Homicidal Holidays

by Donna Andrews

  Normally, I don’t frequent taverns, but times are far from normal for me lately.

  The bar runs along one mirrored wall. Two men sit at it several stools apart. I hesitate.

  Oh, who gives a shit? It’s a public place.

  I walk up to the bar and take a stool between the two men. The bartender, a reed-thin fellow with sandy hair and the suggestion of a goatee, wanders over.

  “What can I get you, ma’am?”

  I think of movies I’ve seen and blurt the first words that come to mind.

  “Scotch on the rocks, please.”

  He nods with an approving look. After he pours and sets the drink before me, I take a sip. Goes down smooth as gasoline. Perfect.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say to the bartender.

  “Sure.”

  “Do people actually tell bartenders their problems?”

  His mouth quirks up in a half-smile. “Sometimes. Dare I ask why?”

  I cup the glass with both hands and gaze into it. “A friend of mine is going to prison. She killed someone.”

  When I look up, the bartender’s smile has faded. “I’m sorry. What happened?”

  So I tell him.

  * * * *

  I met Jasmine at a victims’ recovery group. To be honest, I knew things about Jasmine before I met her. I work for the police department.

  Cops are worse than old ladies and teenage girls when it comes to gossip. And my co-workers gossiped plenty about Jasmine’s case. I took a special interest and decided to seek her out and introduce myself. We had a common bond.

  Though the name sounded appropriate for a pole dancer, Jasmine turned out to be your basic thirty-something girl-next-door in faded jeans and a long-sleeved peasant blouse. She had light brown hair, doe brown eyes, and a quiet demeanor.

  One night I approached her at the coffee table during a bathroom break. She’d just shared her story about being raped and how her attacker was acquitted. I asked her if she was okay.

  Her mouth pressed into a thin line, and she blinked rapidly. “It’s almost more than I can bear sometimes. Knowing he’s out on the streets.”

  Jasmine didn’t want to talk much more about it, so I let it go. However, each time we attended a group session, we’d get together for coffee afterward. She began to open up about her feelings of fear and powerlessness, particularly in light of the acquittal. Week after week she grew angrier. Bordering on rage, really. I kept encouraging her to get it out. I thought I was helping her.

  * * * *

  “I should have known right there, she was headed for trouble,” I tell the bartender, as he pours me another drink.

  “Wow. That’s…pretty intense. Must be hard for you.”

  I nod. “To say the least.”

  He watches me gulp the scotch. “If you don’t mind my asking…what happened exactly?”

  I suppress a sigh. But then, I’d started this tale. How can I blame him for wanting to know the details? “Well, I made the mistake of buying her a gun. I got it off the street. Easy peasy. I thought it would help her feel better. Feel safer.

  “I can see now that was the worst possible thing I could’ve done.” I finish my drink in a single swallow. It burns all the way to my stomach. “She ended up stalking Charles Goodwin, her rapist, and shooting him.”

  The bartender opens his mouth slightly, then closes it, as his brow furrows. He picks up a rag and wipes the bar. “Wow. How’d they catch her?”

  “She turned herself in. Couldn’t live with the guilt.”

  “Well, you can’t blame yourself for her actions. She pulled the trigger, not you.”

  I nod. “Yeah, sure.”

  He holds up the bottle. “Another?”

  I shake my head. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  * * * *

  When I leave the bar, the wind is still vicious. I cross my arms and buck against the chill. My feet feel like frozen blocks. The two minutes it takes to reach my apartment building seem to last for days, but I finally make it. I stumble toward the elevator. The scotch has gone straight to my head.

  I ride the elevator twelve flights up to my floor and get off. After a brief disoriented moment, I find my apartment. I’m starting to warm up from the building’s heat, yet my heart remains dead cold. I’d hoped the liquor would help. But it can’t change everything that’s happened.

