I headed out to an ATM, withdrawing the cash I’d need to pay anonymously. Then I drove two counties over, where no one would know me, and bought the biggest rabbit cage I could find. As I was wandering through the pet store, I realized I’d have to get food for Moe. The checker at my local market would look at me funny if I started buying fruits and vegetables, so I picked up a few bags of Rabbit Chow, figuring groundhogs would like the same healthy food that rabbits did. I also bought bedding, a water bottle feeder, and a rabbit, too, so not to look odd.
A few miles from my house, I set the rabbit free in a big field. I certainly didn’t need two pets, and I hoped letting four rabbit feet hippity hop away would bring me more good luck. By the time I pulled into my long driveway, the rain was letting up, and I’d had a fine day, despite my busted knee, broken toe, and the scars surely forming on my face. I had followed through with my plan and had saved our town from years of bad winters. Heck, I’d be a hero if only I could tell people what I’d done.
I was humming as I started down the stairs to my cellar, cradling the large cage. When I reached the bottom step, I took in the room, gasped, and dropped the cage on my freaking toe. I screamed every curse I’d ever learned and made up a few new ones, too.
The cement floor was covered with shit. Holes marred the drywall and my grandparents’ ratty, old sofa. And there was Moe, sitting on that sofa, looking happy as could be. He trotted over to me, as if he were glad I was home. I counted to ten to keep from strangling him. Then to twenty. At thirty-five I gave up, grabbed him, and shoved him in his new cage. I didn’t want to think about how long it would take me to clean up the cellar and patch the walls.
Happy freaking birthday to me.
I trudged upstairs, my knee squawking and toe burning the whole way. I deserved a consolation dinner. I threw my favorite in the microwave. Hungry-Man fried chicken. While it nuked, I popped open a beer and turned on the TV just in time to watch the Yankees beat the Red Sox. Could this day get any worse? When the microwave dinged, I got my dinner, flipped to the local news, and learned that, oh, yes, it could. The lead story was about Moe being kidnapped. Holy crap, I didn’t think it would make the news. The reporter said the cops had found a few muddy boot prints leading out into the woods near Moe’s pen, but they had no other leads.
I swigged my beer, thinking things through, trying not to worry. No way they could find me. Or Moe. I just had to play it cool.
* * * *
I was Mr. Cool himself when I showed up at the diner the next morning for my usual weekend breakfast. Bobby already sat at the counter, chatting up Sally. I eased onto my regular stool, and they both stopped talking, staring at me. Not a good sign.
“What happened?” Sally finally said.
“You old dog,” Bobby added.
Old dog?
Sally leaned toward me and lifted my chin, examining my bandaged face. My left cheek had puffed up overnight. I’d smeared Neosporin on the scratches, but I still looked like a chipmunk, or a groundhog, which was ironic.
“As a birthday gift to myself,” I improvised, “I decided to replace some ancient carpeting in my bedroom. I got all scratched up from the carpet tacks as I was pulling the old rug up.”
Sally glanced at Bobby, her head tilted, eyes narrowed. Then she focused on me again. “You got a hickey on your neck from carpet tacks?”
Crud. I’d forgotten about my neck.
“You old dog,” Bobby repeated. “Who is she?”
Sally leaned closer. “C’mon, Gus. We’re all friends. Who’d you spend your wild birthday night with?”
Wild sex. I nearly smacked my forehead. A much better story. I decided to go with it.
“Aw, you don’t know her. Besides, I’m not the kinda guy to kiss and tell.”
Bobby laughed. “Heck, it’s been years since you kissed at all, as far as I know.”
Sally barked out a laugh, too, and slapped the counter. “The usual, Gus?”
“Yep.”
I breathed a sigh of relief as she stepped into the kitchen and Bobby dug back into his pancakes. Thank God that conversation was over.
Bobby kept smirking at me while he ate. I was feeling an odd mixture of pride and embarrassment when Sally came back and filled my coffee mug. “Well, if Gus’s going to keep his lady love a secret, we’ll have to get back to the next big news. You hear about Moe, Gus?”
I snorted. I’d prepared for this conversation, practicing while looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. “Yeah, I heard. Good riddance is all I have to say. That groundhog never brought us anything but bad weather.”
