Killing Cousins

by Flora, Fletcher

  There was now the letter to think about, and he thought about it earnestly on the way to Quivera. He felt that a husband’s farewell letter to his deserted wife, written at the beginning of a great adventure, between one life and another, should have the quality of artistic excellence. He felt, moreover, that he was just the fellow to achieve the quality, but he was handicapped by Howard’s limitations. Unfortunately, in spite of a certain shrewdness in certain matters, Howard had been barely literate. It would never do to give the letter the polish it deserved, for then no one would ever believe that old Howard had written it. He would have to be satisfied, Quincy thought, with achieving a clumsy intensity—a kind of appropriate lubberly pathos. And this, to be sure, would be challenge enough to ingenuity.

  The letter would have to be typewritten, of course. He could not, even if he had time to practice, which he didn’t, duplicate Howard’s scrawl. He wondered for a moment if it would be readily accepted that such a personal letter would be written on a typewriter, and he decided that in Howard’s case it would. It was well known by nearly everyone that old Howard, because his writing was practically illegible, wrote everything on a typewriter, hunt-and-peck style. He had a Royal portable in his bedroom at home, as a matter of fact, and this would have to be disposed of, along with Howard and the three bags, to support the deception that he had taken it with him and had used it in Dallas to write the letter. There was almost no chance that there would be any sample of the machine’s typing about, for Howard never wrote anything important enough for anyone to keep, and even if there were it wouldn’t really matter, for there was also almost no chance, the way matters were going so smoothly, that any investigation or comparison would ever be made. Still, for perfection’s sake, the letter must be written on Howard’s machine. What he would do, Quincy thought, was write it out in longhand this afternoon and then type it tonight when he went to Willie’s.

  Back in Quivera, he had lunch in the hotel coffee shop and a couple of beers afterward in the hotel taproom. While drinking the beers, he carried on a lively conversation with the bartender, who was a frustrated philosopher, and when he left he was, consequently, in a cheerful and creative frame of mind. He went immediately to his small apartment and began to compose on plain paper, sitting at a table by a window overlooking the front yard and the street, the letter from Howard to Willie. He enjoyed the task so hugely that he was tempted to write pages, but he was compelled by the character of Howard to reject the temptation. It was certain that Howard had never in his life subjected himself to the ordeal of writing more than a few lines at a time, and so Quincy, now Howard’s proxy, kept the letter short and the words small and the punctuation restricted to capitals and periods. When he was finished, he read what he had written with satisfaction:

  DEAR WILLIE:

  I’m gone and I won’t be back. Don’t try to find me because you can’t and even if you could I wouldn’t come back anyhow. I drew out all the money in the savings account and cashed all the government bonds but you can have everything else and welcome except the Buick which I’m driving.

  I know what you thought. I know what everyone thought. You and everyone thought I was just a kind of good natured common guy who didn’t ever want to be anyone or anything but someone around Quivera but you were all wrong. All my life ever since I was a kid I’ve had a secret notion to run off somewhere a long way off and live the way I want to and now I’m going and gone forever. Maybe I’ll paint pictures or something like Gauguin.

  I’m not mad at you. I’m not mad at anyone. If this makes you unhappy or causes you any trouble I’m sorry but I’ve got a notion you won’t miss me much. If you want to do me a favor you can tell Mother and Father goodbye for me. I didn’t see them before I left because I was afraid I’d get weak and not go.

  Goodbye forever.

  HOWARD

  After reading the letter over, Quincy struck out the line about maybe painting pictures like Gauguin. He considered it extremely unlikely that Howard had ever heard of Gauguin.

  EIGHT

  He walked to Willie’s, carrying a bag with a change of clothing in it, and he got there about ten o’clock. Willie, who was waiting for him downstairs in the living room, opened the door at once.

  “Quincy,” she said, “where in hell have you been?”

  “This morning,” he said, “I went to KC to make arrangements with my Cousin Fred about the Buick, but I’ve been home since the middle of the afternoon. Why?”

  “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you.”

  “Well, there’s nothing we can do until it becomes sufficiently late, so I didn’t think there was any particular hurry.”

  “At least you could have come and kept me company.”

  “Under the circumstances, Cousin, I think we had better be a little cautious about keeping each other company for a while.”

  “No one else has been here at all. It wouldn’t have made the slightest difference if you’d come.”

  “That’s true, as we now know, but you’ll have to admit that we couldn’t have anticipated it. You’re inclined to be emotional, Cousin, in situations where you should be detached. It’s a damn good thing, in my opinion, that you have me to help you.”

  “You’re a darling to be so helpful, Quincy, and I admit it. It was just that I kept being lonesome and wanted you to come, but now that you’re here everything is all right again.”

  He sniffed the odor of juniper berries and inspected her closely. He had not been aware of anything unusual about her at first, but now, clued by the odor, he saw that her eyes were a little foggy, and that her small face had assumed a kind of sultry laxness, and that she was, in fact, about half shot on what was probably Martinis.

