Macy used her free hand to unwrap the tape from her feet and legs. She stood up and managed to loosen the remaining tape on her other wrist. She was free. She ran to the door, where she saw her cut-up pants. She grabbed the towel, which had fallen onto the floor. It was bloody, but she wrapped it around her waist anyway. She found her shoes and her coat and she put them on, opened the door, and ran out onto the street. It was freezing cold.
“HELP! SOMEONE! HELP!”
You’re just two blocks away, remember? Go home! Find Henry!
Macy started running, stumbling, still yelling. The front door to a house opened and a man stepped outside. “Lady, are you all right?”
“CALL THE POLICE! A MAN SHOT HIMSELF ON THE LAST BLOCK!”
When she got to her front door, breathless, Macy turned the knob. Locked. She pounded on it, yelling. “HENRY! HENRY!” No answer. Then she realized that there were no lights on in the house.
Oh God, Macy. He did shoot Henry. Shot him and turned off the lights.
Shut up! You don’t know that.
Macy ran around to the back of the house and found the fake rock where they kept the extra key. She grabbed it and ran back around, unlocked the door, and burst in.
“Henry? Henry, are you here?”
No answer.
He’s dead. He’s dead.
Bitsy, just shut up.
Macy flipped the hall light-switch on, then quickly checked all of the downstairs rooms, turning on more lights as she went, calling Henry’s name. She ran up the stairs and checked the three bedrooms, the bathrooms, the closets. Nothing.
She stopped in the hallway, panting, and eased herself down to the carpeted floor, where she put her face in her hands and wept.
He’s dead, Macy.
Will you stop, please? He’s not even here. He should be here. He should be either dead, or worrying about me, but either way he should be here. And he’s not.
He could be dead somewhere else. You don’t know that Carey Roberts came here to kill him.
Macy stood up and dialed 911. She told the operator that she had witnessed a suicide and recited the location as well as her address. Then she went into the master bathroom and took off her blouse and bra and the towel and turned on warm water in the sink. She soaked a washcloth and rubbed her face.
She went into the bedroom and dressed in jeans and a sweater and her slippers. She picked up the phone, dialing Henry’s office as she looked at the clock: it was eight o’clock. His voice mail message came on. She hung up.
Well, he would have left work. He would have been home by six, so that you could go play tennis.
She dialed his cell phone. Voice mail.
This isn’t good. This isn’t good at all, Macy.
So, he’s turned it off. That doesn’t mean he’s dead.
Macy went downstairs, poured herself a brandy, and sat down at her desk in the den. Then she called 411 information. She got a listing for Jocelyn Roberts and dialed. On the third ring, she heard a voice.
“Hello?”
“Jocelyn?”
“Yes, who’s calling, please?”
“This is Macy Evans.”
A pause. “Why, hello, Mrs. Evans. How are you?”
Macy couldn’t help but snort a little. “Not very well, actually. Is my husband there?”
Another pause. “Henry? Why, no, isn’t he with you?”
“Did he tell you he would be?”
“I don’t know what this is about, Mrs. Evans, but before he left the office, he did mention that he was going to play tennis tonight.”
You see, it was all a lie, a big lie. He’s not having an affair, and you’re crazy for suspecting him.
“Are you having an affair with my husband, Jocelyn?”
Silence. “I’m going to hang up now, Mrs. Evans.”
“Your husband is dead.” Macy hung up the phone.
Well, that was cruel! To tell her like that, and just hang up!
Yeah, I’m cruel, all right.
She hung up and sipped her brandy. Her hands were still shaking. She picked up a framed picture of Lucas and held it to her chest, and then repositioned it on the desk. She arranged a stack of bills neatly, and put a few errant paper clips back in their box. Order, she needed some order.
She grabbed her business cards case and stared at it like it was a priceless artifact. Her tears stopped suddenly. She clenched her teeth, took a large swig of brandy, and sat up straight.
Soon a car pulled up in the driveway and someone banged on the front door. She opened it up to two uniformed policemen.
