Tar Heel Dead

by Sarah R. Shaber

  And all the while, she’d been talking in that voice. And now the daughter was doubling her. Hell in stereo. His head throbbed where she’d whacked him, his face felt like it was on fire, and now the two of them wouldn’t shut up.

  “He was going to rob me,” the old woman was screeching.

  “Lady, you ain’t got nothing worth stealing in this place,” Jimmy responded before he could stop himself. He willed himself to stay calm and said in a low voice, almost pleadingly, “Stop talking, just stop talking.”

  “And maybe rape me, too,” the old hag went on.

  “Not on my darkest day,” Jimmy shouted back, then winced as the pain of the effort ping-ponged inside his skull. Rape her? The thought triggered his gag reflex.

  The woman cop had put cuffs on him and was now untying his hands, though his feet were still bound to the chair. “Behave yourself,” she told him. “And I warn you again, you might want to keep your mouth shut.”

  Jimmy pushed his feet on the floor tiles and inched the chair back until he could see into the dining room, if only he could get his eyes clear enough to focus. Yes, there he was, lying on the floor, the gray hair just visible behind the legs of the dining room chair. Why wasn’t the old woman doing anything to help him?

  “And just look at this, would you, Deborah?” she was rasping, her voice now sounding like a thousand fingernails on a thousand blackboards in Jimmy’s ears. “Somebody put these bars in backward. Probably our nincompoop super, Mr. Cervalles.” She stopped to suck in a breath, then pointed to Jimmy. “He might have killed me in my sleep. Raped me, then killed me. What kind of a divergence to crime is that?” she asked, gesturing her flabby arm toward the window, looking like some giant geriatric version of a flying squirrel.

  Divergence! That wasn’t even the right word. Jimmy’s head now felt twice the size of his body, and his neck muscles were locked and loaded in the put-me-out-of-my-misery position. She was talking in that leaf-shredder voice—and now she wasn’t even using the right words. A strangled protest spewed out of him. “I wasn’t even after you, you stupid old cow. I was after the guy!” He half stood, his hands cuffed behind him. His face was red and his voice strained. “It was the old fart. He’s the one who saw me!” He jerked his head, with considerable effort, toward the dining room, then shook his head back and forth like a dog with a rag, trying to unknot his neck muscles. He could feel the foam at the corners of his mouth and realized suddenly that there were more and more loose ends and that now he was creating them himself. Everything was coming unraveled.

  “Everybody stop talking, just stop talking!” He slumped back into his chair and let out a few frustrated whimpers. He was caught, and the old guy might be in there dying while she bumped her gums. He’d be facing murder one. He blinked his bloodshot eyes at the female cop. “Check on the old man. I fired, but I don’t know.…” His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes tight. Through lips drawn tight across his teeth, he hissed, “Just check on him.” As they all looked at one another in confusion, Jimmy opened his eyes, which had taken on the vacant stare of surrender. They bobbed along until they came to rest on the tray on the countertop. “And for God’s sake, fix that! Please! Everybody knows the tall things go in the back,” he said and groaned.

  Deborah had seen the cops sneaking sidelong glances at one another as she’d explained, as best she could, about the Shelton doll. She’d gone with the male cop into the dining room, where they had found the doll with a “through-and-through” in his head, bits of stuffing clumped around the exit wound. Throughout her explanation, Jimmy sat rocking back and forth, keening and repeating, “A dummy, a dummy, popped for a dummy,” like a mantra.

  Her mother had sat calmly sipping her coffee and steadfastly refusing to look at the officers or at her daughter as she told them about her mother’s reasons for having the doll made and how she made a habit of having meals with him sitting at his customary place. Deborah saw her mother sitting up straighter and fidgeting more with her clothing or her hair with every new detail her daughter provided. She knew she was robbing her mother of her dignity, but she wanted her out of the middle of whatever mess this Jimmy character had dragged her into when he’d decided to do his dirty business right in front of her apartment building.

  The male cop stage-whispered to his partner as they marched Jimmy out of the apartment, “This is one for the books, the perp and the victim are both dummies.” They chuckled discreetly, and Jimmy, completely morose but still Jimmy, reached out a foot to straighten the rug by the front door as they took him away.

