Murder, She Did

by Gillian Roberts

  That night the moon was full, casting a clear white light into the room, onto their bed. She looked at her husband and the Balicat curled into his arm and she sighed. A tremor of regret stirred her, but all the same, if she weakened, let sentiment take over, she’d be stuck on this stupid island forever. Besides, it was Frederick’s own fault.

  If he’d found them a normal American kind of room with walls and windows, she wouldn’t be able to do this.

  If he’d been more sensitive and not left her all alone all these days, then she probably wouldn’t have spent the time establishing a relationship with the Mickey.

  If he hadn’t changed so drastically, they wouldn’t be here in the first place and Frederick could have lived out his allotted time in peace.

  With those thoughts, she got out of bed quietly, although very little disturbed Frederick’s sleep these days and she probably could have clumped and thumped her way across the room.

  She looked out into the bright moonlit scene. The symmetrical squares of the rice fields looked surreal green-black shadows pooling dark along their edges.

  And below her, staring up with yellow eyes, was the Mickey, a smart little cat who knew which side his bread was buttered on. Or would, if this land had bread.

  Agnes waved the piece of meat like a magic wand. She watched the skinny cat’s head swivel as it followed the figure eights she made above it. She put the meat on the sill of the half-wall and watched as the cat climbed the woven bamboo wall, nails digging into the dried fronds. When he was onto the sill, purring with anticipation, rubbing across her hand, Agnes lifted the duck breast and tossed it halfway across the room, onto the center of the bed.

  In a single dramatic leap, the Mickey arced halfway across the room after it, and onto the sheet.

  Also, alas, onto the Balicat, who understandably resented the pain of the pounce, the interruption of her night’s sleep and worst of all, the intrusion onto her private turf, and expressed that resentment by a horrific yowl and a leap that tried to eliminate the Mickey who, in turn, expressed keen resentment of her interference with his duck fest. The cats screamed and hissed and spit and swung at each other, rolling, flailing and making the worst noise Agnes had ever heard.

  Frederick sat bolt upright, gaping as the cats leaped against him, screaming cat imprecations and insults at one another. “What? What?” Frederick said. “Who? What?”

  Agnes raced around, looking as if she were trying to do something, taking swipes at the cats. “I can’t stop them!” she wailed, just in case Frederick survived this, and she needed to look as if she had cared. “Oh, God, you’re not supposed to ever be shocked awake! This could kill you!”

  She was accurate. Frederick gasped a few more times, grabbed his chest and died, even as the cats continued to fight bitterly around and on him.

  Agnes calmly watched her husband’s final minutes. It wasn’t her fault that their “authentic Balinese” room had no telephone with which to call for help. It wasn’t her fault that she didn’t know of any nearby hospitals, no advanced emergency techniques for heart attacks, no ambulances. Frederick was the one who’d wanted to come here.

  His expression softened into one of great peace. He had, after all, gotten what he wanted. The trip of his lifetime. And she’d gotten what she wanted. She’d committed the perfect crime. Her hands were clean, if a bit greasy from the duck meat. Who could they blame, except the cats?

  Agnes lifted the duck meat off the sheet and tossed it over the window ledge. The Mickey was too engrossed in his battle to notice that the prize for which he fought would be his if he’d only leave. Fur flew and the yowls continued. Agnes lost whatever patience she’d had. “Enough!” she snarled, scooping up the brown cat.

  He writhed, balefully looking at her with yellow eyes, his fangs showing, his claws still pursuing the Balicat, and as Agnes released him at the window ledge, he swiped one last time, leaving a scratch on her arm from her elbow to her wrist.

  “Ingrate!” she hissed into the night. “See if you get another ounce of food from me!” She put on a cotton wrapper and a pair of bedroom slippers and made her way to the night manager. “My husband,” she sobbed, “I think he’s…”

  The gentle Balinese treated the widow with compassion and care. The hotel manager said she could stay, rent free, until the arrangements for her husband’s return to the States were completed. Briefly, she considered letting Frederick rest in this land he so loved. He had said he would love to stay here through eternity. But it wouldn’t have looked right. The Buddhist-Hindu-Animist country buried their dead only until they could afford an extravagant cremation ceremony that sent them off into the next life. There didn’t seem to be any proper place to just plain bury somebody here. Besides, what would people back home say?

