AHMM, January-February 2008
Page 16
Peter said that he went to the beach when he had a companion. “I'm afraid I might float out to sea otherwise,” he joked—and he went to the Wednesday night and Sunday morning services at the big new Baptist church that was within walking distance of his apartment.
Bad possibilities in several directions, Carol observed later, but once we got back to the condo, our fears seemed exaggerated. For all we knew, Vi Hirsch might have been trying to sort out some claims for Peter. At least, we tried to tell ourselves that. Then one day I was in the lobby when Wilma came in. She is always much more friendly and pleasant when she is alone than when she's with company. This time, she complimented me on my dress.
"All I need is someone to squire me around,” I joked. “Maybe Vi would loan me one of the nice old guys I've seen in her car."
Wilma turned quite white.
"Is something wrong?” I asked.
She denied it, blaming the heat, but Carol agreed later it was a peculiar reaction. We began to read through the papers with great care, and we weren't reassured when we found a brief about an elderly man who'd died of gas inhalation. He'd lived alone and there was no known next of kin.
"It could be coincidence,” I said. “There are lots of people living alone."
"We could find out who claimed the body,” she suggested.
"I'm not sure the police will release that. But his church is mentioned.” I could feel myself getting pale.
"Let me guess,” said Carol, seeing my expression. “That big new Baptist outfit."
"'Fraid so."
She went right to the phone. I wouldn't have had the nerve, I don't think, but she called the pastor. Ten minutes later, after expressing her regrets about Mr. Leyland and promising to mail a donation for his service, she put down the phone. “Mrs. Hirsch and Mrs. Roseland have taken care of everything."
"Was it an accident? If it's an accident, they're salt of the earth."
"And if not, they're Agent Orange—even if she is a good quilter."
The next day we picked up Peter for our usual shopping trip. I managed to steer the conversation to his church and asked him if he had gone there for long.
He said that his wife had been a regular at the Baptist's former, smaller church. This one had only been open for about three years. His face was shadowed at the thought. “It's been just over two years since Margaret died.” He shook his head. “That's when I met Vi Hirsch,” he said. “Just after."
I took a deep breath. Life insurance policies pay up in full after two years of premiums. With a glance at Carol, I said, “Can I ask you a nosy question—believe me, I have good reason."
When he nodded, I asked, “Do you carry life insurance?"
"I used to,” he said, “when my Margaret was alive. I always expected to go first, you see."
"The reason I asked is something Carol noticed."
She explained about the envelope she'd seen.
"I don't know how that can be,” Peter said. “There must be some mistake."
"Would you be willing to check? To call MetLife? We have a reason."
"Maybe you better tell me what that is."
When we finished, Peter looked serious. Back at his apartment, we found a local agent, and Peter got on the phone. It took fifteen minutes before he covered the receiver and said, “I'm insured for a half million dollars."
"Cancel it right away,” said Carol. “And be sure that Hirsch woman knows about it!"
He did the paperwork the next day. The agent brought a copy of the policy—Peter had signed it all right. “With the paperwork for Margaret, I'm sure. I don't see so well,” he told the agent.
"We should take this to the police,” I said, but Peter was doubtful. Vi and Wilma had been very kind in other ways. And there was no proof.
"You might know if you tell her,” Carol said.
So Friday we invited Peter over to the condo. That was the day Vi and Wilma always had lunch at Crabby Pete's. We were sitting poolside when the BMW pulled in.
"She used to drive that old Pontiac,” said Peter.
I stood up and went to the fence. “Wilma, Vi, come over for a minute. Look who's here."
I opened the gate for them and they stepped onto the pool deck in their dress shoes. Even with her eyes shadowed by her usual big hat—fuchsia with cream trim today—I could see Vi wasn't pleased.
"We're celebrating.” I said. “Peter's come into a little windfall."
That caught their attention. Peter looked dour and uncomfortable.
"I just discovered that someone insured me for a good deal of money,” he said.
