"How did it happen?” Terry asked, her eyes downcast. “Where?"
"At her apartment,” Miss Woodhouse said. “It seems she was shot by a burglar."
Chuck looked up. “At her—but I was there. Not an hour ago—I was there."
"Indeed?” she said. “You went into her apartment? You spoke to her?"
He shook his head. “No. She called this afternoon and said she'd come by the restaurant at six. I made dinner for her—a special dinner. When she didn't show up, I was steamed, so I went by her place, and I rang the damn buzzer again and again, and—oh God! I didn't know—I didn't know!"
"You ripped the mailboxes from the wall, didn't you?” Miss Woodhouse said. “And threw them against the security door? Then what did you do?"
He wiped his eyes briefly. “I called Terry on my cell, to ask if I could come pay my respects.” He looked down at the carpet. “I thought maybe Brenda was here."
Terry had gone to stand by Howard, to put a hand on his shoulder. “She had a first-floor apartment,” she said. “That made her an easy target. It's happened before."
"Yes, a few months ago,” Miss Woodhouse said. “Brenda spoke freely about that yesterday—and about the little gun she bought to protect herself and kept next to her bed. That's probably the gun the murderer used to kill her."
"A terrible irony,” Terry said, sighing heavily.
Chuck looked up sharply. “The cops are sure it was a burglar?"
"The apartment was certainly burgled,” Miss Woodhouse said. “Ripped apart, in fact. And I'm sure some things were taken. Possibly, the person who took them has not yet had time to dispose of them—especially if he or she was forced to return home sooner than planned. When you called Terry, Chuck, did you call her home number?"
"I tried that first,” he said, looking puzzled. “When that didn't work, I tried her cell and she answered. Why?"
"It's good to know these things,” Miss Woodhouse said. “And you should all know that Detective Barry Glass is even now dispatching police officers to your homes, to make sure no items taken from Brenda's apartment are removed.” She turned to face me. “Have you figured it out yet? You had the motive nearly right, didn't you?"
"But the wrong murderer,” I said. “I knew Howard had a weakness for younger women. I should've realized that now that he's seventy, Terry's a younger woman too. So she could be the one with a reason to see Carson as a threat—and Little Dave as an obstacle."
Terry's indignation was instant and fierce. “Will you stop this ridiculous speculation,” she said. “How dare you imply I had anything to do with my husband's death. I was at the restaurant when David was killed. And I'd begged him not to follow Miss Russo. Chuck heard me—I ordered David not to go."
"Yes—and for perhaps the first time in his life, he stood up to you,” Miss Woodhouse said. “That uncharacteristic defiance should have told me immediately that the argument was staged. Harriet, what about Little Dave's 10:26 call to Brenda?"
"I'd guess he called to brag,” I said, “to say he and Terry were getting rid of Carson. He probably wasn't explicit, just dropped hints to impress Brenda by making it sound daring and dangerous. But he probably just alarmed her—she figured he was doing something risky, so she'd better have an alibi handy, in case things went wrong and she had to prove she wasn't involved. That's when she headed for the bar. And when she heard about Little Dave's death, she knew Terry must have had something to do with it."
"Nonsense!” Terry said. “Insulting nonsense! I won't listen to any more."
She started for the kitchen, but Chuck jumped up to block her path. “Don't,” he said, his face rigid. “Take a seat, Terry. My God! If you killed her—"
A car door slammed outside; voices conferred. The police had arrived. “There's no time left, Terry,” Miss Woodhouse said. “No time to hide whatever you took from Brenda's apartment. You didn't find what you were really looking for, did you? Brenda wasn't bright enough to realize it's dangerous to blackmail a murderer, but she wasn't foolish enough to hide the evidence in her apartment. She put it in a safe deposit box."
"I'd figured out that much,” I said, frowning. “But what is the evidence?"
The doorbell rang. Miss Woodhouse smiled at me before answering it. “Think of the black raincoat Brenda left in the office last night. Think of how convenient it must have looked to a murderer eager to find a quick disguise. Think of what deep pockets the raincoat has, of how many small stolen objects they might hold, and of the odd questions Brenda asked you this morning after coming back to the kitchen. And hope, just hope, that you might soon be able to return that brooch my mother lent you."
