May 14, 1977
Things have returned to normal—mostly. Other people, other events have drawn the public’s attention away from Don and Ava and Uncle Wes.
One of those people who are drawing attention happens to be none other than Aunt Kathy. The change that’s come over her since Uncle Wes’s death is phenomenal. She reminds me of a prisoner who’s been released after years in jail. Her natural warmth and exuberance, so long crushed by Uncle Wes’s brutal behavior, are readily apparent. She has blossomed. Everyone in the house is happy for her. Me most of all.
My happiness is tinged with sorrow, however. Aunt Kathy is leaving. Not just the house, but the town itself. Uncle Wes’s will left her a dairy farm in Wisconsin, and she’s going to live there and run it. She should be very good at that, as she worked in an office before she got married. She’s going to Rice Lake at the end of the month. I’ll miss her greatly.
I don’t miss Uncle Wes at all. I’m glad he’s gone. Is it wrong of me to say that? Even if it is, it’s the truth. And a writer must always tell the truth, if only in the secrecy of pages like these.
I’ve gone back to the idea I mentioned earlier. I’m still using it, but I’ve shifted some things around—names, details, etc.—in light of what’s happened. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was exploiting the situation. I’ve come up with a twist I think is very clever, and I’ve written a couple of pages already. I hope to have a draft by the end of this week or the beginning of the next. I might have had one done by now, but the school play has taken up all of my evenings lately. It’s been worth it, though. The Skeleton Walks opened last night at Memorial Auditorium. I’m happy to say it went very well. Lots of people were in attendance and there were many words of praise for me after the show. We have another performance tonight, and a matinee tomorrow.
Once again, the dilemma: writing or theatre? Who do I want to be? Harlan Ellison—or Peter Sellers? John Dickson Carr—or Alec Guinness? William Faulkner—or Tom Conti?
May 17, 1977
I finished “No Hamburgers Tonight,” and this morning I gave it to Aunt Kathy to type. She has a very nice Silent-Super Smith-Corona manual portable that I covet. It’s the kind of typewriter I could sail to Europe with. Is it still possible to sail on ocean liners? I hope it is, because I crave adventure. I’m going to live in New York and Paris and London. And write stories and novels while I’m there.
Later
Here I am, stuck in social studies. Per capita income and what causes inflation. Mr. Dahlquist is a good teacher, but I don’t want to be here. I want to go to the public library and pick up the book that’s on hold for me: Tricks and Treats, edited by Joe Gores and Bill Pronzini. Oh, will this class never end? Will this torment never cease? When will I be free to read and do whatever I want?
4:30 in the Afternoon
I’m sitting in the library, near hardcover fiction. I’ve just had the wind knocked out of my sails.
Aunt Kathy caught me as I was entering the library. I was surprised to see her, but before I could say anything, she took me roughly by the arm and dragged me down the stairs. She hurried me past the historical society’s exhibits to the farthest part of the library basement. The scary part, with the barbed-wire samples and the iron lung and the American flag shot with bullet holes.
She took a crumpled mass of papers from her purse and thrust one of the pages at me. I recognized my handwriting. It was the manuscript of my story.
“How did you know that?” she said, pointing at the sheet of paper.
“Know what?”
She brought the page up to her eyes and read aloud: “ ‘The police were more than willing to accept Ron Templeton’s death as a suicide but for one thing: the gun was found in his right hand. Chief Sikorski was an old friend who knew that Ron was left-handed. Why would a left-handed man shoot himself with his right hand? The answer is—he wouldn’t. It wasn’t suicide at all. It was murder.’ ” She lowered the page and fixed her gaze on me. “How did you know that?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
She grabbed my arm again and pushed her face close to mine. “Yes, you do, and you damn well better tell me.”
“Stop,” I said. “You’re hurting me.”
“How did you know I put the gun in Don’s left hand? How?”
“I made it up!” I said, jerking free of her grasp. “It’s a story. I don’t know anything.”