  Now they were all gone and she was alone with her mother. She came up behind her where she stood at the kitchen sink and placed her hands gently on her shoulders. “I had to tell them about it, Ma. I’m really sorry if it embarrassed you.”

  “That’s all right, Deborah,” her mother said, busying herself scrubbing the coffee cups in a sink generous with suds. She worked on them industriously for a few moments, then stopped abruptly. “Actually, Deborah, I have a question for you,” she said as she dried her hands on a dish towel, slowly and deliberately. “Do you think it’s technicality correct to say that it’s not making a false statement to the police if you don’t say anything?” her mother asked finally, flipping her hands palms up, then palms down to navigate her way through the upside-down question.

  “A false statement? Ma, you didn’t make a false statement, technically or otherwise!”

  “I know I didn’t, dear. That’s what I’m saying. You did all the talking. I just didn’t argue with you.”

  “Well, why would you argue with me?” Deborah asked with a nervous laugh. “Did I get something wrong about the doll?”

  “Oh no, not at all, honey,” her mother said, reaching over to pat her cheeks. Deborah blinked as she got a whiff of lemon-scented Palmolive liquid. “You did a fine job of explaining the Shelton doll and all that business. It’s just that …” Her voice trailed off as she began to twist the dishcloth in her hands. “Deborah, do you remember Mr. Feldman? He and Trudy—Mrs. Feldman, God rest her soul—they used to play canasta with your father and me and some other couples in the neighborhood?”

  A tiny trench of thought formed between Deborah’s eyebrows as she conjured up a picture of Mr. Feldman. He was a short, round man who always had a strange little smile on his face, as though he was thinking pleasant thoughts—that, or indulging in some fairly powerful narcotics. He wore Mr. Peepers glasses, magnifying his pupils to fun-house size.

  “Well, yes, Ma. I know Mr. Feldman.” She swiped crisscrossed hands in front of her face as if to refresh her mental screen. “What does this have to do with the police, or the statement, or the doll, or that psycho who broke in here—any of it?”

  Her mother tilted her head to one side as if trying to hear distant music, ignoring Deborah’s agitation. “Mr. Feldman is a very nice man, you know,” she replied finally. “He lives up in 4B still.”

  Deborah extended both hands and opened her mouth, producing a chuff of impatience. “Yes, I know that, Ma. I see him sometimes when I come to visit.” In fact, Deborah had run into Mr. Feldman last week when she’d come to borrow her mother’s rice steamer. She remembered exchanging hello-how-are-yous on the front stoop. Whenever Deborah saw Mr. Feldman she was always reminded of a toy her cousin Rhonda’s little girl played with. It was a tabletop contraption that featured a disembodied plastic head and a lever. Little Vicky would put a big glob of Playdough into a tiny compartment and pump the lever and spikes and strings of Playdough hair were squeezed up through holes in the head. Then she’d trim the hair with scissors or squish it into different styles. Except Mr. Feldman seemed to have a clog somewhere, and the hair that was intended for the head was being diverted—squeezed out in the form of ear hair, nose hair, a shaggy beard, and antennae-like eyebrows. The top of his little gnome head remained smooth and shiny, while the rest bristled.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Deborah said now, slumping into a kitchen chair. “I’m s
ure Mr. Feldman is a perfectly nice man. But can we get back to this thing about the police, Ma? I told them just what you told me about the doll and all. Why are you talking about what’s a false statement and what’s not?”

  “You said it was the doll, the doll of Shelton that Jimmy person was after. That the doll was sitting at the dining room table the night of the shooting.”

  “Yeah,” Deborah answered. “That was why he broke in here. He thought Pops saw him gun that man down, you heard him. Only, obviously, Pops is a little beyond witnessing anything.” Deborah laughed softly and gestured toward the ceiling and, by extension, heavenward. “Or if he did, he’s beyond making a statement. And his stand-in—while I grant you it is very accurate—” she said, holding up a hand to quell her mother’s argument, “it doesn’t exactly have twenty-twenty vision.”

