Mystery: The Best of 2001

Home > Other > Mystery: The Best of 2001 > Page 23
Mystery: The Best of 2001 Page 23

by Jon L. Breen


  The door opened and she looked up.

  She didn’t recognize them at first, as Mrs. Horrell wasn’t crying and Captain Quinn wasn’t looking ill or angry.

  “Your Honor?” Hattie said, and Bill realized that it was the second time Hattie had said it.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  Hattie looked at her, puzzled. “These are the folks who want to get married.” Ever helpful at pointing out the obvious, she nodded at the license on the table.

  Bill looked down and read the license for the first time. Enrique Quinn and Cynthia Horrell. She had not known Cynthia Horrell’s first name before this. She didn’t recognize the names or the faces of the two witnesses, although the best man gave off a strong aroma of beer and the maid of honor was flushed and giggly. It seemed the wedding party had begun without benefit of ceremony.

  “Your Honor?”

  She looked up again. “I’m sorry?”

  “All you all right?”

  Bill pulled herself together. “Of course. I’m fine—I’m just—I’m fine.” She wondered if she should say she was pleased to see them again, and decided against it. She forced her mouth into what she hoped was an acceptable smile. “You have asked for the traditional vows, I see. Would you like me to lead you in them?”

  “No, Your Honor, we’ve got them memorized,” Cynthia Horrell said, blushing.

  “Then please begin.”

  They faced each other. “I, Enrique, take you, Cynthia, to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and I promise to be faithful to you so long as we both shall live.” He didn’t stumble once or miss a single word.

  Bill nodded at the bride. She peeped up from beneath her eyelashes with a flirtatious look better suited to a fifteen-year-old and said in a voice that was almost indecent in its triumph, “I, Cynthia, take you, Enrique, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; and I promise to be faithful to you so long as we both shall live.” She, too, was letter perfect.

  They exchanged rings and turned to Bill with expectant faces. In a voice she did not recognize as her own she said, “By the authority vested in me by the State of Alaska, I pronounce you husband and wife.”

  Four

  Sec. 11.41.110. Murder in the second degree. (a) A person commits the crime of murder in the second degree if . . . (2) the person knowingly engages in conduct that results in the death of another person under circumstances manifesting an extreme indifference to the value of human life . . .

  —Alaska Statutes, Code of Criminal Law

  “Was it one or both of them?”

  “Who took out the life insurance policy?”

  “She did.”

  “Who was it through?”

  Bill sighed and rolled over to snuggle her head into Moses’s shoulder. “The same people who insure the Jeri A.”

  “Quinn’s boat.”

  “Yes.”

  “How much was the payout?”

  “A million five.”

  He whistled through his teeth. “Definitely for richer. You can split a million five five ways without anybody feeling shortchanged.” He thought. “Given that Alaskan fishers are virtually uninsurable because of their high percentage of violent death, the premiums must have been astronomical.”

  “Not as high as the payout. And they only had to pay a year’s worth.”

  “Yeah. How did Reynoldson find out?”

  “Somebody owed him a favor who called somebody else. Moses?”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He was silent. She waited, listening to the slow, strong beat of his heart. “No,” he said. “You were right. It was fact of death you were looking for, not cause or manner. In law, you were absolutely right to ignore anything I said. And you didn’t know me, then.” She could hear the smile in his voice. “Can’t say that’s the case now, can you, girl?”

  She sighed again. “Doesn’t make me feel any better.” Another silence. “How did he do it?”

  Moses snorted. “Dying on a crabber is easy, Bill, it’s staying alive that’s hard. He probably watched, waited for just the right moment. The story they all told was probably mostly true, they were icing up, Horrell was using the bat, the rest of the crew was pulling and baiting pots. All Quinn had to do was wait until just the right moment to jerk the bow around crossways of the swell. The hull would thump down and the boat would roll and Horrell would lose his balance and go over. It happens often enough when it really is an accident. It would be easy to make it happen. Make it murder.”