Aunt Kathy looked at me for a long, long moment. “You didn’t know,” she said finally, so softly I could barely hear her. “You didn’t know….”
No. I was just guessing. It’s like I told her: I made it up. I didn’t know a thing.
But I do now.
And so does Mrs. Zaborowski. Earlier today I gave her my other handwritten copy of the story because I couldn’t wait for her to read it.
And now I’m really worried.
Because Mrs. Zaborowski is married to the chief of police.
And Chief Zaborowski was an old friend of Don Templehoff’s.
May 18, 1977
Aunt Kathy was arrested this morning and charged with the murders of Don Templehoff, Ava Templehoff, and Wesley Lannen. She quietly packed an overnight case and left without a fuss. As she went, she told me I could have her Silent-Super Smith-Corona manual portable typewriter. And then she was gone.
I feel horrible beyond my capacity to say.
I have learned a mighty lesson: words contain a ferocious power. We must be careful how we use them, for the consequences can mean life or death.
The human heart is a trunk filled with mysterious contents: lust, envy, hatred, fear. It is a trunk we open at our own risk.
All of this happened because of me. I looked into my own heart, and I am appalled.
I will never write another story.
May 20, 1977
I had a talk today with Chief Zaborowski. He said they’d suspected Aunt Kathy from the start, and that my story played no real part in the investigation. He told me that murders usually aren’t committed by strangers or enemies from the past who reappear after twenty years in prison or in any of the ways they occur in stories. Most often people are killed by people they know, people they love, people they thought loved them, and that’s what happened here. He finished by saying the best thing for me to do is to get on with my life and not worry too much over recent events. I should feel no guilt. I did nothing wrong.
I want to believe him, but I still feel horrid. I don’t know what to do. My life seems ruined, a blasted heath, a mess.
May 23, 1977
I’ve finished a new version of “No Hamburgers Tonight.” I’m not happy with it. In fact, I think it stinks. I’m just not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Evening
I showed the revised story to Mrs. Zaborowski, and she read it over the lunch hour. She says it’s “quite accomplished,” and particularly admires the way I dealt with the boy’s guilt over his role in the murder. She says I ought to submit it somewhere once I’ve fixed a couple of things.
Should I fix them and send it out? Do I have the heart to do it?
What would Stanley Ellin do?
May 25, 1977
Ellery Queen, Editor
Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine
380 Lexington Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Dear Mr. Queen:
Enclosed you’ll find “No Hamburgers Tonight,” my latest mystery story….
THE DELIVERY
BY R. T. LAWTON
Afew minutes shy of eleven on a sweltering Saturday night in July and heat was still rising up from the asphalt parking lot out front of the seven-story Gladstone Apartments, keeping temperature hot along the building like someone left the door open on a giant oven. Night air seemed to give off an aroma of deep-fried chicken grease, making the apartment’s catwalk railings sticky to the touch. Most residents hung out on the open front walkways hoping to catch a breeze, anything to distract them from their own misery.
Some men lounged in work pants and damp T-shirts, rolling ice-cold cans of beer over their foreheads to cool their overheated brains. Young women in shorts and full tank tops stood loose on the catwalk, leaning hipshot against brick uprights while beads of perspiration turned their chests and faces slick and shiny. Older women in oversized dresses sat in cheap plastic chairs, all fanning themselves with magazines or stiff pieces of cardboard. Kids moved slow, sucking on ice chips swiped out of beer coolers when they thought adults weren’t looking.
Everybody too hot to sleep and nowhere to go. Few had working air-conditioners humming in their windows. Those who did were the lucky ones, inside enjoying their comfort.
Down below on the main street, a pair of bright headlights bounced out of the southbound lane and pulled into the parking lot out front of the apartments. The small truck circled the lot like it was trying to make up its mind about something before finally slowing to a stop halfway between stairwells leading up at opposite ends of the building. All heads up on the catwalk immediately swiveled down toward the vehicle. Something new.