"No one can insure you against your will,” Vi said quickly. “You've just forgotten you filled out the paperwork."
"My memory is fine, but my eyes aren't what they used to be,” Peter said. “We signed a lot of documents after Margaret passed away."
"We! We?"
"You were paying the premiums, so I suppose I should thank you,” Peter said. “The cancellation was quite profitable."
"What have you done?” Vi got up out of her chair. “This is your doing,” she said to Carol. “This is your fault."
She made a lunge for Carol, and Peter gallantly stuck out his cane. Vi tripped, caught her knee on the curbing around the pool, and tumbled in with a great splash. Oh, it was a scene for sure, with suits threatened and language above and beyond anything we've heard at the condo for quite some time. Vi went so far as to sic a lawyer on Peter, but she soon had other uses for her legal backup. The nice MetLife man discovered an insurance fraud investigation was already underway in another case, and pretty soon the police reopened both the death of Hubert Reinschler and the old gent who'd died of gas inhalation.
"No doubt at all,” an officer told us, “Mr. Musgrove was next on the list."
Peter was of the same opinion. He treated Carol and me to a very handsome dinner out of the insurance cancellation, and we were looking forward to other pleasant outings with bona fide age-appropriate male company. Alas, it was not to be. “I don't feel the same way about Florida anymore,” Peter told us a couple of weeks later. With the money from MetLife and the return of his security deposit, he had enough to put down for a little place back in St. Paul where he had a niece and his sister.
"Won't you feel the cold?” I asked, already shivering. “You'll never get out."
"You know, you spend so much of the summer indoors here that it's pretty much a wash."
The day after our farewell party for him, Carol and I were sitting around the condo pool alone—late now, because it was too hot midday—contemplating the inland waterway with its yachts and cigarette boats and noisy personal watercraft. “The bad thing about this place is there're no suitable men,” said Carol.
"Now where have I heard that before?"
"When you think of the Hirsch woman, doing them in, as if there were an endless supply."
"Evil,” I agreed.
"Pure evil."
"Though there was some justice in this case,” I said.
She perked up a little at the recollection. “I think we should have a cocktail."
"I think it should be a strong one."
"We'll drink to older men,” she said.
"Wherever they are!"
Copyright (c) 2007 Janice Law
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Fiction: BEST OF BREED by Elaine Menge
Edward Kinsella III
* * * *
As he had every morning for the past twelve days, Zeus stood at attention at the glass-paned back door, his finely chiseled head held high above powerful shoulders. The dog watched his human caretaker, Travis, open the iron gate, skip up the back steps, and unlock the door. As Travis had every morning of this ritual, while bestowing hearty pats and strokes on Zeus's head and sleek neck, he ardently wished this noble dog were his own.
The security system's rhythmic beeps sounded as Travis greeted the dog. Without needing to think, he leaned toward the keypad and punched in 2002-Off.
Zeus had taken to him. Travis wondered if that might be because they were the same age—Zeus's three years nearly equaled Travis's twenty—or because they shared the same coloration. In breeder terminology, Zeus's coat was called blue, and Travis's hair was so black it was blue. That's what his mother often remarked, at least, likening him in a negative way to his absentee father. Despite the black hair, Travis's arms were milky white, streaked with sleek black hairs much like Zeus's clabbered, black-flecked legs. In fact, the Dane's light legs and the diamond-shaped tuft of pearl-grey fur at his chest kept him from being a bona fide exemplar of that version of the breed, his owner, Jill Barth, had told Travis. The coat of a true blue Great Dane showed no white. “But do I care?” she said, the timbre of her voice as light and breezy as her flyaway blond hair. “In my book, Zeus is Superdog. Isn't he magnificent?"
Travis could only agree.
This particular Thursday morning, though the routine was the same, Travis felt a difference when he entered Jill Barth's house. He couldn't tell if the change was in Zeus, or if it had something to do with the house, or, for that matter, with himself.
