“He dug up the… body?” Hutch whispered.
“Just that cap and a small piece of skull.”
“What about the rest of the body?” Hutch asked. His wife looked pale and queasy, her hand over her mouth.
“Like I told you, I tilled in a lot of peat moss in that soil to make the grass grow better, and that stuff’s real acid. Turns out acid soil really speeds up the decomposition of human remains. They didn’t find the skeleton. They didn’t find any bones except for a few slivers. The peat moss actually dissolves the bones after enough time goes by. And the thing is, the human body makes excellent fertilizer.”
The color had drained from Morgan’s face. She blinked hard. “Pardon me,” she said. She rose unsteadily from the table, her elbow knocking a salad plate clattering to the floor, where it shattered. But she kept walking toward the kitchen.
Hutch’s mouth hung open. He took off his tortoiseshell glasses and put a hand over his eyes. Ruth had folded her hands in her lap, eyes downcast, as if she were praying. Everything went terribly still, except for the faint whoosh of car tires from the highway and a distant retching noise that seemed to emanate from the kitchen or the bathroom.
“The family hired some fancy real estate lawyer in Hyannis who got them out of the sales contract. Some little loophole in the law about ‘deceptive trade practices’ or some such. And of course everyone started calling the Murdoch house the Murder House. Tom was arrested down in Boca a little while later. I guess the Cape and Islands district attorney’s office found some witnesses that remembered him complaining about Paulie, back in the day. What an ordeal it was taking care of him. How he was at his wits’ end. How it was straining their marriage and he didn’t know what was gonna happen to that kid after they were gone and how he really hoped the kid died before they did.”
Ruth said very softly, “You were one of the witnesses at the trial, Walter. Aren’t you going to tell them about that?”
“I got subpoenaed, honey. I didn’t exactly have a choice.”
“But you were the one who first told the police about Tom. If you hadn’t come forward, Tom wouldn’t be in prison.”
“He killed his own son, Ruth. He belongs in prison.”
“I loved that boy, too. I wasn’t as close to him as you were, certainly, but I did love him. But I never understood why you never said anything before then. Why’d you wait till Jimmy Rice found that poor boy’s hat? What took you so long?”
“Until they found the hat and the piece of skull, everyone thought the boy ran away, Ruth. We all did.”
“Still,” Ruth said. “Who knows if Tom did it or not? Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. Maybe it was someone else. It just always bothered me how they could put a man in prison for saying nothing more than he was worried about what would happen to his son. They didn’t have a single piece of evidence tying him to the murder, but the jury convicted him and the judge sentenced him to life without parole. That’s not beyond a reasonable doubt, seems to me.”
“Ruth,” Walter said. “You were always sweet on Tom and you know it.”
“And you—”
But she stopped short. Then she pushed back her chair and got up from the dinner table. “Please give your wife my thanks and also my deepest apologies,” she said as she started limping toward the front door. “We’re going home, Walter.”
Even though the Colemans were next-door neighbors, the drive took a good three minutes, what with turning left on Route 6 and then making the complicated figure eight off the town center exit to circle back around to Hatch Road.
Ruth sat in silence almost until they pulled into their driveway. Then she spoke in a small, fierce voice. “Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself.”
“Ruth.”
“I don’t think we’ll be invited over there again.”
“They would have found out sooner or later, Ruth. People talk.”
“They barely just moved in! And you didn’t have to ruin that nice dinner. They worked so hard.”
“They made me tell them.”
“And you kept dropping hints so they’d ask. Why don’t you admit it?”
He shook his head and tried very hard not to smile.
“Walter Coleman, this is all because they outbid you on the house, isn’t it? I don’t even know why you put in an offer anyway.”
“It’s not the house, it’s the property. We could double the size of our farm.”
“All these years the estate’s been trying to unload the Murder House, and they finally find a buyer.”
“They’ve had my offer on the table the whole time.”
“Not a serious offer, Walter. Not a serious offer. You were bidding a fraction of what just the land’s worth, not including the house.”
“That’s all we can afford.”
“Well, you lost and they won. So just deal with it and stop torturing that nice young couple.”
As they got out of the truck, Walter wasn’t able to keep that wicked smile from spreading across his face.
Ten days later, a 1995 Caterpillar 416 backhoe lumbered up the long dirt road to the old Murdoch place and over the crushed-oyster section. It drove right across the lawn to the tomato garden around the back, leaving deep ruts in the zoysia grass, and then came to a stop, the engine running.
Behind the wheel, Walter was trying to recall some of the places where Paulie liked to bury his treasures.
His standing lowball offer had been accepted a few minutes after Hutch and Morgan had moved out. They’d engaged the services of a real estate attorney in Cambridge who got the sales contract voided on the basis of deceptive practices. The lawyer didn’t have to try all that hard, either. Now, at a price less than half what the preppy couple had paid, the Murdoch property was finally Walter’s.
He’d start at the tomato garden; why not.
Paulie Murdoch used to bury his little treasures all over the yard, seemingly without pattern. So the box could be anywhere, really.