I glanced casually at Sally and Bobby as Sally shook her head again. They didn’t seem to think there was anything unusual about my response. Good.
“How can you be so mean, Gus?” Sally asked. “Moe’s a poor, defenseless animal.”
Hmph. Showed what she knew, I thought, gingerly fingering the bandage on my cheek.
“I bet it was some kids from Ethan Allen College,” Bobby said, dragging a forkful of pancake through the puddle of maple syrup on his plate. “They’re always playing pranks. You watch. Moe will be back home before you know it, right and ready to give us his prediction come next Groundhog Day.”
I gulped down my coffee and didn’t say a word. Though I did smile a little. Sorry, Bobby. This time, you’re wrong.
* * * *
Next Groundhog Day, I set my alarm to go off early. As usual, I woke up happy. Bobby and Sally were convinced I was still dating my so-called secret lady because I’d stopped being such a sourpuss (Sally’s term). I let them believe what they wanted. Truth was, I had fallen in love. With Moe.
Over the past few months, Moe had become my best friend. He’d been hibernating since late October, of course, but in the time he’d been awake, we’d had a lot of fun. We watched football and ate dinner in front of the TV. I even let him drink a little beer once. Okay, twice.
Around Thanksgiving, the town had given up on Moe. They’d gotten another groundhog to take his place. I didn’t care. Only Moe and his ancestors had the power to cause long winters. This new groundhog was merely a pretender to the throne.
Still, I was curious how he’d make out.
The sky was beginning to lighten as I turned off the alarm clock and got dressed. I wandered downstairs, switched on my coffee maker, and turned on the early-morning local news. A crowd bundled up in coats, hats, and gloves had gathered at town hall, warming themselves around a fire barrel, while they waited for our mayor to appear with Missisquoi Morris, the new groundhog. I checked that the window curtains were firmly drawn and hurried down to the cellar. Moe was asleep in his cage, curled in the soft fleece blanket I’d bought him.
“Moe,” I whispered, tapping his cage. “Wake up, Moe.”
He stirred a bit. I reached into the cage and carefully stroked his bristly fur, repeating his name softly. Moe opened his eyes and blinked. I let out a contented sigh, lifted him out of the cage, and carried him upstairs.
A few minutes later, we were sitting on the couch by the big window, shooting the breeze, like old friends on a park bench. Moe was the silent type, but as he ate some Rabbit Chow and I drank my coffee, I filled him in on everything that had happened in the months since he went to sleep. He couldn’t believe the town had replaced him either.
Meanwhile, the TV reporter covering our downtown festivities stood next to a mound of snow, blathering on about Morris as if he were a pedigreed pooch. Moe wrinkled his nose, disgusted. When the mayor finally came out to make his speech, he mentioned Moe, said everyone missed him. Moe appreciated the kind words, I could tell. I pulled Moe onto my lap, his long black claws wrapping around my fingers. We were both excited, waiting for the big moment.
The mayor lifted Morris out of a small cage and held him up. The crowd went wild, chanting “Morris, Morris,” while Morris seemed to shiver, nervous. I’d be nervous, too, if I were him. The sun had come up a few minutes before. No clouds. No overcast. The mayor would have to ann
ounce that Morris had seen his shadow so we’d have another endless winter. The crowd wouldn’t like that.
Moe and I leaned forward to listen.
“On this day, February 2nd,” the mayor said, “it’s my honor to tell the citizens of Missisquoi that appearances can be deceiving. It may be a beautiful, bright morning, but when he arose this morning, Morris did not see his shadow. Fellow citizens, we will have an early spring!”
An early spring. An early spring. I hadn’t heard those words in so long that I felt like dancing around the room. I knew it didn’t matter what Morris predicted. He didn’t have Moe’s special powers. But still, I was so happy.
“Did you hear that, Moe?” I held him up before me. “An early spring!”
Just then, my heat cycled on. The window curtains fluttered, and a bright ray of sunshine streamed through the gap. Moe turned his eyes away from the light, down toward the floor. And we both saw it at the same moment. Moe’s shadow.
