The Best American Mystery Stories 2012

by Otto Penzler

  So resolved, he got up each day now intent on making the most of being alone with his da. He never raised the topic of the IRA again, and Jack avoided all references to his days “on the run.” Instead they seemed to have reached a tacit agreement that Kildargan farm would be their new cause.

  Jack taught Myles the verses to all his favorite songs—“Slievenamon,” “The Croppy Boy,” “Dawning of the Day,” and Myles’s favorite, “Kevin Barry.” They cleaned out the old car shed, built a workbench, and cut down several hardwood trees—ashes and oaks—for the new paddock they’d planned behind the stable.

  At night Hogan’s farmhouse turned into a lively “rambling house,” the center of community fellowship and entertainment. Gone were the days of isolation when Myles and Kitty wouldn’t see a soul from one Sunday to the next. The Voice had raised the ante; singers never heard from before emerged to perform and match their talent against himself. The same with the music—and all the other performances, including the storytelling, poetry, and occasional tug of war on the long summer evenings. It was the best summer of Myles’s life, far and away. He finally had a father of his own, and one who was supremely talented, great fun, and a genuine IRA hero to boot.

  Then, one balmy August evening, their idyllic summer ended.

  The ramblers had assembled for another night of music and storytelling, but Jack was still down in Enniskerry on some errand. Myles heard the border collies first, their barking chorus unusually shrill—with Parnell, the big black alpha, dropping into an ominous crouch, hackles up, slamming against the kitchen door with increasing urgency, as if engaged in some mortal combat with an invisible foe. This was a sound Myles had never heard the borders make before, and he felt a shiver invade his whole body.

  Kitty finally tuned in to the banging against the kitchen door and turned to Myles without noticing that he’d turned pale. “Myles, will you go out and call off those dogs! They’re giving me a headache with all that randy-boo.” When she saw his hesitation, she picked up the Tilly lamp and, without further comment, stormed into the dark farmyard to see what all the fuss was about. “Parnell! Shep! Rover! Come to heel! I said, HEEL!”

  With that the dogs went mute; but not quite. They stopped barking, but Parnell kept baring his fangs in an ugly snarl, while the others growled and refused to lie down as they normally would when Kitty took charge. As one, they paced back and forth, glaring toward the outer gate with baleful suspicion.

  Standing just beyond the gate, frozen in fear, was a homely little woman dressed in black, with a large hat on top of a wizened little head. As she stepped into the farmyard, Myles could see her large pair of glasses reflect the light as she introduced herself as Fanny Wilcox, explaining that Ned Delaney had driven her up from Enniskerry but had to go for another fare, leaving her to carry her large suitcase down the long driveway by herself. She looked exhausted, leaning on a cane, and Kitty immediately felt sorry for her. “Well, come on in and have a cup of tea and some refreshments, Fanny. You look famished and sure who wouldn’t be after lugging that suitcase down the lane all by yourself. I’m surprised at Ned to leave a woman in such a lurch. Shame on him.”

  Fanny waved this aside with “No, no—Ned seemed like a nice chap, really. Very polite and friendly, ’e was. I don’t want to put you to any trouble, but I’m looking for Paddy Hogan, and I understand ’e lives ’ere.” Here was an accent Myles had never heard, and he could barely make out a word.

  “I’m afraid you may have the wrong farm, Fanny. This is Jack Hogan’s house, and he’s away at the moment, but we don’t know any Paddy Hogan.”

  Fanny sipped her tea, glanced through her horn-rimmed glasses at the assembled ramblers, and Myles, before speaking. Then, with a condescending cackle and an air of conspiracy, she leaned toward Kitty and whispered, “You may want to ’ear the rest of wot I ’ave to say privately. Can we go into another room, then?” Caught off-guard, Kitty blushed and said, “Of course, of course . . . sure let’s go up to the parlor so that we can talk. Myles will join us.” Myles moved past the ramblers toward the parlor, but as he walked by Fanny, he felt her cold, clawlike hand grasp his wrist and whisper, so that all could hear, “I don’t think we want our knuck here listening to wot I ’ave to say.” Kitty recognized the British taunt: knuck—dimwit, eejit—but hadn’t heard it since her days as a nursemaid in London, when it was used to ridicule Irish country girls fresh off the boat on the “downstairs” staff of her upper-crust employer.