“Looks like a delivery van of some kind,” speculated one of the old women on the fifth-floor walkway. “What you think they want here?”
“This a strange time of night to be making deliveries,” replied her husband. “How would I know?”
“You gots better eyes than mine,” urged the old woman, “and you know I can’t read nothing that far away. Tell me what it says on the side of that truck?”
“I don’t have my glasses on,” muttered the old man, “and it’s too hot to go get ’em.”
“Let me have a look,” offered a neighbor as he moved up to see over the railing. “I sees it plain, that’s Crazy Carlo’s truck. I seen him on television most nights, always shouting ’bout how good his sales are. You buy from him and he’ll deliver anytime, night or day, makes no difference. Man’s sure enough crazy, you ask me, making all kinds of deals, sell you anything you want, no money down. But you’d best pay up at the end, or his people come looking for you.”
“What the hell’s he gonna be delivering here?” asked the old man.
His wife kept fanning a self-made breeze in her direction with a piece of stiff cardboard. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?”
“Most honest people should be in their own beds asleep at this time of night,” the old man continued, “or at least they be at their own home, not out running around.”
“Don’t mind him,” the old woman said to the neighbor. “All this heat gets him cranky.”
Down in the parking lot, a big Cuban in industrial-gray pants and shirt got out of the driver’s side and walked around to the rear of the van. His short-sleeve shirt fit tight around his arm muscles, had a name tag said TONY above one pocket with a company logo above the other. His movements gave a slight roll to his shoulders as if he owned the streets and knew it. Raising his clipboard to eye level and consulting a sheet of paper on top of a stack of forms, he then glanced up at the seven-story building. Everything about him said he was here on serious business, so don’t get in his way if’n you knew what was good for you.
“This the place, Edward,” he growled, “so get on out here.”
A short, stocky black man wearing blue bib coveralls and a white T-shirt got out of the passenger side and strolled to the rear of the vehicle. He, too, looked up at the building, but with a pained expression on his face as if he was counting the floors and it was going to be a problem. His closely shaved head gleamed in the overhead lights of the parking lot. Neither man seemed to be in a great hurry.
Holding the clipboard in one hand, the muscular Cuban used his other hand to unlock and flip down a heavy metal platform at the back of the truck. He pulled a lever. With a grinding noise, the platform slowly descended to street level. Big Tony and the short black guy stepped onto the platform. The Cuban pushed on a lever and the metal platform raised them up level to the truck floor. When the platform stopped, Edward unlocked a heavy padlock and raised the rear door on the truck. Both men disappeared inside.
Everybody on the walkways leaned forward to watch whatever came next.
In a couple of minutes, the two workers reappeared, using a two-wheeled dolly to maneuver a large wooden box out onto the metal platform and position it sideways. Pulling the rear door back down, the short black guy replaced the heavy padlock and stood up. At that point, the Cuban pushed a lever and they all descended to street level, where the crate was wheeled off the platform and onto the asphalt.
Consulting his clipboard again, Big Tony frowned. He looked up at the watching residents. “You folks got an elevator in this building?”
“It’s broke,” came the reply from somewhere up on the catwalk. “You’ll have to use the stairs.”
“Just my luck,” muttered the short black guy.
Big Tony turned his head as he surveyed the approach to both stairwells, one on each end of the apartment building.
“Looks the same to me,” he said. “Take your pick.”
Edward shrugged.
“Like I care. Either way’s a problem, going up or coming back down.”
“Fine,” said the Cuban.
They wheeled the large wooden box over to the open stairwell on their right. The big Cuban got on the upstairs side of the crate with the handles of the dolly clutched in his large hands, leaving the short black guy on the bottom to push uphill. The box bumped upward, one step, then another. By the time they got to the first-floor landing, both men had streams of sweat running off their heads and dripping from their elbows and fingers. At every floor, they paused a couple of minutes to catch their breath. Edward took advantage of these breaks to squeegee sweat off his bald head with the palm of his right hand, flicking the excess moisture over the railing before wiping his hand on his pants leg.