  “Something tells me,” he said, “that you’ve been drinking.”

  “I’ve been drinking a little, it’s true, but not excessively. I’ve only had a few Martinis along because I was lonesome and needed them.”

  “Please do me the favor of not having any more for any reason until we have disposed of Howard. It will be a difficult job at best, and we’ll need to be in good condition for it.”

  “We? I was hoping you’d be able to accomplish it without my help.”

  “No chance. I’m rather small, as you can see, and Howard must weigh two hundred at least. Dead weight. I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly lug him about by myself.”

  “All right. I’ll help if I must. It’s only fair to do my part.”

  “I’m glad you see it that way, since nothing would otherwise be done at all. What have you been doing all day?”

  “This morning I went next door and talked with Gwen Festerwauld, and then I came home about noon and had a nap, and since then I’ve merely been doing this and that and having a few Martinis along and waiting and waiting.”

  “What did you talk with Gwen about?”

  “I told her that Howard had left me, because I thought it would be a good idea to get the story started around, and there’s no one who can get a story started around any better than Gwen.”

  “That’s true. It’s just as well to get people talking about old Howard’s desertion as quickly as possible, and Gwen’s just the one to do it. I congratulate you, Cousin.”

  “I am only doing my part. What do you have in the bag you have set there on the floor?”

  “A change of clothing. I’ll certainly need a bath too, when we return from disposing of Howard. Lugging him about, in addition to digging a hole for him, will be hot and dirty work. I also have a pair of cotton gloves in my pocket, incidentally. It’s very rarely that I do anything to get blisters on my hands, and someone might consider it curious if I suddenly turned up with some.”

  “I swear, Quincy, you simply think of everything. You’re about as clever as one person can be. Did you say you went to KC?”

  “Yes.”

  “And arranged about the Buick?”

  “Yes. I’ll drive it over there after we’re through with old Howard.”

  �
�Do you think your cousin can be trusted?”

  “Don’t worry about Fred. Discretion is essential in his business, and he’s the soul of it. Now I think it’s time we got busy. The disposal of Howard will take considerable time, and then I must change clothes and drive the Buick to KC for Fred to appropriate, and afterward catch a plane to Dallas, Texas.”

  “Are you actually going to Dallas to mail a letter?”

  “Certainly. Can you think of any other way to get it mailed that wouldn’t be too risky? Don’t worry, Cousin. I’ll be back tomorrow night and safely in my cage Monday morning. The modern miracle of transportation, you know. I’ve written the letter, incidentally, and the first thing I must do now is type it on Howard’s portable Royal in his room. We’ll dispose of the portable with the bags and Howard. Come along upstairs. After I’ve typed the letter, you may read it and give me your opinion.”

  “I don’t believe I care to read it. It would surely make me sad.”

  “Never mind. You’ll read it soon enough when you get it in the mail.”

  They went upstairs, Willie leading. Quincy waited in the hall outside the door to Howard’s room while Willie went into her own room and got the key and returned with it. Now that he had completed the necessary preliminaries to the disposal of Howard, Quincy was excited and satisfied and eager to get on with the principal business. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he waited. When Willie returned and let him in, he went directly to Howard and leaned over him for a moment and then straightened again with a pleased look.

  “Fortunately,” he said, “old Howard bled very little, and the position he assumed in falling has prevented him from dripping on the carpet.”

  “Quincy,” Willie said, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t insist on trying to discuss such details with me. You’ll make me positively ill if you aren’t careful.”

  “I’m not trying to discuss it. I only mentioned it as something that must be considered. Where is Howard’s portable?”

  “He kept it in the closet, I think. You’ll probably find it pushed back on the floor.”

  “All right. While I’m typing the letter, you can make yourself useful by carrying down the bags and putting them into the station wagon in the garage. The back seat must be folded down, of course. Is there a spade in the garage?”

  “There’s a spade and a rake and some other tools.”

  “The spade will be sufficient. We’ll need a flashlight or a lantern, however.”

  “There’s no lantern that I know of, but there’s a flashlight already in the glove compartment of the wagon. Howard always kept it there in case of a flat tire or something at night.”

  “That was very accommodating of Howard, I must say. Well, you take care of the things I’ve mentioned, and I’ll get on with the letter.”

  He went over to the closet and found the portable where Willie had said he probably would. Although he was proficient in the touch method, he typed the letter hunt and peck out of deference to Howard. He typed it on plain paper, which he had brought with him, and after it was finished with appropriate strike-overs, a Howardish touch, he typed Willie’s name and address on a plain envelope and put the letter into the envelope and sealed it. By that time, Willie had returned, slightly disheveled and panting a little from her labors.