  She flinched. “I suppose that is what it is. Murder.”

  “You can’t prove it.”

  “That’s what Reynoldson said. What about the rest of the crew?”

  “They might suspect something, you mean? Well, so they might, especially now that the boss has married the beneficiary. Suspecting is different than knowing, though, and like I said, even split five ways, there’s enough to go around with a million five.”

  “You think they were in on it?”

  He shrugged. “The Jeri A. is one of the high boats in the Bering. Pulls a lot of pots, catches a lot of crab, makes a lot of money, pays a high crew share. They’re not going to risk losing that by accusing their captain of premeditated murder.”

  She thought of Mrs. Horrell’s endless tears, which in hindsight looked more like tears of guilt than tears of sorrow. Quinn’s queasiness now looked like fear of discovery and punishment. She raged again at the thought that she had actually consoled him over the loss of a crewman. She felt furious and frustrated and impotent. She didn’t like it. “What do the voices say now, Moses?”

  He pushed her over on her back and slipped between her legs. “They’re not talking, babe,” he said, eyes gleaming down at her as he settled himself into her embrace. “They know enough to leave me alone at times like these.”

  “And when you’ve got a skinful of beer.”

  “And when I’ve got a skinful of beer,” he agreed. “They show that much mercy.” He kissed her, and it was long and slow and sweet. He raised his head to look at her. “Leave it go,” he said. He grinned, the grin that said one day he would be either beatified or burned at the stake, or both, and kissed her again.

  She let herself drift with the now familiar current of pleasure and when she was left, spent and gasping in extravagant satisfaction upon the shore, she remembered Cynthia Horrell, now Quinn, and her flirtatious up-from-under look at her new husband in the court-room that afternoon.

  I’ll be here a long time, she thought. And so will they. I’ll watch, and I’ll wait. Someday.

  Moses pulled her close. “Leave it go, girl.”

  “Okay,” she said.

  He knew her so well after half a year that he didn’t bother calling her on the lie.

  Besides, it didn’t matter. The Quinns would get their due.

  The voices had told him so, and they never lied.

  Joan Hess

  “Miss Tidwell

  Takes No Prisoners”

  Arkansas author Joan Hess has created two long-running series of humorous crime novels, one featuring book dealer Claire Malloy and the other Maggody chief of police Arly Hanks. The same light touch is apparent in one of her rare short stories.

  Ellen Tidwell, referred to by her friends from college days as “Twiddle,” knew exactly why Drake had insisted on taking her out for lunch on her eighty-third birthday. Driving up to the inn at dizzying speeds could well have given her a heart attack; the ride back down the mountain would be all the more terrifying. She might keel over from a stroke, and ever-so-devoted nephew Drake would be the beneficiary of her house, her cats, Mama’s silver service (custom-made in Atlanta, with a particularly elegant creamer and sugar bowl), Grandpapa’s Civil War memorabilia, her collection
of rare African violets, and all the money she had accumulated over fifty years of teaching school, living frugally, and investing so wisely that her broker called her for advice. Drake, her sister’s boy, was the sole heir of what, she had to admit modestly, was a rather substantial estate.

  When her time came, she knew perfectly well that the cats would be dispatched, the violets dumped in a trash bag, and the family treasures and homestead sold. The money, however, would be put to good use, keeping Drake and his whiny, anoretic wife in acceptable standing at the country club. Their equally whiny sons, one skulking about town on probation, the other on the verge of expulsion from the college to which Miss Tidwell discreetly wrote checks twice a year to cover tuition, would don coats, ties, and appropriately mournful expressions for her funeral. And dance on her grave forever after.

  Twiddle was not stupid. She was willing to admit she was functionally blind. Resisting a walker, but dependent on a cane. Arthritic, and at the mercy of a regimen of prescription and herbal drugs to keep her fingers from curling into gnarled twigs and her knees from locking permanently. Getting old was a pain in the tush, but the alternative was nothing she looked forward to; the time would come, but she had always envisioned a sigh in her sleep. Until then, she had her kittens, her violets, her portfolio, and her friends who dropped by but were also dropping dead at an alarming rate.