* * * *
The brooch had been stuck to the lining of the raincoat pocket, thanks to that stubborn clasp that never closes properly. Terry must've been in such a hurry to dispose of evidence and get home that she missed it when she went back to Chez Cubbe to return the raincoat and toss the Minute Marinator in the dishwasher. But Brenda found it the next morning and tried to blackmail Terry with it and died because of it.
The police found other evidence, too, most of it tied to Brenda's murder, not Little Dave's—the pieces of costume jewelry Terry took from Brenda's apartment and desperately tried to grind up in her garbage disposal, half a dozen other stolen items stashed behind a wheelbarrow in Terry's garage. Except for the brooch, the things Terry took from Little Dave and me weren't found—she'd had more time to get rid of those, and she'd done a better job. But there was the note Brenda left in the safe deposit box, describing the call from Little Dave, her discovery of the brooch, and Terry's promise to give her half the money from the sale of the restaurant if she kept silent. Poor Brenda. It makes sense to take precautions to protect yourself from a murderer. But if you don't tell the murderer about the precautions—well, what's the point?
Terry's denying everything. But Miss Woodhouse's friends at the prosecutor's office have given us enough hints to let us piece the story together. It's a pathetic, sordid story—four people devoting three solid years to scheming with and against each other, all chasing the mirage of an old man's money. Chuck was the most straightforward, just trying to dazzle Howard with his cooking and convince him that opening a restaurant with Chuck as chef would be a good investment. If Howard had really been a wealthy recluse, rather than a retiree with an income stretched so thin he'd never turn down free food, Chuck might've succeeded. Brenda apparently tried a variety of unsuccessful tactics, from seduction to fraud, until Little Dave persuaded her he was inches away from getting Howard's fortune and would share it with her in return for the usual favors.
As for Little Dave's approach—evidently, it had been to use his wife to get Howard's money. Soon after the murders, Howard admitted to us that he'd carried on a flirtation with Terry for years. He thought her husband knew nothing about their secret meetings, but I'd bet Terry had Little Dave's blessing. She'd often tried to escalate the flirtation to an affair, Howard said, but his shame about his past wouldn't let him destroy someone else's marriage. Besides, if Terry got too close to him, she might discover the truth about his finances. Howard obviously preferred things as they were—keeping them all dangling, seeming to make half promises from time to time but never delivering, enjoying the feeling of being an important, sought-after man again.
Then Stanley Carson came along. Terry was probably the only one who knew the full truth about him—Howard confided in her, and she'd undoubtedly followed Carson to learn his Thursday night routine—but all four of Howard's suitors considered him a threat. We guessed at the rest. Terry, convinced Howard would never have an affair with a married woman, resolved to become a widow; she talked Little Dave into some plan to kill Carson or scare him off; she orchestrated a phone call I was supposed to overhear, so she'd have an alibi; and then she jumped from behind the dumpster, knocked me out, and sank the Minute Marinator into her husband's neck. It was a hairbrained scheme—but if it hadn't been for the computer map in Little Dave's pocket, his call
to Brenda, and the stubborn clasp on the professor's brooch, it might have worked.
Terry had owned Chez Cubbe jointly with her husband, so there were no inheritance delays. To cover legal fees, she had to sell at a loss—to Chuck, together with two long-time customers eager to keep their favorite restaurant open. The notoriety from the murders was good for business, and word of Chuck's sauces spread quickly. Several months later, when the Woodhouses and I decided to have dinner at the restaurant, we had to wait forty minutes for a table. Anne—the only employee left from the old days—was our waitress. She let Chuck know we were there, and he came out to greet us.
"Nice and bustling, isn't it?” he said. “And we got big renovations planned. Not those retro plans Little Dave drew up. Our designer wants to give the place more of a bistro feel—traditional but trendy, minimalist but opulent."
"Sounds great,” I said. Glancing around the crowded dining room, I spotted first one familiar figure, then another. “Oh gosh—there's Howard. And isn't that Stanley Carson? And that very thin woman—is she Howard's daughter?"