The dog's eyes seemed more intentionally expressive; he tilted his head as if posing a question never before expressed. He had to be feeling especially lonely by now. His owner—Jill, as she'd asked Travis to call her—was an athletic-looking woman in her forties who'd only recently moved to North Carolina. She'd been gone on a hiking trip in Switzerland for twelve days now, longer than Zeus had ever been without her. Great Danes, strictly people dogs, suffered abandonment syndrome keenly. They weren't good candidates for kenneling. Thus Jill had rung up Canine Experts and arranged for Travis to visit three times a day. Since last Friday, Travis had begun donating a fourth visit, dropping by at night. He hated to think of Zeus yearning for companionship through the evening hours.
Travis narrowed his eyes and scanned the kitchen. Was the something different here, in this room? He checked out the two towers of mail on the white-tiled kitchen island. One of his duties was to collect Jill's mail from the communal boxes down the block and deposit it here. Did the stacks seem shorter? Were they leaning more, or less, than they had yesterday?
The catalogs, assigned to the second pile—were they now mixed in with the envelopes? Could Zeus have done that in a bored mood? He was surely tall enough to reach over and give the twin towers a push with his nose, but nothing had toppled. Still, the stacks looked different, unequal in a new way.
Travis decided not to give the issue further thought. He never touched the stacks after depositing each new day's addition, didn't wish to show the slightest interest in his client's mail. A surveillance camera might be whirring away. Some people filmed their help to make sure they were honest and treated their pets well. Didn't they? Jill Barth seemed nice; he liked her. But you could never be sure.
Travis didn't want to make one false step. Not after that other time, that other single woman. Ever since, he sometimes felt he was being filmed. If he showed interest even in a return address, well, that could lead to something else, couldn't it—like a desire to open an envelope, to learn more. That's what they'd say; that's what they'd said. The police. And he might be seen doing this, scrutinizing her mail on hidden camera.
He knew better now, had learned to squelch that kind of curiosity. Just two years ago, that kind of curiosity had nearly ruined his life; at least, their suspicion of it had.
Had he behaved in the way they'd suggested, violated that other woman's privacy? Travis couldn't be sure anymore. He'd never opened one envelope, but since being accused, he had trouble separating what people said about him and his motives from what he'd actually done and who he truly was.
They accused him of opening the letters and bills, but he hadn't. He knew he hadn't.
He'd noticed that other woman's return addresses, though, and this he confessed. They looked at him funny then. The police. Why had he confessed taking note of the return addresses, as if that were a crime? Idle curiosity. That's all it was. He couldn't remember one address. But the admission became a hot issue. His questioners’ eyes narrowed into even more suspicious slits after he mentioned perusing the addresses. “Why?” they asked. “You wanted to know everything about her, right? You read her journals too.” They'd found the journals strewn all over the place.
Travis steadied himself against the island counter and gulped for air. “Good boy,” he said to Zeus. Resolving to exert more control, he let in a deep breath, then another, exhaling slowly—a breathing strategy his therapist had taught him. He hadn't suffered anxiety symptoms for six months now, hadn't thought much about hidden cameras or return addresses for a long time. What had revived the old fears? A different atmosphere, a subtle change in the house.
Jill Barth's house had an open floor plan. He turned around and from the kitchen was able to take in the living room with its soaring ceiling and huge window at one end that afforded a view of the pool. The window was impressive, nearly two stories tall and pointy at the top, like a stained-glass window in a church, though the glass was clear.
What a bright, lively landscape out there, Travis thought, taking note of the flowing water and tree branches countering the breeze. Palmettos and fleecy fern were planted on either side of a sandstone waterfall that fed the baby-blue pool. Fat pots of gold and purple lantana also bordered the rushing water, flanked by smaller terra cotta containers bursting with moss roses. Set a little apart was a big blue plastic pot that didn't really go with the rest. It held an odd plant with flat, green spidery arms about three feet tall. “That's a Night-blooming Cereus. It makes a weird, primitive white flower,” Jill had told him. “Really thrives farther south—blooms once a year, after midnight. June, August? You have to be vigilant. It's scary; it either takes you by surprise, or you miss it entirely."
