MURDER
AND
MAYHEM
__________________________
B L HAMILTON
Also by
B L HAMILTON
… and now for something completely different
A collection of short stories and poems
Death Stood In The Shadows Beckoning
A novel
Copyright © 2014 by B L Hamilton
The right of B L Hamilton to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to my sister, Rhonda Anderson
The bravest woman I know
Without her this book would never have been written
ONE
“I know a good place to hide a body,” my sister, Rosie said. The stranger beside her glanced sideways and then feigned interest in the open book on her lap.
“Where?” I asked.
“Cascade Falls.”
“Cascade Falls! But a lot of hikers go up there, so I don’t see how that could work.”
The woman shifted on the hard plastic chair and chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes darting over the page in an effort to portray indifference to our conversation.
My sister seemed to sense her apprehension. She knew what it was like; she’d been through it herself. “Is this your first time?” she asked.
The woman flushed slightly, and nodded.
Rosie gave her a reassuring pat on the arm and said, “Don’t worry it’s not so bad once you get used to it,” then turned to me and took up the thread of our conversation. “Yes, I know, Bubbie, but there are a lot of little-used trails up there so you could stash a body in any number of places and no one would ever find it–unless it started to stink. But, hopefully, wild animals would dispose of the victim before that happened.”
I looked at my sister in stunned disbelief. “Wild animals! What wild animals? There aren’t any bears or cougars up there.”
“Now, Bubbie, you don’t know that for sure. That old theory’s been doing the rounds for more years than I care to remember based on vicious allegations and unsubstantiated innuendo. There could be a mountain lion up there, or a coyote or two. There are raccoons, of course. The woods are overrun with those thieving bandits. And let’s not forget the four-legged rodents with great big doe eyes.”
I knew of no rodents that fit her description. All the rats I know have shifty, beady little eyes.
“What rodents are they, Hon?”
“You know, Bubbie–the deer.”
“Deer! Deer don’t eat meat, they’re herbivores,” I told her but she just gave me a dismissive wave and a perfunctory shrug and tried to edify me on the eating habit of rodents.
“You try cultivating a garden around here and see what happens. Deer aren’t the cute, cuddly creatures Walt Disney would have us believe.”
I waited for Rosie to enlighten me on the subject of large garden pests but she dismissed my unspoken question and continued to espouse her own half-baked theory based on unsubstantiated fact and ill-informed rumor.
“I’m sure there are lots of wild animals in the woods that would feast on the flesh, and gnaw on the bones, then bury the leftovers for a mid-winter feast.”
The woman beside her coughed and spluttered, her face turned red and her eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets while she tried to draw breath.
“Quick, Bubbie, go get some water,” Rosie instructed as she pummeled the distraught woman on the back while trying to educate her on the complicated art of breathing–like she didn’t already know.
“You’ll be all right,” my sister counseled. “It’s the not knowing that’s scary. But after a few treatments you’ll find it’s not as bad as you thought it would be. Now, take a deep breath. That’s it–breathe in through your mouth… Good. Now let it out slowly… aahhh.”
When I handed the woman a paper cup filled with water I noticed her hands were shaking so much she had trouble finding her mouth. Poor thing!
The woman sniffed loudly and gulped down the water.
“Thank you,” she whispered, and placed the empty cup in my hand.
“You’re welcome,” I think I mumbled but wasn’t in the moment. My mind was still trying to process what my sister had said about Cascade Falls.
“I drove over to Muir Woods yesterday, but the park closes at dusk so you’d have to drag the body over the fence and try to find somewhere to hide it in the dark. I suppose you could use a torch but the rangers might see the light and decide to investigate.” I crumpled the empty cup and goaled it in a trash bin nearby. “Touchdown!” I yelled… with the volume turned down.
Rosie rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “Then that’s not going to work, now is it?”
“Well, no, but how about the road leading into the woods? It’s deserted at night and so poorly lit you could push a body over the side of the embankment and not have to worry about inquisitive tourists stopping to ask awkward questions. It’s a pretty steep drop so the body should go down without too much trouble. And there’s not much chance of it being discovered any time soon because no one goes down there. It’s too inaccessible.”
Rosie’s eyes focused inwards, her mouth twisted in a tight little curlicue as she chewed on the words. “I suppose that might work. But what if the body got struck on a tree halfway down?”
Everyone knows the success of all battles are based on the plans of great generals, and I rate myself up there with the best: Macarthur, Patton, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan, Stonewall Jackson, and let’s not forget that wily old strategist, Odysseus, who managed to capture the ancient walled city of Troy using nothing more than a crudely made wooden horse. I could, however, add Field Marshal Rommel to the list, but the poor man had the misfortune to choose the wrong side, and everyone knows losers are not looked upon kindly when history books are written–and songs of victory sung.