  Once inside the apartment, I shut the door, but don’t bother with the deadbolt or the lights. The city’s light pollution provides enough illumination for me to make my way down the hall to my bedroom. Just a double bed, a side table, and a dresser. That’s all I need. It’s not much, but I despise clutter. I move to the dresser and open the top drawer. The picture is still there, face down. I pick it up and look at it.

  Me and Charles Goodwin. My step-brother. Who raped me when I was a teenager and never paid.

  Until now.

  When the opportunity arose to finally make him pay, I jumped at it. A little push here. A little prodding there. Not that Jasmine really needed it. Helping her get closure in the process was a bonus. At least, that was the plan.

  I hadn’t counted on how guilty Jasmine would feel. Or that guilt could be catching.

  I hadn’t counted on caring about Jasmine to the point where her guilt and mine became indistinguishable.

  I weave slowly out of the bedroom, down the dark hallway, into the living room. Through a sliding glass door, beyond the balcony, I see a panoramic view of the city’s distant hills. Lights like diamonds against a velvet, black sky.

  I open the sliding door, and the wind blasts in. A magazine flutters on the coffee table behind me.

  I step outside, breathe in the frigid air, and exhale steam that’s whipped away in a heartbeat. As I stagger toward the railing, I keep my eyes on the hills and remember Jasmine’s last words during our visit at the jail.

  “No one should get away with murder.”

  She was speaking of herself, but I know to whom those words really apply. Grasping the rail, I swing one leg over, then the other. Now, I’m outside the railing, face forward and hanging off by both hands. The railing is freezing and stings my palms. Now, I’m swinging back and forth. The wind whips my hair, which lashes my face. Tears blow away before they can track down my icy cheeks. The ground is far below. I gaze at the hills. Diamonds of light blurring. Moving back and forth. Back and forth.

  Finally, I let go. I aim for the horizon and try to fly.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Debbi Mack is the New York Times bestselling author of the hardboiled Sam McRae Mystery Series, featuring Maryland lawyer-sleuth Stephanie Ann “Sam” McRae. She has also written and published several short stories and been nominated for a Derringer Award.

  Debbi has also written a screenplay that made the quarterfinals cut in the Scriptapalooza contest. Debbi would like to continue writing screenplays and is considering various possible film projects.

  A native of Queens, N.Y., Debbi enjoys travel, music, good food, baseball, and the outdoors. Her website is www.debbimack.com.

  SAUCE FOR THE GOOSE, by Clyde Linsley

  Arthur Gibbs, the celebrated world explorer, considered himself a cosmopolite, a student of the world, and as tolerant an individual as ever lived. So his decision to murder his next-door neighbor was clear evidence of the neighbor’s unpleasant nature.

  In his varied career, Gibbs had lived on four continents, first as a foreign-service officer with the State Department, then as a highly paid consultant to several multinational corporations. He spoke five languages, four fluently, and held advanced degrees in political science and economics. He could converse easily on almost any subject.

  William Lanier, by contrast, was a cretin, intellectually and morally, ignorant of the world around him and indifferent to the events that concerned the world. His interests seemed to be confined to a narrow range of subjects, of which professional sports—notably football—seemed to predominate. Gibbs was not quite sure what Lanier did for a living, but
he was certain that his neighbor was a man of little or no value.

  If he could have done so, Gibbs simply would have ignored the man, but in the high-rise apartment building where he lived, that was impossible. Lanier was always invading his space, usually at the most inopportune times. Whenever Gibbs invited guests to his apartment, his neighbor would always happen to be in the hall to greet them, busily engaged in some important but obscure activity and always (it seemed to Gibbs) fishing for an introduction or an invitation. It was distressing; the man was always on his best behavior, so guests would wonder why he was not invited. Weren’t they neighbors, after all? His friends, he felt, were beginning to wonder about his behavior. But it would be even worse if he included Lanier, so that his friends would learn the man’s true nature and associate him with his loutish neighbor.

  Gibbs had considered his alternatives. He could move, of course, but it would be difficult—perhaps impossible—to find comparable lodgings in the crowded city. For the same reason, it would be difficult to make conditions so uncomfortable that Lanier would elect to move away.