  Ignoring Fanny, she guided Myles in front of her as the three of them withdrew to the parlor, the formal room reserved for company, to the gawking silence of the ramblers. Kitty poured more tea and invited Fanny to proceed, which she did with an air of being in a deep conversation with a long-lost friend. Her story, which took over an hour to tell in her halting, Yorkshire style, erased all doubt of its credibility.

  “Paddy came to live at Windgate House about five years ago. I’d been running the boarding house ever since me ’usband died in WWII, rest his soul. He was a career military man, you see, Captain Wilcox. A good man; a good provider. Paddy and I grew very fond of each other, and got engaged a year ago. He told me all about ’is life—about Rathdargan farm, about ’aving a sister wi’ six children, five daughters and a boy, who’d lost her ’usband in the war, just like me. He told me how he was helping her out, letting ’er stay ’ere, though ’e was legal owner of the farm. But ’e was allowing his sister—ye—to live ’ere out of kindness, not cuz ’e had to, mind you. And ’e always did say how ’e intended to come back to Ireland to run the farm when the time was right.

  “Being ’is fiancée, I trusted ’im with my life’s savings, five hundred pounds, which ’e said ’e needed to fix up Kildargan, till ’e could send for me. I was planning on selling Windgate House as a going concern—I’m tired of all the ’eadaches that go with running a boarding ’ouse. You ’ave no idea wot goes on.”

  Myles looked at Kitty as the story ended. The only sound in the parlor was the loud ticking of the grandfather clock by the heavy mantelpiece, over which stern portraits of Hogan ancestors across the generations hung. Outside, the border collies were still barking in their high-pitched chorus, and Parnell, the alpha, was pacing back and forth, still growling, disturbed by something unseen in the summer night.

  From Fanny’s account, there was no doubt that “Paddy” was Jack, up to his old tricks. As always, they’d caught up to him, only this time with his wife and son as stricken witnesses and a gallery of ramblers to spread the gossip as fast as their legs could carry it.

  Myles knew trouble when he saw it and this had all the makings. He looked at the intruder with unvarnished hostility. Fanny Wilcox had not been granted her fair share of nature’s bounty. In fact, she was one of the ugliest people Myles had ever laid eyes on; more detached observers would readily agree. Under five feet and somewhat obese, she walked with a bowlegged limp and had one glass eye that looked dead, almost amphibian. To cap it off, she spoke in a high-pitched Yorkshire dialect, “Gur blimey, a rum lot, eh wot?”—as enervating to the Celtic ear as fingernails on a blackboard.

  To Myles’s amazement, Kitty finished her tea and, with elaborate politeness, then invited Mrs. Wilcox to stay: “Just for the night.” But Myles was having none of it. “Mammie, I don’t believe a word of what she’s saying. How do we know she’s telling the truth? And why can’t we wait till Da comes home? Besides, where is she going to sleep? We don’t have any room for visitors, unless she wants to sleep in the hay shed.” He said all this while glaring at Mrs. Wilcox and before Kitty had time to issue a reprimand. Embarrassed by his outburst, she now took control. “Myles Hogan, you will not talk to a guest like that. Apologize at once!” But Myles was in no mood to back down in front of this creature he sensed was up to no good. “I will not apologize. I haven’t done anything to apologize for. But I’m going to see what Da has to say before I listen to one more word from either a yez.” With that he bounded out of the parlor and made an elaborate di
splay of stomping up the creaky wooden stairs.

  Jack came home after all the ramblers had departed. It was quiet in the kitchen when he walked in to the unlovely presence of Fanny, sitting by the fire, teacup in hand. Caught red-handed, “Paddy” came clean and acknowledged that yes, he and Fanny had “grown fond of each other.” Myles, listening from the upstairs loft, couldn’t believe his ears. He’d been wrong and now his worst fears were being realized. This creature was going to stay here, which meant he would have to give up his room and sleep in the dark, dingy parlor on the lumpy old horsehair sofa.

  There was one thing Myles didn’t understand: his father’s lack of taste. Surely, Myles thought, if his father was going to find another woman to “date,” he could have picked someone who was at least presentable. Myles just couldn’t imagine his handsome father being seen with Fanny Wilcox in public, or whatever else “being fond of” meant. When he mentioned this to his mother, she simply said, “Men will do strange things for drink, son. I hope you never know what that’s like.”