But, forgive me, I digress…
“We could check it at sun-up, before the park opens, and if the body is caught up on a tree, or even a rock, scramble down and dislodge it with a good solid kick. What could be simpler than that?”
I could see the wheels turning checking every angle for possible flaws. “It might work,” Rosie finally conceded. But my hopes were soon dashed when she turned to the pasty-pale woman fidgeting beside her, and asked, “What do you think? Do you reckon that plan would work?”
In hindsight, I should have asked if this woman was some kind of expert in this specialized field, but sadly, I didn’t, so I have no one to blame but myself for what turned out to be a grave error of judgment.
“Um… Err… I… don’t know,” the woman spluttered and took up residence at the back of the chair in an effort to conceal her size twenty-two body. But I could have told her there was not much chance of that. She obviously hadn’t counted on my sister’s dogged pursuit in this fact-finding mission. And I never thought to warn her that once Rosie got her teeth into something there’d be no turning back. I’d give my eye-teeth to be as strong-willed and tenacious, but then, some of us are fighters–while others are not. I’m not quite sure which category I fit into,
but, as they say, it’s early days yet.
“Well, why don’t you think on it and let me know when we come in tomorrow. People just don’t seem to realize disposing of a body is not for the faint-hearted–it’s really hard work.”
Suddenly the color drained from the woman’s face. She clamped her hands over her mouth and hot-footed it down the room leaving a trail of discarded items scattered across the floor, like breadcrumbs in the forest.
When the door to the restroom slammed shut with a resounding bang, Rosie cherry-picked her way down the room collecting odd bits of clothing; a handbag with all the contents spilling out: discarded gum rolled up in tinfoil, an assortment of recipes torn from magazines, a used toothpick, a hair-roller; and a down-at-the-heel shoe, size eleven – minus its mate – and deposited everything in neat disarray on the recently vacated chair where the owner would be sure to find them when she returned.
Rosie sighed. “The poor thing doesn’t seem to be coping, does she, Bubbie? She doesn’t seem to be handling it at all.”
“Then we’ll just have to take extra care of her, Hon. We need to remember not everyone is as strong as we are. It’s all in the genes.”
Suddenly there was a whoosh of sucking door seals, and a hushed quiet fell over the room as the oversized door opened inward on silent hydraulic hinges to reveal what was hidden inside.
Everyone looked up and waited in anxious vexation as the piercing blue eyes of the woman in white scanned the room… and came to rest on my sister. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and then the gray-headed woman gave Rosie a warm, compassionate smile.
“We’re ready for you now, Mrs. Albertson.”
TWO
My husband, Ross, and I had traveled from our home in Sydney, Australia, to San Francisco, to take care of my sister while she was undergoing treatment for a particularly virulent form of breast cancer. To take her mind off the illness, and give her something to look forward to when she woke up each morning, I decided to write a murder mystery novel.
Now, I forgive you, dear reader, if you thought I had written a novel before–but at this, I’m a virgin, although not a virgin in the true sense of the word. I lost my virginity to a pimply-faced boy when I was barely sixteen. But those days are long gone and all I can say is good riddance to that nasty little episode–and I do mean little–if you get my meaning. However, I have dabbled in the odd birthday poem, and scribbled a few enlightened words on the back of the school’s toilet block doors, so I asked myself, how hard could it be? Everyone who’s had their five minutes of fame from has-been-actors, to aging socialites, ex-politicians, and television celebrities have put pen to paper and written tell-all books. Even serial killers are writing their memoirs from behind prison walls in the hope of achieving notoriety again.
And, I’ve read my fair share of crime novels and can usually suss out the villain before I’ve finished the first chapter. So I decided a murder mystery would be just the right thing to cheer my sister up. All we need is to work out the plot, conjure up a killer–and create a hero to save the damsel in distress. Once I’ve got all the ingredient together it should be plain sailing. But I’ll say no more about that at the moment because I like to keep everyone guessing until the very last page.
. . .
I wandered into the room and found Rosie curled up on the bed.
“Hey babe, how are you doing?”
She tried to smile, but I could see it was an effort.
“Could you make me some Milo, Bubbie?” she asked.
“Sure Hon. Would you like me to get you something to eat?”
“No, I couldn’t eat anything but the Milo might help settle my tummy.”
I micro-waved two mugs of the chocolaty drink, taking care to make one much cooler than the other. The many months of chemotherapy treatment had caused problems with my sister’s nerve endings making eating and drinking even the simplest of food feel like a thousand needles piercing her tongue and the inside of her mouth–but if I dwell on it too much, I just want to cry.
I entered the room with a mug in each hand and sat on the bed.
“I noticed you were down to your last tin of Milo,” I said as I handed Rosie the warm chocolaty drink. “Good thing I brought a couple of large tins with me. So they should last you a while.”