  Unfortunately, there was a whole lot of Indonesian and U.S. red tape to cut through, and the cutting took an inordinate amount of time. And even more unfortunately, during that time the conditions that had made Agnes’s victory so easy still prevailed. There continued to be an absence of advanced medical facilities, and so when the cat scratch swelled and itched Agnes applied the ointments she’d brought from the States and never wondered whether a land so lush and exotic might also breed interestingly different organisms.

  It turned out that it did. And the organisms were as ecstatic about Agnes’s arm and vital organs and as ravenous for them as the Mickey cat, their former host, had been for duck meat.

  Microbes move much more quickly than bureaucrats. Slowly, the red tape was sliced. Quickly, the microbes multiplied. Agnes felt poorly. She looked even more poorly.

  On the day that Frederick’s body was finally released to be shipped back to the States, care of his son, Agnes, her plane ticket in hand, gurgled and breathed her last.

  No one knew what to do with her remains which were in dreadful shape, given the appetite of those internal microbes. So in a last act of gracious gentle kindness, the Balinese kept Agnes with them in paradise, buried on a hillside, halfway between the demons of the sea and the gods of the mountains.

  After a while, it was said that the American man whose remains had been flown away had mourned the loss of Bali and had returned in his next life as a duo of cats, one a sleek gold and white and the other brown with a ripped ear. Together, the cats, and eventually a small tribe of gold and brown kittens, all with white paws, made the long trek to visit the grave on the hill each full moon, rubbing against the headstone and in an odd final gesture, using the marker as their private, gigantic, emery board so vigorously that as time went by, the stone developed grooves that almost looked like writing, like “Miki.” That was taken to be a sign of something, and soon the grave was known as The Shrine of Miki the Cat Lady.

  The shrine made its way into the guide books as a tourist attraction. “If we believe as animists that everything has a spirit, or soul,” the tour guide said one moonlit night, “we might think those cats—and perhaps her dead husband—had a bit of a problem with this Miki-woman, and are reminding her remains throughout eternity—perhaps taunting them with this news?—of how well all of them are thriving.”

  The tourists smiled at each other and were glad they’d traveled around the world to visit this funny, quaint country. What a great place. Had to buy a postcard of the Miki the Cat Lady Shrine and remember this funny superstition. Wasn’t Bali adorable?

  Hog Heaven

  Harry Towers walked out of his office building and blinked in the late-afternoon light. The sea of homebound bodies divided around him as he deliberated how, and with whom, to fill the hours ahead.

  The redheaded receptionist had other plans. Lucy, his usual standby, had run off to Vegas with a greeting-card salesman. Charlene was back with her husband, at least for tonight. Might as well check out Duffy’s.

  He stood a little straighter, smoothed his hair over his bald spot, and sucked in his stomach. Duffy’s was a giant corral into which the whole herd of thirty-plus panic-stricken single women stampeded at nightfa
ll. Duffy’s Desperates, he called them. Not prime stock, but all the same, the roundup saved time.

  He walked briskly. Everything would be fine. He didn’t need that stupid redheaded receptionist.

  “Harry? Harry Towers?”

  The sidewalks were still crowded, but Harry spotted the owner of the melodic voice so easily, it was as if nobody but the two of them were on the streets.

  He had seen her a few times before, recently, right around this time of day. She was the blonde, voluptuous kind you had to notice. A glossy sort of woman, somebody you see in magazines or on TV. Not all that young, not a baby, but not a bimbo. And definitely not a Duffy’s Desperate.

  She repeated his name and continued moving resolutely toward him. He tried not to gape.

  “You are Harry Towers, aren’t you?” A small, worried frown marred her perfect face.

  He smiled and nodded, straightening up to his full height. He was a tall man, but her turquoise eyes were on a level with his.