  “It was kind of you to come all this way just to take me out to lunch,” she said to Drake as she opened the elaborate multipaged menu. “Such a nice place. So expensive and all.”

  “It’s your birthday. I wish we could all get together more often, but the boys are so busy and Alisha spends most of her time at the hospice. There seems to be a crisis every day.”

  “The terminally ill can be a bother,” Twiddle said as she put on her glasses and peered at the menu. “I was thinking I might just have soup and a salad. Do they have a nice house dressing?”

  “Alisha intended to come,” Drake persisted, “but the fund-raiser is this weekend and someone has to see to the details. She sends her love.”

  Twiddle took off her glasses. “I’m quite sure she sends something. Whatever it is remains to be seen, but by someone with better eyesight than I.”

  A figure loomed beside her. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Peter and I’ll be your server. We have three specials today . . .”

  After he’d droned on about orange roughy, chicken in some sort of soy sauce, and pasta involving sun-dried tomatoes, Twiddle prudently opted for French onion soup and a side salad.

  “How are the boys doing?” she asked when the waiter at last drifted away.

  “Derek was hoping to spend a year abroad in London, but it’s out of the question. Tuition and expenses will run well over twenty thousand dollars. Alisha and I have made it clear that he’ll have to finish up at the state college.”

  “I hope you don’t expect me to indulge him,” Twiddle said bluntly. ‘He’s very lucky to be able to attend college without working in the cafeteria as I did. His grades tend to indicate he does not value his education.”

  “But he does.” Drake leaned forward and made a futile attempt to clasp her hand, which she whisked into her lap. “He would have given anything to be here today on your birthday, but his girlfriend has a solo in the concert this afternoon and he feels as though he needs to be there for her. His mother and I have always encouraged that kind of loyalty.”

  She would have wiped away a tear had there been one. “What instrument does she play?”

  He sat back. “Ah, cello, I think, or one of those stringed things. A most talented girl. She’s an orphan, as I must have told you. Very sad.”

  “Three months from now, you’ll be telling me that Derek and Hugh are orphans, too, and therefore worthyof my generosity. It may not ring true, Drake. Are you once again experiencing financial problems?”

  “It’s not my fault, Auntie. The prime rate’s up and buyers are reluctant to take out mortgages. I have four houses on the market and five more under construction. The finance company wants a substantial payment on existing construction loans. It’s temporary—I swear it. Six months from now, I can pay you back with whatever interest you want.”

  “Seventeen percent?”

  “That’s hardly reasonable, and most likely illegal.”

  Twiddle touched her linen napkin to her mouth to hide her smile. “Well, then,” she said, “you might do better at your bank. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll visit the ladies’ room before we have our meal.”

  She seized her cane and made her way along the hall-way wallpapered with dark flock, wondering if her suggestion of seventeen percent interest might prevent Drake from further attempts to borrow money. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” dear Mr. Franklin had opined so astutely. At times, she felt so old that she might have heard it from him in person.

  Not, of course, that he would have come south of the Mason-Dixon line (having been much too busy flying kites in France or whatever). She herself had never been farther north than Richmond, and that only for a week. Brossing County, North Carolina, had offered quite enough excitement for a lifetime. She’d been educated there, taught generations of children to read, write, and recite their multiplication tables, played the organ at her church, and buried her parents in the mossy cemetery. Her semi-cognizant friends still came by to spend pleasant afternoons of bridge, iced tea, and gossip. Her cats were content, and her houseplants flourished as if in a rain forest. Her azaleas were particularly lush, possibly in honor of her birthday.