My sister touched her forehead and then touched mine, acknowledging the old telepathy thing we often have going.
“Shame about the Vegemite. I could kill Ross for putting it in his carry-on. I told him security would confiscate the jars if they weren’t in the hold. But would he listen to me–no!” I shook my head in annoyance at losing two giant-size jars of our precious cargo to the big bully in blue who was completely immune to my crying and pleading. Some people have no soul at all.
“Don’t be too hard on him, Bubbie. You know they have no control over what they do. It’s called testosterone, remember. It’s built into their genes.”
“I know Hon. But sometimes that man would test the patience of an angel.”
“Look on the bright side. Little Sweetie brought a jumbo-size jar with her when she came to visit last May. Mind you, I had to fight Ben for it.”
“How come?”
“He wanted to take it with him to Santa Cruz. Tried the old, if you loved me you’d let me have it, routine. Well, hallooo! I didn’t come down in the last shower, now did I?”
“No, Hon, you certainly did not. I remember the day mom brought you home from the hospital kicking and screaming your little lungs out. Or maybe it was mom who was doing the screaming. Anyway, it’s water under the bridge, like baby-pooh flushed down the toilet. So, tell me, what did you do?”
“I threw down the trump card of course, and naturally–he crumbled.”
Us mothers need every bit of ammunition we can muster in the ongoing battle we wage against our children. I was anxious to learn her secret so I said, “And, what would that be, Hon?”
“I reminded him who the Aussie in the family was. That clinched the deal. He knows when he’s beaten by forces much stronger than he is.”
“In other words, it was a foregone conclusion. The poor boy didn’t stand a chance.”
Rosie grinned. “It’s all in the genes.”
“We’re lucky ours are at the top end of the gene pool, unlike some I could mention, that flounder around in the shallows, where family trees don’t even fork.”
We drifted into companionable silence while we sipped our chocolaty drink knowing we had triumphed once more over every mother’s most powerful adversary–her children.
I’ve often said, and correct me if I’m wrong, husbands are like insects, if they bite it’ll cause an annoying itch−but you won’t die if you scratch. Our children however, are an entirely different species of life-form. They’re like ticking time bombs–primed and ready to explode over the least little infraction. I’d spent my daughter’s teenage years walking on eggshells while checking for land-mines under the floorboards.
I was contemplating a refill when Rosie’s voice cut into my thoughts.
“Bubbie, would you massage my legs–they keep jumping.
“Sure, Hon,” I said and placed our mugs on the nightstand. When I pulled back the covers I noticed her legs were so thin I wanted to cry. As I massaged her gently, she leaned into the pillow, closed her eyes and in no time at all we were both lost in our own scary thoughts.
Knife? − I mentally shook my head. Nah–too messy.
Gun? – I’d have to join a gang or the NRA to get hold of one of those.
Poison? – What to use? How much? How little? If I was a Borgia I’d know–but sadly, I’m not.
Bomb? – What would I know about bombs except they go boom and make a loud noise. I’d need a munitions expert or disgruntled taxpayer to get hold of one of those. I crossed that one off my list with a great big red X right through the middle.
“Bubbie?”
“Mmm?”
Drowning? – You’d need water for that and the killer might
not be in the right place at the right time.
When Agatha Christie said killing was easy she obviously didn’t know what she was talking about. Miss Marple, however, knew all about murder. Now that’s the kind of woman I’d like to have on my side.
“Bubbie!”
My sister’s voice cut into my thoughts. “Yes Hon?” I answered distractedly.
“Would you rub some cream on my chest?”
I filed my list away in the dim, dark recesses of my mind as I covered her legs and made sure she was comfortable.
“I’ll just go wash my hands.” The last thing my sister needs in her weakened state is an infection from poor hygiene.
When I walked in the room, Rosie had removed her top and was lying propped up against the headboard with a pillow at her back for support. I looked at her poor body ravaged by surgery and noticed the area where her left breast had been was red from radiation; the skin stretched tight over sinew and bone–and heartbeat. I did my best not to register my feelings as I squeezed the end of the tube and watched a long thin worm crawl across my palm.
“Sorry, Hon, this is going to be cold.”
Rosie nodded and closed her eyes.
“So what did you finally decide?” she asked after a while.
I thought for a moment. “I’m still not completely convinced Cascade Falls would be the best place to hide a body. However I have written the beginning after something Little Sweetie suggested might be worth a try.”
My sister opened her eyes and looked up at me, her pale face lit up with a smile. “How is our girl?” Rosie has two boys so we share my daughter.
“Working hard as usual, you know what she’s like.”
“We sure can be proud of that one, can’t we, Bubbie?” She sighed, her eyelids fluttered–and closed as I gently worked the soothing lanolin across the scarred tissue.
Murder and Mayhem Page 1