanoke, Virginia, book reviewer and copywriter, Laura Philpot Benedict. It is an intense and gripping psychological study.
I watched as the old woman on the other side of the road pushed her mower back and forth, back and forth across the scorched August grass, the mower’s yellow cord snaking over the ground like some living thing. At the end of each careful row, the old woman stood a moment, her head tilted back as though she were balancing an invisible book on her helmet of red-dyed hair. In those brief pauses, she closed her eyes and stood perfectly still, as though she were already dead, a corpse propped up in the sunlight like some ghoulish lawn ornament, an undertaker’s sight-gag.
The baby squirmed in my arms, arching his back to look up at my face. He reached for my chin and scratched, an untrimmed point on his thumbnail digging into my skin.
I grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Not hard, but hard enough for him to get the message.
“Bad baby,” I said. “Don’t scratch Mommy.”
His eyes widened and I saw fat tears form in their corners. The guilt washed over me in a wave of heat. Guilty because I was angry that he’d taken my attention from the old woman.
He began to cry in earnest and I held him close. The rattle and hum of the mower muffled his sobs.
“There, there,” I crooned. “Mommy’s sorry.”
He pulled away with a fierce cry, aimlessly waving his gathered fist. His eyes were closing in sleep, sleep that rarely came peacefully to him. He slept only in self-defense, when he no longer had the strength to keep it away.
I took the baby inside the house, holding his head against my shoulder, imagining that my closeness would keep him asleep. I lay him in his crib, pulled the single window shade down against the vibrant sunlight. When he was settled, I pulled the door to and went into the living room to sit in my chair beside the front picture window.
The old woman was still out there, walking the fifty paces or so of each sunburned row and back again. Every so often I would lose sight of her as she passed behind the wide trunk of a silver maple, but she would emerge almost immediately, the body of the mower first, then the old woman’s hands gripping the mower’s handle, her canvas-clad feet and finally, her ramrod frame, thin as a cancer victim’s.
I sat at the edge of the window, my head leaning against the back of the chair, peering at the old woman through half-closed eyes, so that if she did see me she might think I was sleeping or meditating. Doing anything but watching her.
Every so often she would brush at the air around her face, which I could see was, as always, heavily made-up. But mostly she just walked behind the mower, the grass behind her always shorter and slightly less brown than the grass ahead.
I watched until my own eyes closed and I drifted off to sleep.
I was born into one of those cozy, middle-class suburbs where a new family’s arrival was an event. When a house changed owners, I would stand with the other neighborhood children at the back of the moving van and watch the furniture come off. We must have imagined ourselves invisible because we were always in the way of the moving men, who cursed us and repeated, time after time, “Step aside kids,” and “Move or you’ll get hurt.” And we always did step away, but only for a minute, and then we were back again, crowding each other for a look at what was coming out next.
The first time I ever saw a king-size mattress it was coming off the back of a moving truck. I remember how we all gasped at the sight of it and how Jill Parker said that it was a bed for giants and that the new people must be freaks from a circus. When I told my parents ab
out the bed over dinner, my father raised his eyebrows and exchanged a look with my mother that told me that people with king-size beds must not belong in our neighborhood. All the same, my mother sent me over with a chocolate-pudding pie the very next day. The man who had bought the house and his pale-haired teenage daughter had come to Kentucky all the way from California, but after six months, another moving truck came and the house was empty again.
When Barry and I moved into our house, there were no children gathered at the back of our moving van, no offers for the use of a telephone, no promise of a tuna casserole. Our house was only one of two on a small, dead end street. A friend of Barry’s had bought the lot and cleared it and started building the house. Nothing special: three bedrooms, one-and-a-half-baths, vinyl siding, a vaulted ceiling and a brick fireplace in the living room to give it some character. But he’d lost his job and couldn’t pay to finish it and Barry made him an offer.
I didn’t see the old woman until we’d been in the house a week. I was painting the mailbox, lavender paint splattered on the t-shirt of Barry’s that was stretched over my huge, pregnant belly. I heard the front door of the house across the street close, firmly, and the old woman, her hair alarmingly bright against the creamy brick of her house, walked slowly toward the Buick parked in the driveway.
“Hello,” I called to her. I waved. She didn’t turn to look at me.
“My name’s Cathy,” I said. “Cathy” came my own voice back to me, echoing off the brick of her house. I wondered for a moment if she might be deaf.
I placed the paintbrush on the edge of the can. Thinking that the old woman hadn’t seen me, I started across the road to her driveway, which was poured concrete and expensive, Barry had told me.
“Hi,” I said, again.
The old woman got into her car, started it. I stopped in the middle of our small road. A thin stream of gray exhaust came from the back of the Buick; it dissipated as the car rolled slowly backwards. The car paused at the end of the driveway, its bulbous taillights staring at me like two comic eyes. The old woman wasn’t looking over her shoulder, or even moving that I could tell. I realized then that she was waiting for me to move, that I was merely an object blocking her way, some kind of nuisance to her, like an obstinate stray dog, or a bad-mannered child.