  The comment made no sense to Myles, but, watching his mother’s mouth tighten, he let it go. But he vowed then and there that this ugly and evil creature had to go. He had no idea of how, but he knew he hated her and would stop at nothing to protect his family from this cackling menace.

  Whatever was worked out by the adults, Mrs. Wilcox seemed in no hurry to leave. Whenever she went for one of her solitary walks around the farm, Myles could hear his parents fighting. First his mother’s voice raised in consternation; then his father’s usually soft tenor voice taking on a hoarse, frightening harshness. Sometimes, too depressed to work, Myles would idle in the hay shed, leafing through a comic book, pretending to be busy. Terrified of losing his da again, he began to conjure up schemes to rid Kildargan of Mrs. Wilcox.

  This took little effort, for Fanny Wilcox—having always been childless—made no bones about her dislike for children, especially boys and Myles in particular. She kept on referring to him as “our knuck”—a phase he, fortunately, never understood—in her grating, screechy dialect. No one told her to knock off the obvious taunting. Later she tried charming him, but soon gave up in the face of his silent disdain. Myles went out of his way to be rude, refusing to even be in the same room when she was present.

  After a month of brooding hatred, he decided to kill Mrs. Wilcox. It soon became an obsession. At first he felt guilty, pacing his room at night and imagining his confession to Father Cavanagh. After all, this would be murder, clearly a mortal sin. Fires of hell for eternity—no priest could even offer him absolution.

  On the other hand, Mrs. Wilcox wasn’t even a Catholic. She was barely human—some kind of Protestant. She was going to burn in hell anyway. Surely it was no sin to rid his family of this parasite; it’d be like killing a rat or shooting a cuckoo to keep it from preying on an innocent robin’s nest. God would understand this and so would Father Cavanagh.

  Seizing on this line of thought, Myles felt relieved, free to focus on concrete plans.

  His first idea was to follow Fanny on one of the walks, push her into one of the sinkholes near the far field, where no one would ever find her. Myles had seen one of those quagmires swallow a two-thousand-pound cow; even eight strong farmers pulling on the end of a rope couldn’t save her. He discarded the notion only when he remembered how slowly the cow sank; it took at least eight hours. He could imagine Fanny Wilcox, stuck and screaming in her shrill Yorkshire gibberish that the whole valley would be summoned to witness her accusations.

  He finally settled on a concrete plan. It was as simple as it was vicious. He would invite Mrs. Wilcox to go hunting with him in the lower meadow, there would be an accident, and she wouldn’t come back. He rehearsed his lines for the aftermath.

  “I don’t know, Mammie. It all happened so fast. Mrs. Wilcox wanted to learn to shoot and I let her give it a go. The borders were barking, which startled her, then the gun backfired and then she was laying there, the dogs surrounding her barking like they’d gone mad . . . I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have let her use the gun. It’s all my fault.”

  He imagined his mother and the neighbors trying to console him.

  “Now, Myles, you shouldn’t blame yourself. Mrs. Wilcox was a grown woman, capable of making a decision. I’m sure you were just trying to be nice to her. But I know this must be very hard for you.”

  It was now only a matter of how to get his quarry in the lower meadow on a different kind of hunting expedition. Never an athletic person, Mrs. Wilcox was not likely to jump at the chance to go hunting; but Myles was determined to convince her.

  “Mrs. Wilcox, would you be interested in seeing where the pheasants lay their eggs in the far field?”

  “Wot is this? A wildlife outin’ being offered by our knuck? Well, well, well . . . Wonders never cease. An’ I thought ye didn’t like me very much. We’ll see. Maybe when I’m feeling a little bettah. Not today, luv. Run along now.”

  “All right, Mrs. Wilcox. I could even teach you how to shoot rabbits and foxes. Might come in handy sometime if you’re going to be around Kildargan.”

  “Well, it might, at that. I nevah thought a’ that. Me, shootin’. Blimey! You ’ave some imagination for a young lad. I may have misjudged ye. I do believe I’ll take ye up on it, soon as I’m feelin’ a bit more chipper.”

  Myles smiled and shivered at the ease of his conquest. Now the question: did he have the nerve to pull this off? He’d killed and seen killing before: Billy Flood butchering a hog; Packie Ryan shooting his old sheepdog, Ben; Peter Doyle putting down the bay colt with the broken leg. No one liked it; they just did what had to be done in the situation. This was no different; just something that had to be done. Another hard truth.