***
Two hours after the police had left, Macy was lying on the couch in the den, an afghan pulled up to her chin. She heard the front door open and close.
Henry.
Thank God, Macy. He’s all right.
Of course he is.
She sat up and looked toward the doorway, as she heard his footsteps move from room to room. He peered into the den, saw her, and stopped.
“Macy?”
She stared at him. “Surprised to see me?”
He frowned. “Lying on the couch at eleven o’clock on a Tuesday night? Yes, I am.” He walked over to her and kissed the top of her head. “What’s going on?”
“Where have you been, Henry?”
He sat down next to her and put his arm around her. “Honey, I told you that I was going to play men’s doubles tonight, and we agreed to switch our tennis to Thursday this week. I had a late dinner with Peter afterward.”
Ah. You just forgot about this, like you forget so many things these days.
Shut up and listen.
“What is it, honey?” He stroked her back.
“Jocelyn Roberts’ husband killed himself tonight, in front of me, after he kidnapped me.”
Henry’s eyes widened. He took his arm away from Macy and stood up. “WHAT! He KILLED himself? My God, darling, are you all right?” He sat back down.
See? He’s surprised. He’s worried about you.
He’s surprised, all right. Surprised that Carey is dead and I’m not.
Macy stared at Henry. “He kidnapped me, then he came to see you, here, didn’t he? You were going to be home early, and then we were going to play tennis.”
“What? Here? I told you, I went to the club from work. I’ve only just got home now. What are you talking about?”
He’s clearly distressed. He loves you.
Macy stood up and walked to the front of the room, staring out into the darkness. Henry followed her with his eyes.
“Henry, you’re lying, and you almost got me killed.”
“Now, Macy, I don’t know…”
“Shut up, Henry. You were here, probably around six.”
How do you know that?
Pay attention, Bitsy-boo.
“Darling, I…”
“My purse. Carey Roberts took it. He gave it to you.”
“No, he didn’t. I don’t have your purse. You’re not making much sense, Mace.”
You certainly aren’t.
Macy laughed. Then she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and brought out her card case. She held it up in the air. “I don’t know where you dumped my purse, but this fell out. I found it on the floor by my desk.”
That can’t be. You must have left it there, by mistake.
“Darling, you’re in shock. You’ve been traumatized. You simply forgot your case this morning, just like you forgot about my plans this evening.”
“No, I didn’t. I always keep it in my purse. Always.”
Are you sure? Because, you know, you forget things all the time, and…
Oh, I’m sure all right. So back off.
Henry moved toward her. “You’re just mixed up, in shock. I’ll call the doctor, get you a
sedative. Then you can…”
Macy held her arm out straight to stop him. She pointed her finger at him, shook it, then brought her hand to her chest, covering her heart. “I know everything, Henry. I know you’re going to London with Jocelyn this weekend. I know Carey Roberts came here tonight and told you that he kidnapped me. My guess is that you quickly arranged a men’s double match so that you could be away from the house and have a great excuse when I was found dead. Murdered.”
Henry didn’t move.
Macy walked toward him. “You were supposed to be a saint. That’s what my father told me. ‘He’s a saint, Macy.’ Why I listened to anything my father ever said, I’ll never know. So, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get the fuck out of this house, right now. I’ll file for divorce, and you’re going to pay me lots of money. I’m going to quit my job, and I’m going to move to New York City, where Lucas will visit me often.”
She inched closer to Henry, until they were nose to nose. “Any questions?”
Henry frowned. “This fantasy of yours would be riveting if it wasn’t so sick. I’m calling the doctor.”
As Henry turned away from her, Macy grabbed a fire iron and swung it as hard as she could against his head. He fell heavily to the floor, unconscious.
Any word from you, little Miss Preachypants?
That’s the first time I’ve heard you say “fuck.”
Anything else?
Not a word.
Excellent.