  She’d had a slight pang of regret that she had never traveled to New York City or such exotic destinations as London and Paris, but Miss Tidwell had accepted many years ago that these were not to be among her experiences. Brossing County, for better or worse, had been the entirety of her life.

  She struggled down the dark hallway. Having failed to bring her glasses, the etched signs on the doors were incomprehensible. Finally, after a few moments, she decided that she had found the proper facility and went inside.

  The room itself was dark, which was to be expected with the gathering clouds and the promise of a thunder-storm before the day was over. There was a rather peculiar sink, but Miss Tidwell had more pressing problems on her agenda. She made her way to a stall, checked to make sure there was adequate tissue available, and took a seat.

  And heard the door open—and then, a heart-stopping few seconds later, male voices.

  Her first instinct was to screech in outrage. How dare men barge into a ladies’ room! She’d powdered her nose and put on her gloves in every proper ladies’ room in the county. As a girl, she’d touched up her lips, patted on rouge, and straightened her nylons. Over the years, she’d listened to tales of woe, of broken hearts and schemes to take care of “certain problems” in clinics in distant cities. She’d offered many a handkerchief, squeezed many a hand, sworn confidentiality, and in some cases, slipped a few dollars in a beaded evening bag. Ladies’ rooms were meant to be havens.

  At that very moment Miss Tidwell came to the chilling realization that she herself—herself!—was in the men’s room. She, who had never seriously kissed a boy, much less done something significant, was in a room in which grown men were apt to expose themselves. She had no idea what else they did when distanced from the ladies. Tell each other crude jokes? Make disgusting noises involving the full spectrum of bodily functions? Brag about sexual conquests? Debate anatomy, male or female?

  She slid her feet as far away as she could from the stall door. She would have to suffer through whatever rituals were performed, and then, when they were gone, slip out to the hallway and never so much as relive a single second of her embarrassment.

  “Nobody’s ever gonna know, Peter,” hissed one voice. “Dump this in the soup. I’ll give you a thousand dollars now and another thousand when she’s dead.”

  Peter, the “your server” person, sounded quite a bit more nervous than when he’d rattled on about roughy and pasta. “What about the
cops? An autopsy?”

  “She’s old, and she has a history of heart problems. No one will think twice.”

  “I don’t know . . .” Peter said with a groan.

  Twiddle wished he had used a name, but she had little doubt that Drake had taken advantage of her absence to arrange to have her murdered. A cup of soup enhanced with a dollop of poison, and then a delightfully gooey layer of broiled cheese to hide any odd taste. A fatal heart attack. Her fellow diners would shrink back, then flee, their appetites spoiled by the intrusion of death. The next day would be business as usual.

  Her sister had died under similar circumstances. Indeed, no one had thought twice. Drake and Alisha had taken Enid out to a buffet at the Holiday Inn on Easter Sunday. She had next been seen in a coffin, chalky and still for all eternity. They had claimed she had choked on a stalk of celery.

  Enid had always disliked celery.

  As much as Twiddle wanted to bang open the stall door, she was frozen with panic. Once Drake knew she’d overheard the conversation, he would be all the more determined to murder her before she had a chance to contact her lawyer after the weekend and arrange for her estate to go to the local animal shelter. He could merely hustle her out of the inn, claiming she was traumatized by her misguided foray. There were many places along-side the road without guardrails; all he’d have to do would be to throw open the passenger’s door and give her a hearty shove. She’d tumble like a bag of garbage all the way to the bottom of a ravine.

  Could she throw herself on the mercy of the manager, telling him how she’d overheard the conversation while huddled in a stall in the men’s room? She tried to imagine herself sobbing with fury while Drake made remarks about her purported mental fragility due to her advanced age, and then apologized as he took her to the car. Any protests she might make would be tainted by the reality that she’d been in the men’s room. If anyone had noticed him leave the table, he could say he’d made a call on the pay phone halfway down the hallway. Alisha would confirm it, just as she would the Second Coming—if it enriched her checking account.

 

‹ Prev