Watchers on the catwalks began slowly gravitating toward the stairwell where all the bumping noise was.
“Where you ’spect they going?”
“Don’t ask me, I just know that thing ain’t mine.”
By the time the dolly’s wheels cleared the last step and rolled up onto the fifth-floor landing, a crowd had gathered to ponder over the contents of the crate. Nothing was stenciled on the outside wood to give them a clue.
The Cuban wiped a red bandanna across his perspiring forehead before consulting his clipboard again. “Where’s 507?”
One of the watchers jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. “Down there a few doors.”
Big Tony eyeballed the crowd. “You folks gonna have to move back a bit, give us some room here.”
A couple of watchers slowly drifted a few feet away. Nobody in a hurry to go anywhere.
“Lessen of course you want to help move this heavy crate your own selves,” spoke up the short black guy.
“I already got a job,” muttered one of the crowd as he retreated to just the other side of the door marked 507.
“Too hot to work on a night like this,” muttered another as he flattened up against the wall to let them pass.
Four more doors down the catwalk, with the crate finally settled square in front of the correct apartment, Big Tony rapped his knuckles on the metal door and waited.
“Better knock louder,” said the old woman. “She probably can’t hear you over her noisy air-conditioner, especially if she’s entertaining in there.”
“It’s all that entertaining company what gets her that big luxury air-conditioner she bought herself,” came a female voice from the rear of the gathering, “whilst all we got is one of them broken-down ones what comes with the rent.”
“Don’t tell me about it!” exclaimed a heavyset woman up front fanning away with a limp piece of cardboard. “I seen all them mens she’s got coming and going all hours of the night. She even got a man in there right now, cuz I seen him go in, but I ain’t seen him come out yet. Stayed longer than most of her visitors. That’s one busy woman if you ask me.”
“If you had legs like hers
, then you might have some men in your life, too,” countered a young man with a sly grin on his face.
“Leastwise I don’t have no dangerous gangsters showing up at my door,” retorted the heavyset woman.
“Nor cops, either,” added the old woman. “Every Friday afternoon I sees that same uniform policeman leaving her place with a brown paper lunch bag in his hand. What you think he’s got in there? It’s too damn late in the day for lunch.”
“You can bet she’s not making him sandwiches to put in that bag,” joked the young man. His grin got larger.
“You mens,” huffed the old lady. She elbowed her husband. “And you shut up if you know what’s good for you.”
“They’s the ones talking about Mafia business and crooked cops,” replied the old man. “Not me.”
The big Cuban turned to glare at him.
“Now you done it,” fussed the old woman. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Before the Cuban had a chance to do anything, the apartment door opened behind his back.
“Oh, is that my delivery?” asked a high-pitched female voice. Loud music boomed from the stereo behind her.
Big Tony turned around.
In the doorway stood a slender young woman in a low-cut wispy top, tight silver lamé miniskirt, and black spike heels. Her thick black hair was cut short, her lips glowing fire-engine red; she wore large silver hoop earrings in her ears, with several bright-colored bracelets jingling on each wrist.
None of the men moved for a moment. “Lord almighty,” one of them finally whispered.
“We’re looking for a Miss Delilah,” said the Cuban.
“That’s me, sugar.”
“Then this is yours. Where you want us to put it?”
“Just set it up here in the living room.”
Edward wheeled the dolly over into the middle of the room and unstrapped the crate.
“You gotta sign for it,” said the Cuban. He took a form off his clipboard and held it out.
She reached for it, but the paper slipped through her well-manicured fingers and dropped sideways to the floor. Bending forward at the waist, she picked up the document by one corner.
Mystery Writers of America Presents the Mystery Box Page 15