  “Quincy,” she said, “I’m bound to say it’s damn inconsiderate of you to make me do all the hard work while you simply sit and peck at a typewriter.”

  “Please don’t complain, Cousin. You’ve only done a few necessary things while I’ve completed something important that required my personal attention. Besides, I’ll have my share of hard work before we’re finished. Now, I think, it’s time to carry old Howard down and put him in the station wagon.”

  “I wish it could be avoided.”

  “Obviously it can’t, unless you want me to drop him out the window and load him from the lawn.”

  “Oh, well, I don’t think I want you to do that. Besides showing disrespect, it might attract attention if someone happened by.”

  “In that case, as I said, we must carry him down without any further delay.” Quincy went over and prodded Howard gently with a toe and then reached down and pinched his cheek. “Old Howard’s mighty stiff yet. He’ll be very difficult to handle. Damn it, Willie, why didn’t you think to turn off the air-conditioner in here today?”

  “Would that have made a difference?”

  “Certainly it would have made a difference. Surely you can understand the basic principle of cold storage. However, it’s too late now, and we will have to do the best we can with Howard as he is. Take hold of his feet, Cousin. I’ll give you the advantage of the lighter end.”

  Willie did as she was told, took hold of his feet, but it was clear that it required enormous exertion of will, and that she would have greatly preferred not to. Quincy, at the head end, backed across the room and out into the hall, Howard between and Willie following, and it was perfectly true, as Quincy had predicted, that Howard was extremely difficult to handle, besides being very heavy, and he seemed to have a perverse determination, in fact, to go in all directions except the one in which he was being guided.

  At the head of the stairs, Quincy and Willie rested a few seconds, catching breath for the descent, and then they started down, Quincy still ahead and bearing the brunt of the weight as it naturally took on a momentum of its own in his direction. Willie was aware that Quincy had arranged this deliberately out of consideration for her, and she was sorry that she had complained about having to load the bags and the spade. They were about half way downstairs and going along very well, in spite of Howard’s perverseness, when a bell began to ring suddenly, which was rather disconcerting, to say the least, and they stopped and put Howard down and listened, and it turned out to be, as they had both feared, the bell at the front door.

  “Well,” Willie said, “if this isn’t the worst kind of imposition. All day long no one has come at all, not a single person, and now all of a sudden here is someone at the door just when he couldn’t be less welcome.”

  “Who do you suppose it is?” Quincy said.

  “I haven’t the least idea. Do you think I should go down and find out?”

  “Perhaps you should. We can’t afford to take the chance that it may be someone who will hang about outside if there’s no answer.”

  Willie walked around Howard and Quincy and down the stairs and the hall to the door, which she opened a crack to see and talk through. Quincy listened intently, but could not hear what Willie was saying, or what was said to her, but he hoped that it was judicious on Willie’s part, whatever it was, and it must have been, he was relieved to note, for she closed the door shortly and came back to the foot of the stairs.

  “It was only a man asking where the Bowsers live,” she said. “Fortunately, it’s in the next block, and he’s gone down there. I was afraid for a moment that it might be Mother Hogan come to see if Howard had returned.”

  “It’s high time, in my opinion, that Howard was leaving. Turn off the lights in the hall and the living room, Cousin. We’ll have to do the best we can in the dark.”

  Willie turned off the lights and came back and took up her end of Howard, Quincy doing the same with his end, and they got the rest of the way downstairs and back through the hall and into the kitchen to the door leading directly into the garage. The darkness added to their difficulties, but they arrived without accidents, except that Quincy backed into the corner of a cabinet, and cursed a little, and Howard was bumped sharply against the jamb of the kitchen-garage door. Howard did not curse or care, of course, and a minute later he was deposited safely in the wagon beside the bags and the spade. Quincy went back upstairs for the typewriter and was down again in another minute.

  “Now we must back the wagon out and get started,” he said. “You go outside through the small door, Cousin, and be certain that no one is passing when I open the big one. It would spoil things if the Buick were seen by someone who might reme
mber it.”

  Willie followed directions, knocking on the big door from outside to indicate that the coast was clear, and Quincy quickly opened the door and backed out the wagon and closed the door again. When he resumed his seat behind the wheel, Willie was beside him. It did not matter if the wagon was seen, since it was not supposed to be gone, and so Quincy turned on the lights and backed out of the drive in a normal way. Driving down Ouichita Road in the direction away from town, he was shortly on a gravel road, and shortly thereafter on a dirt road that would take them along the back limit of his maternal uncle’s farm. The road was deserted and the night was dark and all aspects of the venture, he thought, were favorable. The bumping of Howard among the bags and the spade made a comfortable kind of sound in his ears.

  “You’ll have to admit,” he said, “that everything has gone admirably under my direction.”

  “I do admit it,” Willie said, “and I only wish I could think of an adequate way to express my appreciation.”

  “Well,” he said, “perhaps later we can think of something.”