  “Actually, Deborah,” her mother said, drawing out the words, “your father was in the armoire that night.” She paused, tilted her head downward, and gave Deborah a meaningful look. “All night.”

  Deborah arched her eyebrows—a silent question.

  Her mother continued, “But the person who was sitting there doesn’t have twenty-twenty, either. Not even close,” she said, fanning the dish towel. “He can barely see his hand in front of his face. I mean, have you ever seen those thick glasses of his? He wasn’t a witness, either. Not by a long shot. So I don’t see any reason to complicate things by getting the police involved in our private business.”

  Deborah made several attempts to formulate a question but could only form the initial “Wh—”; she sounded like a helicopter hovering in her mother’s kitchen. “Wh—Wh—Wh—”

  “Mr. Feldman,” her mother said, hanging the dish towel over the handle of the oven and spreading it evenly. “Well, him and me have been,” she paused and searched the air for a term, “we’ve been keeping company lately.” She put a hand to her forehead and rested a fist on her ample hip. “I just cannot believe I forgot to pull the shades that night. I’ve always been so careful when Mr. Feldman comes over to—” she paused again and cast a sidelong look at Deborah, her cheeks turning rosy pink “—to socialize,” she concluded. “Imagine what Mrs. Leiberman—or, God forbid, Edith—would do with this. Mr. Feldman and I would like to have our confidentiality. And Edith is, you’ll pardon the expression, a number-one gossipmonger!”

  The thought of her mother socializing with round, hairy little Mr. Feldman made Deborah grimace. “Ma, what are you talking about?” Deborah demanded, then gave a little gasp and clapped her hands over her ears. “No, don’t tell me. This is too much information.” She pressed her hands tighter and bent over in her chair. “Way too much information.”

  “That’s right, honey,” her mother said, rubbing her shoulders. “It’ll take time. I really don’t think you’re ready.”

  Deborah’s mother paid meticulous attention to her packing. The bun was gone in favor of a short, styled coif. The housedress replaced by a snappy new wind suit.

  “Ma, are you sure about this?” Deborah asked, not for the first time.

  “Very sure, Deborah. I’m looking forward to this cruise. I’ve never been anyplace like this. The Cayman Islands. It sounds so exotic. Edith would positively die if she knew about this. But Mr. Feldman and I have been the soul of deception.”

  “Soul of discretion.” Deborah smiled. “I’m glad you’re happy, Ma, and I hope you have a wonderful time.” She rose from the edge of the bed and kissed her mother on her rouged cheek. “Call me the minute you get home. I want to hear all about your trip.” She scrunched her eyes shut. “Well, maybe not all of it, but most of it…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I know, Deborah,” her mother said, patting her daughter’s cheeks. “Honey, not to worry. I’ll call you the minute I get in. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

  Deborah gave one last backward glance as she left the bedroom and tried to picture her mother and Mr. Feldman playing shuffle-board, JUST shuffleboard, aboard the cruise ship.

  When she heard the front door close, Deborah’s mother went to the closet and brought out the Shelton doll. The hole had been neatly patched, and she smoothed the hair over it and sat the doll in the side chair by the window, placing a newspaper on its lap.

  “She’s trying, Shel. But she’s going to need more time.” She laughed softly and patted the doll’s canvas hand, then went back to her packing.

  “I could have told her that I didn’t misspeak that time. I meant just what I said. Mr. Feldman—Aaron—and I have been the soul of deception. But she’s had so many things to adjust to lately. I don’t think she needs to hear all the details. But I could always tell you everything, Shelton.”

  She sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed, still folding things into her suitcase. “That night when that poor man was shot, Aaron was sitting at our table, just like old times when we all used to get together, you know? Except that you and Trudy and some of the others are gone. I was having a cup of tea, and he was having some wine. We heard the shot, but we thought it was just a car backfiring. What do we know from gunshot sounds? Anyway, we were listening to music on the phonograph. Then Aaron decided to go up to his place and bring down a record he wanted me to hear. A Mendelssohn, I think it was. But that’s neither here nor there.” She shooed the issue away with a fan of her hand.