  He carefully rehearsed each step until he had it down by heart. First have her handle the gun to get her fingerprints on it—all the detective comics made this point. Then teach her to aim it. Next, take the gun away in mock anger at her awkwardness, start to walk away, turn around, aim, and fire at point-blank range. Easy. Like shooting a jackdaw on a fencepost.

  For several weeks, as the days grew shorter, Myles began to panic, badgering Mrs. Wilcox about her promise to go hunting. She kept putting him off; it never seemed to be quite the right time. Maybe she was on to him, evil mind reading evil mind. He seldom slept for more than a couple of hours, and when he did, his dreams turned to nightmares of blood and gore from which he’d awake screaming. Even daylight brought no relief, his mind a chamber of horrors: Father Cavanagh’s voice condemning him to hell; Mrs. Wilcox’s mangled ghost at the window; Myles hanging from a scaffold at Mountjoy Jail, body twisting in the wind.

  He was cleaning out the cowshed when Jimmy Dunphy’s high-pitched whistle sent the borders into their frenzied greeting. They knew Jimmy but never ceased to greet him with full-throated barking, delighted at the chance to show off their guarding prowess. This time Jimmy was lucky: Kitty was there to greet him with her steady smile, which faded when she saw the little green telegram in his arthritic fingers.

  He went into his ritual delivery, which infuriated Kitty and destroyed any chance Jimmy had of being invited in for a tea and scones. Myles came up from the shed at the sound of the borders, just in time to hear Jimmy plead, “Maybe I should wait in case you want to send word back.” This time Myles didn’t say anything; he just gave Jimmy a hard stare as Kitty abruptly turned her back on Jimmy and trotted down the stairs, tripping over the borders as they swarmed with the excitement of the moment.

  Halfway to the kitchen, Kitty pulled up and said, “Oh, my God, the telegram is for Fanny. Do you know where she is?” Myles had seen her go for her regular walk about an hour earlier, and he instinctively grabbed the telegram and ran in the direction he’d seen Mrs. Wilcox go.

  He met her at the hazel corral, walking slowly toward the farmhouse, taking in the warmth of the sun as it rose from behind the Sugarloaf. She looked small and vulnerable, and for a moment Myles felt sorry for her and guilty of his wicked
design on her life. Seeing him sprinting toward her, she immediately erased his guilt with, “Well, well . . . if it isn’t our knuck, snooping around, are we?” Myles just stared at her in his practiced nonchalance, held up the telegram, and said, “Mammie said this is for you. The postman just delivered it.”

  Fanny snatched the telegram from Myles’s outstretched hand and slit the little green envelope with one sharp flick of her talonlike fingernail. Myles watched her as she read the brief message. After several seconds, she looked past him with her glass eye and muttered, “Oh, dear. I must go back at once. There’s been a dreadful death at Windgate. Poor Peter Boyle, one of my boarders, has hanged hisself in the upstairs bathroom.” With that she turned and trotted toward the farmhouse in her bandy-legged gait, puffing and panting, with Myles walking behind her at a fast clip to keep up.

  Mrs. Wilcox quickly related her story to Kitty. Jack was out in the fields, fixing fences, and Myles ran down to tell him the news. He said nothing, just came back to the house, briefly spoke with Fanny, then grabbed Myles’s bike and rode off to Enniskerry to fetch Ned Delaney for Fanny’s departure in the morning.

  Next morning, as the sun’s first rays edged across the Sugarloaf range, Myles staggered downstairs to find Mrs. Wilcox packed, with Ned Delaney’s green Vauxhall idling at the road gate. She begged Myles for a hug, and without hesitation he clung to her and sobbed as though his heart were breaking.

  “Wot’s a mattah? Don’t take on so. I didn’t even think ya liked me . . . Blimey! Our knuck has a ’art after all.”

  “Bye, Mrs. Wilcox. Sorry we didn’t have a chance to go hunting. Maybe some other time—if you ever come back.”

  “Aye, son. Maybe then. Between you ’n’ me, that may be a while. I doubt I’ll be back. But you can come stay wi’ me in Birmingham. I know a lot a young ladies that’d like the cut a yer jib, if ya know wot I mean. Take care, lad. Yer not such a bad knuck, after all . . .”