It hadn’t been a problem when Paulie ran off with Walter’s box of cigars and buried them in the yard somewhere. How the boy loved his pirate treasure maps! But when he sneaked off with Walter’s antique oak tool chest, the one that had belonged to his grandfather, the one where he kept the special photographs, something had to be done at once.
Not because the chest was an heirloom, though it was. No, it was those very special and very private photographs he kept inside, the pictures of forbidden things. Including the ones that documented the very special and very private games that Walter had convinced the teenage boy to play.
Yet the more insistently Walter had demanded the return of the box, the more gleefully the feebleminded boy had laughed. All he’d say was that he’d hidden them somewhere so he could show Mommy and Daddy, who loved to look at pictures of their only son.
This was no threat. It was part of the game whose rules he’d made up and from which he could not be dissuaded.
What happened next—well, it was self-preservation, nothing more. A man had to do what a man had to do.
He pushed the left joystick forward to lower the front loader bucket to the ground; then he pulled the right joystick to curl it back. The sharp-toothed bucket chomped through the flimsy chicken-wire fence, buckling and crumpling it, furring strips snapping like matchsticks, and it scooped out the first load of dirt.
He’d find the damn box, no matter how long it took. He was a patient man. Now he had all the time in the world.
Then, suddenly, a strange impulse overcame him. He was not unacquainted with strange impulses. He engaged the parking brake, got out, and stepped through the hole he’d just torn in the garden fence, his boots sinking into the soft, rich soil. Then he knelt before one of the gangly staked plants and plucked a single perfect tomato.
It was blood-red and ripe and full, with a deep cleft. He held it to his nose and inhaled deeply of its musk. Then he sank his teeth into it. The juice squirted and dripped onto his jowls and spurted into his eye, but it was
good.
God, was it good.
THE BOCA BOX
JAMES O. BORN
Okay, Manny, cut the shit. What’s in the goddamn box?” Detective Paul Tubman shifted so his gut rolled off the Glock model 23 on his right hip. It was the extra layer of fat that made him so self-conscious he wore a sport coat to cover his pistol even in the stifling heat of South Florida.
The wiry man behind the counter was about twelve years older than Tubman, probably just over fifty, with the lean, hard look of a runner who’d spent a little too much time out in the sun. “That an official inquiry, Detective, or interest from a prospective customer?”
Tubman frowned and said, “Both.”
Manny shook his head and said, “Sorry, I can’t tell you. It’s a trade secret.”
Tubman gave him a laugh and looked away to show his general disgust at the squirrelly clinic operator. “This is bullshit and you know it. Why’d you even have to move back to Boca Raton, where every cop knows you?”
“My parents live here.”
“Everyone’s parents live here.” Tubman shook his head as he mopped the sweat off his forehead with his midmorning handkerchief. “It just makes my life a little more difficult. I have to explain to my bosses why there’s one of the most prolific fraud assholes of all time working in Boca Raton.”
“I’m telling you, Detective, you got me all wrong. I’ve changed. I see a therapist and everything. This clinic is absolutely legit. We got nutritionists, exercise physiologists, and a plan designed to make anyone lose weight. The box is more of a gimmick. We tell people it’s the last resort, but we really only had to use it one time.”
“Only one of your clients failed to lose weight?” He couldn’t put enough skepticism in his voice, so he threw in a good head shake and then turned so his wide shoulders would have at least a little intimidating effect on the short scam artist.
“I didn’t say that. Most people who don’t lose weight drop out long before we resort to the box.” Manny looked Tubman up and down and even carefully pulled one side of his sport coat open to get a view of his belly. “You’re still a young man and can handle some serious exercise. I think this program would be perfect for you. And if you didn’t lose”—Manny looked down at the application Tubman had filled out before he realized who ran the clinic—“forty-five pounds by April, after following everything—the protein shakes, exercise, counseling—then you might realize that the box is plan B. But most people don’t take plan A to its logical conclusion.”
“So you’re saying if I sign all of these releases, agree to follow your rules, sign the contract, and do everything and still don’t lose every pound I want to, then I could find out what’s in the box?”
Manny nodded his head. “Only if all else fails.”
“You can see my concerns. Given your history and the number of people in Boca Raton who bought condos you didn’t own, paid you to sell their time-shares, or bought into your investment schemes, I’d be crazy to just pay your initiation fee.”
“In that case, Detective, unless you have other business here, you need to move on because I have a lot of clients waiting to sign up. Five hundred dollars to start is a tremendous deal. After that, you pay by the pound. No other program gives you that option.” Manny focused his dark eyes on the taller detective. “Three years in prison changes people.”
Tubman said, “It changes druggies or killers, not common fraud artists like you.” He didn’t care if he hurt the man’s feelings. Guys like that could hardly be offended. But he needed to do something drastic if he wanted to lose enough weight to satisfy Maria. She didn’t think he had it in him to accomplish a goal like that, and she insinuated he was a lazy mama’s boy and that was why she wouldn’t marry him. He had to do something, and this was the clinic everyone was talking about.
The detective said, “And I lose forty-five pounds by April, even with the holidays coming up?”