Nooooo!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Barb Goffman is the author of Don’t Get Mad, Get Even, a collection of short stories published in 2013 by Wildside Press. She won the 2013 Macavity Award for best short story published in 2012, and she’s been nominated twelve times for national writing awards—the Agatha (seven times), the Anthony (twice), the Macavity (twice), and the Pushcart Prize (once). Barb’s an editor of the Chesapeake Crimes anthology series and recently opened a freelance editing service focusing on crime fiction (www.goffmanediting.com). You can learn more about her writing at www.barbgoffman.com.
VALENTINE’S DAY
SEEING RED, by Rosemary and Larry Mild
The doorbell rang. Elise Harrenton saved the accounting spreadsheet on her iMac and trotted to the front hall. A Fed Ex guy stood on the porch. She opened the door and signed for a nine-by-twelve tan bubble bag addressed to Mr. Charles Harrenton. Return address: Cartier Fifth Avenue.
Elise’s heart quickened. Charles didn’t often buy her presents, but the package was from Cartier. It had to be for her. She carried the package into the dining room, sat down in one of the upholstered chairs, and pulled the tab. Inside sat a long blue velvet box. Under it peeked out an elegant silver envelope. Her fingers tingled as she removed the velvet box. Setting it on the table, she sprang its catch.
Couched in white satin lay a pendant: a white-gold chain and an exquisite square-cut sapphire surrounded by diamonds. In the noonday sunlight, the gems winked at her with self-satisfied knowledge of their brilliance. Elise flipped her shoulder-length chestnut hair behind her right ear, a habit when she anticipated something special about to happen.
Reaching into the bubble bag for the silver envelope, she pulled it out, opened it, and read: “My darling Melanie. Thank you for the blissful Bermuda weekend. Your devoted Charles.”
Elise’s lean body grew rigid. She felt a burning in her belly, heartburn in her chest, her neck and face on fire.
She and Charles had never taken a trip to Bermuda! They’d barely traveled anywhere the past few years. He traveled all the time, working eighty-hour weeks running his Fortune 500 company. She’d put up with his insane schedule because she loved him. Only to find out that he loved someone else?
What had gone wrong? Didn’t they have a secure marriage, with trust and all the rest, and even good sex? Every negative detail suddenly loomed as the villain. Was she spending too much time at the gym, carving her former plump self into a gaunt, athletic machine? Was it the faint varicose veins threading her thighs? Her smallish breasts? The fact that she’d miscarried twice and hadn’t been able to conceive again? Whatever it was, she hadn’t seen it coming. And there was no use denying that Charles was still a stunning man at forty: six-two, with sandy hair and confident green eyes.
Elise stayed rooted to the chair for a long time, replaying in her mind the joke Charles had made of her life. What should she do? Confront him when he walked through the door tonight? Rant and rave? Throw things? Threaten divorce? It all sounded so clichéd. She deserved better.
At that moment she stopped brooding. Her breath quickened, and a seed began to germinate within the farthest reaches of her mind. Charles would be leaving in a few days for another month-long business trip, due to return home on Valentine’s Day. She would have her gift ready for him when he returned. A gleeful smile crossed her face. Yes, it was time to redecorate.
But first she had an urgent task. She took the silver card down the hall to her office, photocopied it, and printed it out in color. For evidence. Whipping out her digital camera, she took two photos of the velvet box: the first one closed; the second one with the glorious pendant lying in the open box. She checked the two images, pleased that she had remembered to turn off the flash, enhancing the natural lighting and showing off the jewels to their best advantage.
Next, she jumped into her Porsche, zipped over to Office Depot, and bought a nine-by-twelve tan bubble bag, exactly like the one that had been delivered. Back home in the kitchen, she boiled water, and as the steam chugged out of the teakettle spout, she held the bubble bag from Cartier above the scalding puffs and steamed off the “From” and “To” labels. After allowing them to dry, she used thin coats of Elmer’s Glue to affix them to the envelope she’d just purchased. Saying goodbye to the sapphire and diamonds, she snapped the box shut and tucked it inside the bag, along with the card. Sealing the bag with great care, she placed it on Charles’s desk, under the pile of other mail that had arrived that day. Charles would probably kick himself when he came home tonight and realized he’d given Cartier his home address instead of his mistress’s, but he’d also think Elise was too wrapped up in her accounting work to notice.