The doorbell rang and Macy froze. She dropped the fire iron and exited the den, shutting the French doors behind her. She looked through the peephole of the front door and saw one of the policemen who had visited her earlier. She opened the door a crack.
“Mrs. Evans? Everything all right?” Macy whispered “yes” and started to close the door. “Wait just a minute, ma’am.” The officer held out his hand. “Here’s your purse. We found it at the suicide scene, underneath an upside-down bucket. Forensics said they don’t need it. You okay, ma’am? Your husband get home yet?”
Hort-head Homicide
Anne Littlewood
Poisoned Pen Press welcomed me as a new author into the “posse” of their mystery writers and into a smoothly functioning, widely praised press that still had the capacity for personal contact. I learned a great deal from writers who had started before me, as well as from the staff. When I say I’m published with Poisoned Pen Press, people in the know raise their eyebrows in respect. The Press publishes such a variety within the mystery genre—historical, cozy, suspense, and so on. They even manage to encompass my Iris Oakley mystery trilogy that features a pregnant zookeeper, an old and possibly murderous elephant, adulterous penguins, and a stolen tiger corpse.
—A.L.
***
In world-weary tone, the small woman proclaimed, “The more I actually learn about mycorrhizae, the more twigs I throw into my compost.” Her voice trailed off. “Lots and lots…”
“Oh, yes, soil organisms make such a difference in root function,” my mother said.
“But it works,” wee Arlene insisted. “It actually works.” Her brow furrowed and she shook her head slowly. “Have to break the twigs into bits. Tiny, tiny bits. Wonderful stuff, actually. In the end.”
In a major lapse of judgment, my mother picked up the bottle and sloshed scotch into her own glass, then, after a thoughtful pause, into her friend’s. I put a hand over my wineglass before she topped me up, too.
“Um, Mom. I think she’s had enough. You, too. Actually.”
They both looked at me as if a boulder had spoken. They shrugged it off as one of life’s mysteries and went back to soil fungus.
Only a broken ankle (my mother’s) and serious emotional indebtedness (mine) had gotten me to this gardening conference at a budget hotel near Seattle. While I was happy to score good-daughter points by driving and nurse-maiding, there was a price. I hate scotch, and the wine could pass for compost tea. Therefore, sadly, I was sober, and yet, after a day spent observing hundreds of slides of flowers in four (or was it five?) presentations, I was nearly as comatose as my companions. I checked my phone for the twentieth time. Ken, my boyfriend, hadn’t texted me back.
The two women offered a fashion contrast. My mother wore a wildflower sweatshirt and blue sweatpants with one ankle slit for her orthopedic boot. Arlene was resplendent in a dark purple suit and a blouse of what might be gold lamé—I wasn’t sure. It was shiny and looked expensive. Her tiny pointed shoes were also purple and sported spike heels that implied a second broken ankle at this conference in the near future. My own jeans and sweater were newish and clean.
I’d thought my maternal parent and I would hang out in this alcove and enjoy a drink before dinner. We would talk about something of mutual interest, such as my three-year-old son. That would be her only grandson, currently under the care and protection of my father. But she had hailed this elegantly attired miniature to join us and surprised me, but not Arlene Kim, by hauling a bottle out of her tote bag.
“Oh, Gloria, you remembered!” Arlene had said. My mother informed me that it was her turn to bring the Chivas Regal, an old tradition. The plan was to share it with Arlene and others in the hotel room tonight, lady friends she saw only at these conferences.
That bottle was never going to make it.
Arlene had outed me as irrelevant in seconds and ignored me as they pounded back the shots and talked penstemons and loam, plus a long argument about what, actually, was a “gritty mix.” In fairness, Arlene did the pounding back and my mother sipped, but the net effect was the same. The three of us had sat here for what seemed like weeks, but was—actually—no more than an eon or two.
I regard plants as food or hiding places or nesting material. But I’m a bird keeper—yes, at a zoo—and I go to conferences with presentations like Guano Harvesting Impacts on Penguin Nest Success and Managing Iron Intake for Toucans, so I wasn’t in a position to criticize.