Manny just nodded his head.
“And if I haven’t done it by, say, March, we’ll consider using your super-secret box over there?”
“You won’t need it. The only questions are, when do you want to start and how do you want to pay?”
“I’d never trust you with my credit card info, so I’ll be paying cash.” Tubman couldn’t take his eyes off the two-foot-by-one-foot box behind the counter as he slid his wallet out of his back pocket and slowly pulled out three twenties for a down payment. “I’ll bring the rest by later this afternoon.” He was excited by the possibility of changing the recent direction of his life.
Paul Tubman stared down at his salad with dressing on the side, using some of the tricks the counselor at the weight loss clinic had taught him. He took a drink of water before and after each bite, focusing on the sensation of food in his mouth, and tried not to think about all the stuff on the menu he would’ve preferred to order. To make matters worse, his friend, Carl Spirazza, perpetually lean and fit, gobbled down a plate of lasagna like it was an appetizer.
His friend looked at Paul and said, “I’m impressed, Tubby. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you focus on a diet for this long.”
Tubman ignored the unfortunate nickname he’d had since childhood. He attributed it more to his name than his size. He hadn’t really started to expand horizontally until his midtwenties. “It’s only been three weeks and I still got the holidays staring me in the face, but I’ve lost almost ten pounds, and even though I had reservations, the clinic certainly seems to be legit.”
“They may be helping you lose weight, but their cost is way out of line.”
“It’s the first time I’ve been losing weight. I know Manny is a crook, but maybe he really did stumble into an honest-to-goodness business. It still kills me to see that box every time I walk through the door. You’re a doctor, you don’t have any idea what it could be?”
Carl shook his head. “Probably some kind of a gimmick, like an ancient saying written on a piece of paper. The way you describe the box, oblong, about two by one foot, it could hold anything. Or nothing. But there’s no special device that could trim off weight you don’t lose after four months of dieting. Unless it has something to do with liposuction.”
“That’s one of the things the clinic is very specific about. No cosmetic surgery. They leave open the idea that it could be a medical procedure, but who the hell knows what kind of procedure it is. They swear it’s not a stomach staple or anything like that.”
“You’re doing good. You’re ahead of schedule. Why even worry about it? The way things are going, you’ll never have to worry about what’s in that box.”
Tubman shook his head. “If it were anyplace but Boca Raton. Why do I have to live and work in the fraud capital of the US?”
“Is it really that bad?”
“You have no idea. This place attracts con artists like Mormons attract wives. Thirty percent of the office space in the city is devoted to some type of illegal activity. It’s been estimated that half the car accidents are staged. There’s no reason for me to be optimistic about the clinic. I was blinded by a chance to impress Maria.”
Carl frowned at the mention of Tubman’s girlfriend. Most of his friends weren’t happy about the relationship and thought the sexy Venezuelan took advantage of Tubman. Carl didn’t say much about Maria. He just didn’t want an asshole like Manny Katner taking advantage of him.
Tubman sighed and took a sip of water before shoving a piece of romaine lettuce with a spritz of vinegar on it into his mouth. “Maria hasn’t even commented on it yet. The only thing she noticed was that I didn’t eat much at dinner last Saturday night.”
“Did she really tell you she wouldn’t marry you until you lost weight?”
“She beat me to the punch. She said it before I even popped the question. It’s really good motivation.”
Carl shook his head and said, “Why do you put up with that shit? You’re a great guy. People love you. I’ve got a couple of nurses in my practice that would go out with you in a he
artbeat. You don’t need to be bullied into doing something you don’t want to do.”
“You sound like my mom. Maria isn’t bullying me. She’s encouraging me.”
Now Carl lost all humor and looked at his friend. “Are you kidding me, Tubby? The only thing she encourages you to do is buy her gifts. I’m glad you’re taking an interest in your health, but I think Maria is more likely to kill you than your weight problem.”
“Then I’ll die happy.”
Paul Tubman purposely didn’t wear a sport coat today. Instead, he wore a shirt and tie with his Glock on his right hip and his gold badge clipped on the belt next to it. It was the style most detectives in the coastal cities liked to wear. They weren’t hiding the fact they were cops. They weren’t undercover.
Palm Beach County had a clear divide between “the coast” and “western communities.” The coast, at least in the minds of most the residents, was where everything happened and the cool people lived. The rest of the county was apparently created to service them. Tubman didn’t feel that way. He was just happy to be able to shed the hot sport coat. It was also a chance to show off his frame with twenty-two less pounds only three weeks into the new year.
No one said anything at first, and he wondered if anyone really cared. Then his sergeant strolled down the aisle between the four desks used by the economic crime detectives and said, “Tubby, if you keep losing weight we’re going to need a new nickname for you.” The sergeant flashed one of her famous perfect smiles and gave him a wink. “I know you’re going to that clinic run by Manny Katner on Dixie Highway. You think the whole place is legit?”
“Expensive, but legit. Look at the results. I’m halfway to my goal and I’ve got a couple more months to get to it.”
“So what’s the secret to the clinic?”
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 11