All the better for her plan.
Next she needed to do her research. She couldn’t remember all the irritants that bugged her husband most. Maybe the Internet could help. Typing madly, she Googled “Phobias” and discovered a plethora of links, from simple definitions to studies in psychiatric and psychological journals. Scanning the websites, she singled several out. Ereuthophobia. Ornithophobia. Pteridophobia. Those three would needle him the most.
* * * *
February 14th dawned clear and cold, with brilliant sun. Charles returned late in the afternoon, catching a cab at the train station, looking forward to a relaxed evening with his single-malt scotch and the NBA on TV. But when the cab pulled up to 1577 Larkspurr Lane, he wondered whether he’d given the driver the wrong address. Their conservative black front door was now a screaming enamel red—like a hooker’s nail polish. The door swung open before he had a chance to use his key. Elise greeted him with a mock pinup-girl pose, in a filmy red teddy. As he stepped into the foyer, setting down his briefcase and luggage, she threw her arms around his neck. “So glad you’re finally home, darling. Happy Valentine’s Day!”
He tried an appropriate response, but it just wouldn’t come. “Elise. The front door. It’s so…garish!”
“Darling, welcome to our new décor.” She helped him off with his cashmere overcoat and hung it in the closet. “How was your flight, sweetheart? You look beat.”
“Snow in New York. Delayed takeoff. Nasty turbulence. In other words, not so great. But seriously, what’s with the door?”
Elise nuzzled his neck. “It’s feng shui, darling. The Chinese spiritual forces of wind and water. A red door symbolizes welcome—harmony with the universe.”
“Feng hooey is more like it.” Charles shook his head, spotting the new floor: a dizzying array of red and orange irregular shapes. “Jeez, Elise, isn’t this kind of busy for a front hall?”
“Not really. Mosaics are the ‘in’ thing now. They call this pattern Sunset Blitz.” She led him into the living room. “Let me give you the tour, dear. Ta da! Our new contemporary home. Quite electrifying and exquisite, I think.”
Charles’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t speak. His eyes ached from what he saw. A tomato-red leather sofa, flanked by matching bucket chairs. On a glass coffee table, a tall vase filled with long-stemmed red an
d salmon rosebuds. An area rug edged in a broad border of Chinese red. He gritted his teeth at the sight of the freshly painted walls: wide vertical stripes of ruby red and maroon. The motif continued down the hall to the kitchen. “I guess I can get used to this stuff, if I have to,” he mumbled.
His agreeable mood lasted about five seconds, until he noticed the hanging pots of greenery in each corner of the living room: voluptuous ferns overflowing with coiled tendrils. An involuntary shudder shook his body. “What the hell, Elise. Those damned things look downright snaky!”
It was then that he heard a squawking commotion in the kitchen. He turned pale. “Birds? In this house?” He raced toward the kitchen and lurched to a stop in the doorway. A tall cage stood beside the breakfast table. Two large parrots swayed from side to side on their roosts. Their beady eyes stared at him as if he were an intruder.
Charles broke into an icy sweat. “Elise, have you gone totally around the bend?”
“Sorry, dear,” she murmured. “I thought they’d lend a little amusement to our marriage. We can teach them to talk, you know, all sorts of cute things. They’re very smart.”
“Get those friggin’ birds out of here! I’m going to change,” he said, pressing his lips together to prevent escape of his ugliest thought. If she’s messed with our room, I’ll strangle her.
Charles entered the master bedroom, flicked on the light, and nearly fainted. He wished he were back on the road. The recessed lighting cast a sinister glow on the king-size bed. The headboard was covered in red and purple paisley; the comforter, shams, and sheets were scarlet, trimmed in purple. Vermillion curtains cascaded from ceiling to floor. And on the far wall, Elise had hung a large framed photo of parakeets.
Shivering, he tore off his business clothes and pulled on his favorite gray sweats. Would he at least be able to pee in peace? Opening the door to the master bath, he sighed with relief to discover the pristine white granite vanity top—until he saw that the shower walls were retiled in a throbbing red brick, and a potted fern sat perched on the toilet tank, its leaves curling—practically crawling—over the sides.
Homicidal Holidays Page 2