Revenge With a Twist (Three Mystery Shorts)

by Anne Stephenson

  Carolann ordered the pumpkin soup and amberfish and watched them out of the corner of her eye while the waiters wove in and out of the room, bearing trays of silver-covered dishes.

  Unlike Judith who, judging by the colour of her nose, had had too much sun, Carolann would not be going home with a tan. Her boss at Parkwood Life and Casualty thought she was visiting an old college friend in Winnipeg. The last she’d heard they still had snow.

  The evening dragged slowly by. Carolann chatted with a few of the other guests in the lobby, then retired to her room for the night.

  By the next morning, she was anxious to get started. After a huge breakfast of hot cakes, fruit and rolls, she ventured down to the salt-water pool, being careful not to sit in the sun.

  While the other tourists lathered themselves with sun screen in anticipation of the afternoon ahead, Carolann pulled out the mystery novel she’d purchased for the trip.

  Palm trees chattered in the warm breeze. Across the lawn at the tennis courts, the hotel’s resident pro was trying to drum up business with a demonstration of his serving skills. Carolann thought she saw Alex among the onlookers, but after a while, the heat and the rhythm of the ball put her to sleep.

  She awoke with a start around 12:30, her book on the deck beside her, her feet rosy in the shifting sun. Alex and Judith were nowhere to be seen.

  The entire patio was peopled with leather-skinned seniors, most of whom had been coming to the Chelsea for two or three decades. Carolann figured she could probably do away with half of them by simply sprinkling digitalis on their prunes.

  When the afternoon wore on without even a glimpse of the honeymoon couple, Carolann started to worry. She only had one full day left.

  She was lingering over a second cup of coffee when Alex and Judith finally brushed by her table in the dining room. It was after eight.

  Alex gave her a polite nod and held out a chair for his wife.

  “I don’t see why we can’t go shopping together,” Judith whined.

  “Because one of the reasons I came to Bermuda was for the golf.” Alex signalled the sommelier.

  “Scotch.”

  “And for Mrs. Wright?”

  Alex stiffened.

  “Let’s have a litre of that lovely white wine we had last night,” smiled Judith. “And could you have the waiter bring me a green salad? Oil and vinegar dressing.”

  As soon as the wine steward left with their order, Judith started back at Alex. “Considering I spent the day on the back of a motorbike while you played James Dean, you could at least go into Hamilton with me in the morning.”

  Carolann would have loved to stay and listen, but she’d heard all she needed to know.

  After signing for her meal, she sauntered into the lounge and joined three old dears from Baltimore who had begged her earlier in the evening to make a fourth for bridge. They turned out to be sharks in pink polyester. After an hour of playing a penny a point, Carolann excused herself and headed for the bar.

  She ordered something fruity and idly planned her day while she nibbled fish-shaped pretzels imported from the States.

  It wasn’t as though she couldn’t accidentally murder anyone in Toronto. All she had to do was wait. Sooner or later, Judith would unwittingly leave herself exposed. Only Carolann would never have as good cover as she had right now.

  When Alex’s reflection appeared in the window alongside hers, she was momentarily caught off-guard.

  Their eyes locked for a second and he seemed to hesitate. Then he sat down at the bar and ordered a scotch.

  “Will you wife be joining you?” asked the bartender.

  “No,” Alex answered. “Her sunburn is bothering her.”

  Good, thought Carolann. She hoped it would wrinkle and peel. Judith should live so long.

  As if on cue, Alex turned and smiled at her.

  Carolann gave him a half-wave and glanced away. She knew if he’d sat down beside her, one of them would have had to tell the truth.

  ***

  After breakfast, Alex and Judith went off to Hamilton with several other couples in search of tax-free deals on Wedgewood and Royal Crown Derby.

  Carolann was ready. She tagged along behind them, watching and waiting for the right opportunity. But by the time they’d done the stores on Front Street it was raining too heavily to loiter inconspicuously outside. Carolann caught the ferry back to the hotel.

  By early afternoon, the rain had tapered off to a fine drizzle. Carolann borrowed a putter from the pro shop and joined the other die-hards on the course.

  She was on the practice green when the Warwick ferry began its approach to the Chelsea’s dock.

  A few minutes later, when Judith appeared, alone, her arms laden with purchases, Carolann quickly returned the club.

  Predictably, Judith hurried for the entrance to the lower level where she could tidy herself before going upstairs.

  Carolann crossed the lawn and entered the hotel as her prey disappeared into the women’s lounge.

  She waited a moment or two until she was sure the hallway was deserted, then she pushed open the door. Judith was seated at the mirrors, the entire contents of her purse strewn across the counter.

  Carolann quickly scanned the hodgepodge of make-up, cheque books and billfold, looking for the plastic cylinder she knew Judith carried with her everywhere.