  Facing such dismal prospects, Gibbs decided to make one last attempt to accommodate his neighbor’s desire to be sociable in a way that would not destroy his own reputation. A half-hearted effort, to be sure, but as sincere as he could make it. Because the holiday season was approaching, he invited Lanier to a Christmas dinner.

  Lanier quickly accepted the invitation. Gibbs determined to make the best impression possible, and he was certain that he could do so. He prided himself on his culinary skills. A Christmas goose, he decided, was the perfect offering—a traditional holiday feast, but one not normally offered in an era of “quick and easy.”

  He took great care to purchase the perfect goose, neither too fat nor too lean, and he devoted hours to its preparation. While the bird roasted, he prepared an accompanying compote of apples and sage. The result, he concluded proudly, was superb. The best he had ever done.

  The dinner, alas, was disastrous.

  Lanier was late in arriving—two hours late. He apologized profusely, explaining that he had been engrossed in “the game.”

  “Game?” Gibbs asked. “What game?”

  “Why, the Redskins, of course,” Lanier said. “They’re playing the Cowboys this week, and—don’t tell me you haven’t been watching it.”

  “I don’t have television,” Gibbs said. “Never saw the need.”

  Lanier’s jaw dropped. “No TV? How do you keep up with things?”

  “I get two daily newspapers,” Gibbs said. “Three, actually, if you include the Wall Street Journal, which I don’t because it’s such a specialized publication.”

  Lanier stared at Gibbs in disbelief.

  “And I have radio, of course,” Gibbs added.

  “And you follow the news on the radio?”

  “Well, no. Opera, mostly. There was a performance of Les Troyens just last night. Quite enjoyable.”

  Lanier shook his head in disgust. “Whatever,” he said.

  The evening went downhill from there. Conversation was virtually non-existent. Lanier ate almost nothing, saying that he disliked goose.

  He did seem to enjoy the compote of apples and sage. In fact, he helped himself to several servings, which he consumed, although still silently, with obvious relish. And when the evening was over, he turned to Gibbs and shamefacedly asked if he could have the recipe.

  Gibbs was taken aback. He would not have been surprised at a request for the goose recipe; he considered it one of his specialties. The apple compote, however, had been an afterthought, and he had not followed a recipe. It had been an experiment from start to finish, and he did not remember all that he had done to make it.

  But an idea came to him suddenly. If he could duplicate the dish, or make something similar to it, and introduce one subtle and toxic addition, it would work out nicely, and remove the man from his life at the same time. As long as Lanier did not detect the differences between the original dish and its successor—and Gibbs was certain he would not—Lanier would go to his death unaware that he had been poisoned. It would be, in a sense, the perfect murder.

  “I’m sorry,” he told Lanier, sounding as sincere as he could. “The recipe was given to me by an old friend, who asked that I never divulge the details to another soul.”

  “Oh, well,” the crestfallen Lanier said. “In that case, I understand. I wouldn’t want you to betray a friendship.”

  “But what I could do,” Gibbs continued, “is make another serving of my sauce just for you. That wouldn’t be breaking my promise to my friend.”

  “You’d do that for me?” Lanier said.

  “Of course,” Gibbs said. “I’d be happy to do so. It’ll take a few days, but…”

  “I don’t care,” Lanier said hastily. “Take as long as you need. I’m going to enjoy that stuff.”

  “I’m certain of that,” Gibbs said with a smile. He began immediately to put his plan in motion.

  Gibbs had an ace in the hole: an acquaintance in one of the government intelligence agencies had told him of a special poison that was odorless and tasteless and would be almost undetectable unless one were looking for it specifically. He called it ricin.

  “You have to be very careful when you make it,” the acquaintance had told him. “But ricin isn’t particularly difficult to make. You make it from castor beans, which you can probably get at a hardware store or a garden center, and you can find the recipe on the internet.”