  “I thought so!” Her face relaxed in a wide smile. “Remember me?” Her voice was so creamy, he wanted to lick it.

  “I…well—” In his forty-five years, he had never before laid eyes on this woman, except for the sidewalk glimpses this week. Harry did not pay a whole lot of the remembering kind of attention to most women, but this was not most women. This one you’d remember even if you had Alzheimer’s.

  She was using the old don’t-I-know-you-from-somewhere? line, and it amused him. She’d even gone to the trouble of finding out his name. Flattering, to say the least.

  “Does the name Leigh Endicott sound familiar?” she prompted.

  “Oh!” he said emphatically, nodding, playing the game. “Leigh…Endicott. Sure. Now I…well, it must be—”

  “Years,” she said with one of those woeful smiles women give when they talk about time. “Even though it seems like yesterday.” She shook her head as if to clear away the time in between. “I’ve thought about you so often, wondered what became of you.” She put her hand on his sleeve, tenderly.

  If only the redhead hadn’t left the building before him—if only she could see him now!

  “I always hoped I’d find you again someday,” she purred.

  She was overdoing it. Should he tell her to skip the old-friend business? They didn’t need a make-believe history. He decided to keep quiet, not rock the boat, follow her lead. “Why don’t we find someplace comfortable?” he said. “To, uh, reminisce?”

  She glanced at her watch, then shrugged and smiled at him, nodding.

  “There’s a place around the corner,” he said. “Duffy’s.” The Desperates would shrivel up and turn to dust when they saw this one. Then they’d know, all those self-important spritzer drinkers, that Harry Towers still had it. All of it.

  They started walking, her arm linked through his. Suddenly, she stopped short. “I just had a wonderful idea. I have a dear little farmhouse in the country. Not all that far and very peaceful and private. Would you mind skipping the bar? I’m sure it’s too noisy and crowded for a really good…talk. My car’s over there. I can drive you back later—if you feel like leaving.”

  What a woman! Right to the point! He hated the preliminaries, the song-and-dance routine, anyway. He followed her to the parking lot, grinning.

  I am in hog heaven, he thought. Hog heaven.

  *

  The ride was a timeless blur. Harry was awash, drowning in the mixed perfumes of the car’s leather, the spring evening, the woman beside him, and the anticipation of the hours ahead. When Leigh spoke, her voice, rich and sensuous, floated around him. He had to force himself to listen to the words instead of letting them tickle his pores and ruffle his hair.

  “Almost there, Harry,” she was saying. “Don’t you love this area? Open country. Free. Natural. I love the farmhouses, the space…

  Almost there. Free. Natural. Wonderful words.

  Leigh, eyes still on the road, voice talking about the wonders of the countryside, placed a manicured hand on his thigh.

  God? he said silently, needing the Deity for the first time in years. God, let this really be happening.

  *

  After dinner she sent Harry into the living room. “Make yourself comfortable,” she insisted, “while I clean up. I’ll bring in coffee.” No number about sharing the work. He couldn’t believe his luck.

  The music stopped, and he picked out a new disc, a mellow one. Make-out music, they called it a century or two ago when his parents were dating. Why did that seem so funny? He stifled a giggle. He turned the volume to a soft, inviting level, then settled into the rich velvet sofa. He felt a little weird. Almost like a teenager again, that racing high, that thrumming excitement.

  What a woman! He couldn’t believe his luck. He stretched and enjoyed the memory of the meal. Her own recipe, her own invention. Spicy, delicious, exotic. Like Leigh herself, like the charged talk that had hovered around the table, like the possibilities of a long night in the remote countryside.

  “Here you are,” she announced, carrying a tray with a coffeepot, creamer, sugar bowl and cups. She bent close and his giddy light-headedness, the speeding double-time rush of blood through his veins intensified.

  She poured the coffee, then stepped back and spread her arms as if to embrace the room. “Do you like my place?” she asked. “The people at work think I’m crazy to be this isolated, this far from everything. But I love my privacy. Or maybe I like animals better than people.” She laughed. “Present company excluded, of course.”