  It was poking out from under a soggy tissue, its bright yellow cap protecting the injector inside.

  “You must have been caught in the rain,” noted Judith.

  Carolann nodded. “I was playing golf.”

  She set her peaked golf cap on the counter next to the tissue and asked the other woman if she played golf.

  “No, but my husband does.”

  “I didn’t notice him on the course today.”

  Judith paused, a new lipstick hovering in her hand. “I made him take me into Hamilton.” She laughed. “I refuse to start my marriage on a budget…the last I saw him he was on his way to the bank.”

  Good thing, thought Carolann, as she surveyed the array of bags before her.

  Judith was so thrilled with her purchases from the expensive shops she favoured, she treated Carolann to a mini-show-and-tell right there in the ladies’ lounge.

  Back home in Toronto, she wouldn’t have even given the real Carolann Gravelle the time of day.

  She hadn’t missed anything, Carolann thought, as she cooed appreciatively at a cashmere sweater and a Burberry scarf. It was about as exciting as playing Barbie dolls.

  They exchanged pleasantries about the hotel and Carolann asked Judith if she’d tried any of the restaurants in Hamilton.

  “No, I have allergies. It’s safer to eat at a place where I know the food.”

  “You’re very wise,” said Carolann, her eyes fixed firmly on Judith’s prescription for epinephrine. Then she smiled and said, “I guess I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

  She grabbed the peak of her golf hat and scooped it up along with Judith’s auto-injector. Then, bending down to tie her shoe, Carolann flicked her ball cap and sent the life-saving device under the counter and behind the waste basket.

  Judith didn’t even notice her leave.

  Carolann hurried up the steps into the main lobby and around the corner to the dining room. The travel agent had assured her the Chelsea was unwavering in its routine. By noon each day, the evening menu was posted in a glass display case outside the dining room.

  That night was The Bermuda Buffet. Billed as “a meal to remember,” Carolann savoured the irony as she rode the elevator up to the third floor.

  The digital clock on the bed table read two-seventeen. She lay down on the bed and forced herself to breathe deeply. It would be supremely annoying if she had a heart attack now. She grinned at the confusion it would cause if Anita Johnston were to die twice.

  The way Judith sashayed into the dining room that evening Carolann was sure she must be wearing on the of the day’s purchases. Even Alex was sporting a jack
et Carolann had never seen before.

  Carolann fingered the contents of her pocket gingerly. Guests were wandering in and out of the buffet room, filling their plates with hot and cold entrees.

  Alex was on his second scotch when Judith got up. Carolann looked over and, for a moment, she could have sworn he knew exactly what she was up to. She flushed. Her mind was playing tricks on her. She got up from the table and followed Judith’s lead to the buffet.

  After several days at the Chelsea, Carolann was counting on Judith sticking to what she knew she could eat without having to double-check on the ingredients.

  Carolann filled her own plate with a generous helping of salad greens, then unobtrusively released the small vial of walnut oil into the house oil and vinegar and quickly moved on. She was halfway down the buffet line when Judith reached for the salad dressing.

  Carolann returned to her table and tried to eat, but it was like waiting for someone to open a special gift on Christmas morning. The food felt strange in her mouth as she watched Judith pick at everything on her plate, but her salad.

  Alex was still nursing his drink when Judith forked the first piece of lettuce into her mouth. Then another piece disappeared. Carolann held her breath. In less than thirty seconds, Judith began to wheeze.

  It was an awful sound.

  She clawed at her purse. Alex leapt up, his chair crashing to the floor. The other diners had stopped eating and were staring at the commotion, not yet sure what was happening.

  Alex grabbed Judith’s purse and dumped it, frantically rifling its contents for her missing prescription. An elderly gentleman tried patting Judith on the back. Alex yelled at him to stop.

  Carolann felt like she was watching a movie. Judith turned blue and fell heavily to the floor, her eyes screaming in panic. She thrashed amidst the chair legs, her limbs an agony of despair. Then with one last rasp, she fell silent, her new dress swirled around her like a shroud. It was all over.

  The other diners were quickly herded into the lounge and given a reassuring drink. Carolann ordered a scotch and tried unsuccessfully to dredge up some compassion for the woman she’d just killed.

  Snippets of conversation floated by.

  “Such a shame.”

  “And on her honeymoon, too.”

  “The poor man.”

  Nearly everyone had an anecdote from another time, another accident, another place. But no one mentioned murder.

  Carolann drank a second scotch and watched the door for any sign of movement from Alex.

  When he did appear, a few minutes later, his normally flawless complexion was pasty despite his light tan. As the ambulance attendants wheeled the stretcher through the lobby, the hotel manager stepped in front of Alex, blocking his progress.