  “So, when he started up the stairs he saw a little piece of white paper stuck under the front door. He thought maybe somebody dropped it when they were getting their key or something. He picked it up and looked at it, then stuck it into his watch pocket and continued on his way. He intended to tack it up on the bulletin board by the mailboxes the next day. He was still up in his apartment looking for the record when the police came to question us all.”

  She sighed, leaning her head to one side as she gazed at the doll. “You know, Shelton, I miss you terribly, but Deborah’s right. I have to get on with my life. I know that’s what you’d want.”

  She got up to fold a new dress she’d bought for the captain’s dinner into tissue paper and placed it carefully into her suitcase. “You remember, Aaron was a CPA for a lot of years. He understood right away what the little white card was, after the police talked to him.” A smile of satisfaction crept across her face. “And he understood right away what it can mean for a very comfortable retirement. That’s why we’re going on this cruise. This specific cruise. To the Cayman Islands, where there are some very specific banks. He’s found out what he needs to know, and he says one of our stops will feature something lush and green—ripe and ready for the picking.” She did a little cha-cha step in place.

  “Do you know what he asked me yesterday?” she queried the doll, her voice playful. “He said, ‘What do you think—Europe next summer?’ Europe next summer! ‘What’s to think about?’ I said. Can you imagine?” she asked, her smile fading as she walked over and picked up the doll, giving it a squeeze. She smoothed the hair again.

  “Aaron isn’t you, Shelton, I know that. He’s short, overweight, bald, and wears coke-bottle glasses.” She danced the doll across the floor and put it gently into the closet. She closed the door and put her back to it, leaning in until she heard a click of finality. “But a dummy, he’s not!”

  BRENDA WITCHGER, who often writes under the name of Brynn Bonner, is a former teacher and journalist who lives in Cary. Witchger’s stories appear regularly in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine and other mystery and literary publications. She won the Robert Fish Award, given by the Mystery Writers of America for best first short story, in 1999 and the Doris Betts Prize in 2004.

  Copyright 2002 by Brynn Bonner. First printed in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, May 2002. Reprinted with permission of the author.

  Feasting With Foxes

  Clyde Haywood

  Since one paper clip straightens pretty much like another, and since there are not many different ways to review the same eighty-six mostly thin files, and since the view from a single small window into a blind alley doesn’t change
much, Allen Wade was bored. In the fall of 1968 when he started with the finance company, the title of management trainee had convinced him he would soon be on his way up in Atlanta, or at least in Charlotte. But when the title of office manager became his after only six months of training in Richmond, he found himself shuffled, cut, and dealt out to a small town on the North Carolina coast where he managed one lonely secretary vainly battling middle age armed with mascara and miniskirts, one part-time collector supplementing his salary as one of the county’s six deputy sheriffs, and himself.

  True, the office saw lots of traffic in the summer. But that was mostly vacationers who had underestimated their ability to spend money at the beach and needed the $100 or $200 their national cards—issued by some other office—guaranteed them. That kind of business didn’t give much opportunity for the kind of “creative credit management” Allen had heard about before he took the job. Even worse, it provided no chance for follow-up work during the slow season to come.

  Allen’s social life was as seasonal as his business. When he went to North Carolina in the spring of 1969, living in a beach town frequented by vacationing or weekend college girls seemed quite the life for a twenty-three-year-old bachelor. So what if there was a professional vacuum? That just left more time and energy for the girls.

  From a small inheritance he made a down payment on a neat little cottage miles up the coast from the public areas, with its own little patch of sand and no near neighbors of any sort. He had Playboy-inspired dreams of college cuties—or working girls for that matter, dropouts can’t be intellectual snobs—romping bare-bottomed in the surf, soaking up the rays on his tiny beach, and satisfying his greatly overestimated needs all over the quaint little place in all the ways that a horny young male egotist can imagine.

  The girls did come, starting with two he found huddled on the beach on a rainy night when all the motels were full, then some of their sorority sisters. By the end of the summer, he was calling them his “Beta Bunnies,” and “Wade’s Warren” was the most popular beach accommodation for the summer students of a genteel old southern girls’ school. He was known in every beach joint around as a genuine party animal.