  Bubbles of excitement popped in Harry’s veins. “Have a seat,” he suggested, patting the sofa next to him. He wiggled his lips. They felt thick, a little foreign and tingly. Stupid to have eaten so much. And all that wine, too. Now he was bloated, sluggish.

  Leigh, on the other hand, seemed wired. “This is a working farm,” she said. “Cows, pigs, horses. There’s a caretaker, of course.” She stopped her pacing. “But don’t worry—he won’t bother us. He’s all the way on the other side of the property, and anyway, he’s away for the night.”

  “Leigh—” he began. He sounded whiny and stopped himself. But all the same, why couldn’t they start enjoying this nice private place before her stupid roosters crowed? He was reminded of his teens, of dates with nervous girls chattering furiously to keep his attention—and hands—off their bodies. It had annoyed him even then. He decided to see if actions would speak louder than words, and smacked at the sofa’s velvet.

  It worked. She finally sat down. But just out of reach.

  He felt planted in the soft cushions. He took a moment to evaluate the pros and cons of uprooting himself.

  “Do you know which is the most intelligent barnyard animal?” she asked.

  Who cared? Frankly, even a brainless chicken was beginning to seem brighter than this woman. Didn’t she remember why they were here?

  She refilled his coffee cup. He sipped at it while he tried to figure a way to change the subject.

  “Pigs,” she said. “It’s almost a curse on them, being that smart. They know when they’re going to slaughter. They scream and fight and try to prevent their own destruction.”

  Harry finished the coffee. There was no subtle way to stop her, so he’d be direct. “I don’t care about pigs,” he said emphatically. “I care about you. Come closer.”

  “I’m fond of pigs.” She stayed in place. “Don’t you care about what I care about? About who I am?”

  “Of course! I didn’t mean to…” Damn. She was one of those. He hadn’t expected it from the way she’d come on to him, but she was one more of them who needed to discuss their innermost feelings first, get to know the man, make things serious and important.

  “Let’s take things slowly,” she said. “I’ve waited years and years to be with you again.”

  “Ah, c’mon,” he said. “We’re adults. Don’t pretend anymore. I like you, you like me. That’s enough. Don’t need games.”

  She refilled his cup, then held it out to him.
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  He stared at her hands, confused.

  “Games can be fun, Harry,” she murmured. “And so can the prizes at the end.” She put the cup in his hands.

  It required a great deal of effort to bring it up to his lips.

  “You still haven’t answered the first question, you know,” she said with a small smile.

  He shook his head. He had no idea what she was talking about. “I really don’t like games,” he said. The whole idea made him tired.

  “Yes, you do.” Her voice was a croon, a lullaby. “Sure you do. I know that about you. You just like the game to be yours, the old familiar one. But this one is new. This is mine, and it’s called, ‘Do You Remember Me?’”

  She was all smile and burbles and it suddenly chilled him.

  “Oh, you look puzzled,” she said. “I’ll give you a clue.” She stood up. “Campus.” She clicked musically, sounding like a game-show timer.

  “College?” he asked, frowning. “State?”

  “Good!” She waited. “Any more? Who am I, Harry Towers? You have fifteen seconds.” She began her manic clicking noise again.

  “You were there?” His voice sounded remote and dislocated, as if it weren’t coming out of his own throat.

  She nodded pertly. “A freshman when you were a junior. Think.” He was afraid she would begin her timer again, but instead she asked him if he wanted brandy.

  He shook his head. “Feel a little…” He clutched the arm of the sofa for support.

  She nodded. “So, how are we doing with those clues?”

  “I…” He said her name silently, hoping it would connect with something, but all it did was bang from side to side in his brain. Leeleelee…a sharp bell tolling painfully.

  “Ahhh,” she said. “So you really don’t remember me. How about that.”

  He couldn’t think of what he should say. She was all snap-and-crackle confusion, and he was fuzzy lint. “Sorry,” he whispered. Actually, he decided, she wasn’t worth it. Too much time and effort. As soon as he felt a little better, he wanted out.