Chuck's nose crinkled. “Yeah. They been coming here every night for weeks. Howard told me a long, boring story about it—his daughter was hiding from some creep with a weird name, but then some cop named Glass pulled a joint sting operation with the Baltimore police, and now the creep's headed for prison and Howard's back with his daughter. And with Carson—him and the daughter are engaged. Howard hinted about having the wedding reception at Chez Cubbe. As if! He couldn't manage our prices."
The professor took a slow sip of water. “Perhaps you could give him a special rate. He has a long history here."
"Yeah, well, he should be history here.” Chuck snapped his fingers. “Anne! Stop refilling water glasses at table twelve. And hound them every two minutes—let me get this plate out of your way, may I box that up, do you want to see the dessert menu, here's your check. You know the drill. Move ‘em along.” He waited for her to walk away, then shook his head. “God, she's slow. I'm giving her notice tonight. And she's too tolerant of Howard and his crew. All they ever order is soup and sandwiches and one drink each, and they sit around forever. We can't afford to put up with that kind anymore—we need the table. Well, enjoy your dinners. And tell your friends."
"So Howard's losing his haven,” I said after Chuck left. “That's too bad."
"Let's hope he'll build himself a truer sort of haven,” Miss Woodhouse said, “with his daughter and her new husband—a haven based not on deceit and false hopes but on openness and true affection."
Professor Woodhouse gave her daughter a disdainful look. “Openness and true affection! Please do not assault my sensibilities, Iphigenia, by indulging in such blatant sentimentality. I should hope I raised you better than that."
Miss Woodhouse cast her eyes down. “You're right, Mother. I'm sorry."
"You should be,” her mother snapped back, “you nasty girl. Besides, as I should not need to point out, Howard is not guiltless in all this. He knew what he was doing. Toying with people's dreams—that's a dangerous business, and a cruel one."
"True,” I said, sighing. “I guess no one involved in this case is admirable; I guess I shouldn't be surprised. But when Terry and Brenda and Chuck first came to our office, they seemed so unselfish, so kind. I should've seen through it, even then. Private detectives are supposed to be cynical; I was nalve. I guess I just wanted to believe people really can be that—well, that good."
The professor glanced at me, then at her daughter. Miss Woodhouse still gazed down at the table, her eyes still dull with shame. Her mother reached out, just briefly, to touch her hand. “You may continue to believe in that goodness, little Harriet,” she said softly. “But you must look for it in the right places."
Copyright (c) 2008 B. K. Stevens
[Back to Table of Contents]
Fiction: PICKLED ZILLIONAIRES by Gary Alexander
Kelly Denato
* * * *
Vladimir Illyich Larionov was an unemployed Russian scientist. Moscow's Research Institute on Biological Sciences had let him go for lack of work. Then the Institute itself shrank to a skeleton staff that subsisted on donations. Larionov was bemoaning this in a Veracruz bar to a California orthodontist who wished the guy would just shut up.
Dr. J. D. (Wally) Stockwall sipped his beer and said, “Downsizing. It happens."
Larionov was not sipping his vodka. He was drinking it like water. “Of course I am lucky to be alive. Those crazy Cubans."
Stockwall was preoccupied. He'd had financial reverses and couldn't afford this Mexico vacation. The only way he could conceal from his wife that they couldn't afford the trip was by taking it, although in a perverse way they could. Dr. Stockwall's malpractice insurance carrier had abruptly canceled him. Termination was instigated by an unfortunate incident that prompted an obscenely slanted article in a professional journal entitled “Orthodontics and Gangrene: A Link?” Unbeknownst to Sally Jo Stockwall, they were traveling on this month's premium.
Their airplane to Cancun had blown an engine and made an emergency landing at Veracruz. A replacement plane wouldn't be in until the morning. Now Dr. Wally Stockwall was in this ratty bar—swinging saloon doors, drunken locals, soccer blaring on the TV—listening to a crazed Russki, while Sally Jo pouted in the hotel room, furious that her husband had booked them on this cut-rate package.