I texted Ken again.
Arlene nudged my mother, nearly upsetting our drinks table. “It’s him,” she growled. “Can’t escape that rat bastard.”
My mother looked over her shoulder. I glimpsed a rotund man entering the banquet hall. “You knew Lionel would be here,” she said. “The price to pay.”
“Pay?” Arlene said darkly. “I’d like to pay him back. And I’m actually not the only one.”
Gardeners’ grievances? I was bored and ravenous and didn’t care. “Mom, it’s time for the banquet. They’re calling us into the ballroom.”
“We’ve got a few minutes. Play with your phone, dear.” She leaned toward Arlene, face flushed. “Poor Harold. Lionel ridiculed him for the way he pronounced a Latin name. Corydalis, I think it was. Lionel should be horse-slapped.”
“Horse-whipped,” I said. “Or bitch-slapped. Either one. Um, dinner…”
“Typical Lionel,” Arlene said. “I worked with him at the investment firm, and I never understood how he got away with tricking his coworkers and laughing at them. Poor Bunny. I don’t know why she stays with him. He’s embarrassed almost all of us, actually. I’m surprised you’ve escaped.”
“Not so.” My mother’s lips compressed. “Last year he told me his secret of success for hardy orchids was burying rusty nails underneath them to add iron. His plants are gorgeous and he was very offhand about it. I passed that on to Fran and Georgianna—you weren’t there—and he laughed in my face and told them what an amateur I am.” She took much more than a sip from her glass. “I think he has it in for me because my lewisia hybrids are nicer than his.”
“Well, they probably are, and he probably does. Actually, if it weren’t for what he sells from that nursery of his, no one here would put up with him.”
I grabbed the bottle and stood up. Their eyes and then the rest of them followed it, my mother navigating better than Arlene, despite her crutches and a big
black boot with Velcro straps. Arlene looked at me and said, “She’s tall.”
“Oh, I never noticed!” my mother said. “Must take after her dad.”
They chortled as I led them to a table in the ballroom. The room was filled with tables set for eight with flowers as centerpieces. I quick-shoved a chair under Arlene’s rump, which was descending off-target. When I had my mother seated and the crutches stowed, I tucked the Chivas Regal into her tote bag. “Wait here. I’ll get your dinner.” I homed in on the buffet line.
When I returned with two plates, our table had been colonized by a mismatched couple. He was the chubby man I’d glimpsed—red-faced, and loud. She was sweet-faced and quiet. “Iris,” my mother said, “this is Lionel and Bunny Cutterall. We’ll be at Lionel’s garden tomorrow for a tour. Maybe he’ll show us his nursery as well.” I took my cue from her cordial tone and attempted a pleasant face.
“Iris, you better keep up your tetanus shots. Your mother buries rusty nails in the backyard. Heh heh heh.”
He sounded like a motorboat overdue for a tune-up. I abandoned the pleasant face. My mother put a hand on my knee, and I swallowed the impulse to plant my plate in his face.
Arlene poured the wine for us, hitting her targets with most of it. I told her to stay put and fetched her dinner, too.
Another couple holding full plates circled near us like geese looking for a landing spot. The man was reluctant, but the woman hissed something about “the only two seats left together,” and they chose to alight at our table. Arlene spread her arms in welcome, and I rescued the glassware. My mother tittered.
“Ah, ha!” crowed Lionel. “The novice and the ignoramus. Welcome!”
“Harold and Fran Johnston,” my mother said. “Fran, those pots you donated are wonderful.” To me, “Door prizes. Fran throws beautiful pots.”
“And Harold throws his money around,” said Lionel and guffawed. He winked at Harold, who went stony-faced.
Harold recovered and reached over to shake my hand. “Your mother—Gloria—is one of our favorite people at these things. Fran is the gardener. I’m just technical support—don’t know a thing about horticulture. We’re neighbors of Lionel and Bunny.”
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