Remembering Jill's remark, he hiked his shoulders and gave his head a wincing shake, for he felt the same could be said of his own life, which often seemed a scary surprise. At other times, he feared that whatever he was meant for would bloom unseen and be missed altogether.
The living room looked undisturbed. Two cozy chenille-upholstered chairs framed the huge window. Set back from these, facing the window, was a chocolate leather sofa fronted by a slate-topped coffee table displaying an assortment of gardening magazines.
Travis sniffed the air. Did the house now emit an alien smell? Not urine, or the other. Zeus was too classy to have accidents. No—more like a rum-based cologne.
He cleared his throat with a laugh meant for Zeus's ears. Not a good idea to show his own anxiety. Dogs could pick up a nervous mood and adopt it in a moment.
In the pantry he grabbed a bag marked “Zeus's Breakfast.” Zeus nodded approval as Travis filled his dish, mounted on a stand that came up to the Dane's chest. While the dog ate, Travis refreshed his water bowl.
Miss Barth—Jill—clearly loved Zeus, and she paid a premium for his care. The fee for a single visit was fifteen dollars. This included a walk and feeding. She'd contracted for three visits a day. For Great Danes the charge was twenty-five for any visit that included a feeding. These dogs needed exercise, but despite their powerful build, their digestive systems were delicate. A Great Dane should never be exercised within an hour before or after eating. That's where the increase in price came in. If exercised too soon after eating, Zeus's stomach was liable to a condition called bloat—a serious event. After a meal, exercise could cause a Great Dane's stomach to flop over and become twisted at the juncture of the esophagus at the upper end and the duodenum at the other, a painful condition that required emergency surgery. If no one were around to help, the dog could die within
hours. Prevention was the best cure.
If Travis was meant to walk him—and walking a Great Dane was important—he'd have to wait an hour first. Time is money in the dog-sitting business as in any other, and Jill Barth was willing to pay.
Realizing that Jill was due home in two days, Travis said, “I'm sure gonna miss you, Zeus old boy."
Zeus gave the jumbo bowl a last savoring lick and looked up at Travis as if weighing the truth of his statement.
"I'll see you, if your mama goes away again soon. But I start college in September, for real this time. Won't be dog-sittin’ after that."
Two years earlier, Travis had graduated from Reynolds High in Winston-Salem and was set to begin classes at Carolina State that fall, his goal to become a veterinarian. At least, that had been his plan before the arrest.
"You were never arrested,” his sister Libby reminded him whenever he used that word. “You were detained."
The difference didn't seem great to him then and didn't now. In light of more recent events, he guessed if what had happened then had happened now, he'd be designated by that neutral but no less chilling term, “person of interest."
Travis's throat went dry; a swallow felt like sandpaper against his larynx. Why dwell on that old stuff? No point. He opened the refrigerator and appraised the line of Corona beers Jill Barth had said he was welcome to. He hadn't touched any in all the days he'd been sitting Zeus, but this morning, not exactly happy hour, he fingered one and searched for a bottle opener in a junk drawer. Rummaging an ordinary kitchen drawer with an unopened beer bottle in one hand seemed safe. Nothing suggestive about that if caught on video. After all, she'd invited him to enjoy the beer.
While Zeus digested his food, Travis usually read. He liked biographies and science. Today, though, he left the book he'd intended to read on the kitchen island. Beer in hand, he opened the back door, encouraging Zeus to follow him out to the pool. Its cascading waterfall had kicked on when he'd first arrived. Travis dropped onto a cushioned redwood lounge chair and pressed the cold bottle against his forehead. Zeus licked Travis's elbow, then stood at the pool's edge, chin high, surveying his domain.