"What Cubans?"
Larionov said, “They misunderstand. They say I go to Cuba to assassinate Fidel. Not so. I go because I love Fidel. He is Socialist giant. I go to be there for him when he die. I am lucky to escape and stow away on freighter to this city."
Larionov was of indeterminate age. He had wild, jittery eyes and hair that looked as if it was styled by a finger in a light socket. The orthodontist had swooned at his teeth—rotted piers in a fetid mudflat. He'd written a mental estimate of nine thousand dollars, plus kickbacks from a periodontist and an oral surgeon.
"What were you planning to do to Fidel?"
"Immortalize him so he lie in state for all eternity. His revolutionary spirit will never be extinguished."
"Like Lenin's Tomb?"
"The maintenance of my namesake, Vladimir Illyich Ulyanov—you know him as Lenin—and Uncle Ho, they are only remaining projects. That is why we were disbanded."
Stockwall snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute. You preserve dictators?"
"Crudely expressed, but correct."
Stockwall's mind began churning. Imprudent investments had exacerbated his financial woes. His typical venture was as hopeless as a get-rich-quick-in-real-estate infomercial hustle.
"So with the collapse of Communism, your customer base is zilch."
"I do not know Zilch. Who is left but Fidel, I ask you?"
The last of the old-school Commies, Stockwall thought.
"Easy, easy,” he said. “This thing you do to the corpses, is it embalming or what?"
Larionov drained his vodka and snorted. “Ordinary funeral embalming is child's play. We create masterpiece."
Stockwall signaled the bartender for another round and asked, “Have you ever considered the private sector?"
"Some colleagues desire to sell service. I say no. What we do is sacred."
Stockwall gave him a business card. “Like you, sir, I am a man of science."
Larionov read: dr. j. d. stockwall. gentle caring orthodontics.
Balding and pear shaped, Wally Stockwall was thirty-seven years old. He owned a cramped clinic in a Van Nuys strip mall, sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a teriyaki eatery. Soy sauce and solvents were imprinted in his nostrils.
He said, “I'm next door to Beverly Hills. I straighten the teeth of the stars. Please don't ask for names."
Larionov drank his vodka. He did not ask for names.
"I'd like you to license me your process."
"No."
"How're you doing for money?"
Larionov stared into his vodka. “I sleep in alley. I rely on generosity o
f strangers."
Stockwall slipped a one dollar bill under his coaster. “Always glad to help."
Larionov nodded. “Am grateful."
"Comrade, do you know what the good life is?"
"Good life.” Larionov fluttered a bony hand. “Good life is for officials and Mafia and capitalist running dog."
"The good life is for you too. Ever been to Cancun?"
"No."
"Cancun is sun and fun, and you're invited as my guest. You'll have a blast."
"Why invite?"
"It's a chance for you to relax and rethink ideologies. The potential of what we're talking about here is unlimited."
"Is kind of you, but—"
Dr. Stockwall got up and slapped Larionov on the back. “Outside the hotel next door. Nine a.m. You won't regret it."
Sally Jo Stockwall sat on the bed, TV remote in hand.
"Where've you been, Wally? You said you were going out for one drink."
Sally Jo Stockwall was a thirty-five-year-old former dairy princess from Washington State. She had thick hips and a hardened baby face. Sally Jo had gone off to college to escape the farm and to snag a professional man. As her catch settled heavily beside her, a milking barn didn't seem such a horrible place.
"I've been making us rich. That's all."
"A familiar tune."
Dr. Stockwall smiled at a savage pie-throwing commotion and chuckled. “You're grouchy because Jerry Springer's voiced over in Spanish."
Sally Jo shut off the television and sighed. “You aren't going to give me any peace until I hear your spiel, are you?"
When he was finished, she said, “Well, I have to admit, it's more promising than computerized meat-cutting machinery."
"Automation to eliminate butchers and their outrageous union contracts,” Wally reminded her.
"Too bad the software couldn't tell the difference between hogs and steers."
Wally shook an imaginary saltcellar above his arm. “Go ahead, sweetums, rub it in the wound as deeply as you want. Feel free.
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