  A quick search yielded the information he sought, and Gibbs set to work immediately. The process took several days, and Gibbs had to be careful to avoid accidental exposure to the poison, which was quite virulent.

  When the ricin was ready, Gibbs prepared the compote, mixed in the ricin—carefully avoiding spillage—and delivered the dish to Lanier, who received it gratefully.

  “Great,” Lanier said. “Hey, I owe you. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Yes, there is, Gibbs thought but did not say. And you shall soon provide it.

  “There’s really nothing I need,” he said, instead. “I was happy to be of assistance.”

  How long would it take for the ricin to kill his neighbor? After carefully disposing of the potentially contaminated garments he’d worn and scrubbing his entire kitchen from ceiling to floor, several times, Gibbs sat down and consulted his notes. It might take a few weeks, or a few days, depending on how much of the compote Lanier consumed before it took effect. The first signs might be much like the symptoms of a cold or influenza. They would grow rapidly more severe until, one day, he would simply succumb.

  But Lanier did not succumb. Days passed without incident. Gibbs had not expected Lanier to announce that he was dying, but his appearance and demeanor remained unchanged.

  Gibbs found himself lying in his bed, wide awake, long hours into the night, listening for the siren of a fire-and-rescue truck, or the sound of heavy boots in the hallway as hastily summoned firemen and paramedics rushed up the stairs to Lanier’s apartment. Gibbs imagined the glee he would feel when he heard a medical professional declare his neighbor to be, officially, dead.

  No such announcement was issued, and Lanier remained very much alive. Each morning, Gibbs would enter the hallway and find his neighbor also standing there. Each morning, Lanier would smile at Gibbs as if greeting a long-lost friend. He would make small talk in the elevator, as if nothing untoward had happened. Gibbs found himself wondering whether he had actually attempted to poison the man.

  Perhaps he had dreamt it all? But a quick check of his storage unit revealed the tiny, tightly capped bottle of ricin he’d hidden there, still waiting for him to devise a safe method of disposal.

  He could not imagine what had gone wrong with his plan. He knew only that the attempt to murder his neighbor had been unsuccessful. But he knew, also, that he would never have the courage for another attempt. If the deed itself was not sufficiently off-putting, the long ordeal of fruitless waiting was quite sufficient.


  Gibbs made his peace with the situation. Perhaps it was time to begin the search for a new place to live—an apartment far away from his present lodgings. He made up his mind to begin the search the following day.

  In the morning he made calls to several rental agents in town and made appointments to look at some apartments that had only recently become available. As he slipped into his overcoat, his doorbell rang.

  “Good morning,” Lanier said.

  “Mr. Lanier!”

  “Oh, I think our friendship’s gone beyond Mr. Lanier and Mr. Gibbs. Don’t you think so, Arthur?”

  “I suppose so,” Gibbs said. He waited for Lanier to state his business.

  “May I come in?” Lanier said.

  “I was just going out,” Gibbs said. “Is this something that could wait?”

  Lanier frowned and shook his head. “Don’t think so,” he said. “I need your opinion on something important. Important and urgent.”

  Puzzled, Gibbs moved aside so Lanier could enter. His neighbor went into the living room and quickly took a seat on the sofa. He opened the small paper bag he carried, removing a plastic container with a lid, which he placed on the table before him.

  Gibbs waited impatiently for Lanier to continue, but his neighbor seemed to have lost his sense of urgency. He sat quietly, his eyes roaming around the room for what seemed an eternity. Gibbs was about to ask his business when Lanier finally spoke up.

  “Nice place,” he said. “I really like what you’ve done with it. These newer buildings don’t have much character, but I like the way you’ve made this space your own.”

  “Thank you.” Gibbs waited, but Lanier seemed in no hurry to proceed to business. After a long moment, Gibbs felt the need to move the discussion forward.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr.—”

  “Jim, please,” Lanier said. “Or James, if you insist on being formal. I’d prefer Jim. Just Jim.”