  Another man, who wore the bearing of authority along with the uniform, stopped the stretcher-bearers and discreetly lifted a corner of the white sheet covering Judith’s body.

  It was the Bermuda Police.

  “Why are they here?” asked Carolann. “It was an accident.”

  One of the old dears from Baltimore was standing beside her.

  “Just routine, dear,” she said. “When my Henry had a stroke on the eleventh fairway, they came to make sure I hadn’t bopped him on the head with a three iron…bridge?”

  “No…no, thanks.” Carolann shook her head and quietly followed some of the other guests out onto the terrace. Now that the police were involved, it was crucial she get rid of the evidence.

  A small group was heading down the hill to catch the ferry into Hamilton. Carolann fell in behind them and boarded the boat in their wake.

  As they cut across the harbour, Carolann wandered away from the others and let her right hand dangle over the side of the boat.

  She felt sick. The police were probably giving Alex the once over and there was nothing she could do to prevent it. She was half-afraid that even though Alex was innocent, the police might think he “misplaced” Judith’s epinephrine.

  The spray from the prow of the boat beat a tattoo on her forearm as she slowly unclenched her hand. The empty glass vial slid from her grasp and disappeared beneath the waves.

  ***

  After a restless night worrying about Alex, Carolann went down early for breakfast. The hotel workers, as usual, were the most well-informed people on the island.

  The cleaning staff had found Judith’s prescription under the counter in the women’s washroom earlier that morning. The police had concluded that it had either fallen out of her purse and rolled out-of-sight or Judith had inadvertently kicked it to where it had lain undetected until the next day. Either way, Alex was off the hook.

  Carolann breathed a sigh of relief and got on with her breakfast. She dawdled over her coffee, half-hoping Alex would appear, but given the circumstances, that was unlikely. She browsed in the lobby gift shop for a few moments, then went to her room to pack.

  Bermuda no longer seemed so inviting. On her way back to the airport, the mingling scents of the island, which had so intrigued her on her arrival, now seemed cloying and cheap. Bermuda had begun to close in on her, and despite the charm of the pastel cottages lining its roads, she was in a panic to get off the island.

  The flight home was uneventful, and other than a few routine questions to answer at Customs, Carolann had no trouble re-entering the country as Anita Johnston.

  She took the airport limousine downtown and got out at the Royal York. Suitcase in hand, she dodged the traffic on Front Street and disappeared into the depths of Union Station.

  After retrieving her change of clothes from the long-term locker, Carolann went straight to the women’s lounge. When she reappeared a few minutes later, it was as Carolann Gravelle.

  She’d left the suitcase behind in an empty stall.

  The glasses had been snapped in half and flushed down the toilet.

  Rush-hour was well underway. Carolann navigated her way against the stream of people heading for the Go Train and caught a northbound subway. By the time she’d changed trains at Yonge and Bloor, she felt certain someone would have already walked off with the temporary wardrobe of Anita Johnston and any evidence of her Bermuda Short.

  Carolann had no idea when Alex would be returning, so she went out to the airport every afternoon in time for Air Canada’s daily flight from Bermuda.

  The family waiting beside her on Tuesday was so boisterous she almost missed him.

  He was standing on the other side of the glass partition holding the same suitcase he’d used on their weekends together. His clothes hung on him as if he’d suddenly lost an enormous amount of weight, and there were purplish streaks beneath his eyes.

  Carolann got to her feet.

  The stress of dealing with the police and transporting Judith’s body back to Canada must have been too much for him. He had stopped just outside the door.

  Then he saw her. Their eyes locked, and for a single second, Carolann knew she’d done exactly what he’d wanted all along.

  She smiled as she began to walk towards him.

  She was only a few steps away from him when a young blonde woman appeared at his side.

  Carolann froze.

  The woman must have been on the same flight; her face was well-tanned, and she carried a large shopping bag from The Bermuda Shoppe.

  “Let’s share a cab downtown,” she said, and when Alex didn’t respond right away, she slipped her free arm through his solicitously. “There’s no one here to meet you, is there Alex?”

  Carolann started forward, then stopped in mid-stride.

  Alex was looking right at her when he said “no.”

  Afterword

  Revenge, as they say, is sweet, but I like mine with a twist!

  When I first thought about bringing Bitter End, Oscar Chump and Bermuda Short together in one book, I wasn’t sure what connected them. The differences were easy to pick out; they are all unique to their settings, both in time and location, and their central characters are as idiosyncratic as
you and me.

  But all three stories have one common denominator – the desire for revenge. They might go about it in different ways, and for different reasons, but at the end of the day, it’s about getting your own back even if it is only on the page!

  Bermuda Short was my first adult fiction.

  I had just returned from a family holiday in Bermuda with the island air still fresh in my mind, when there was a call for submissions to Cold Blood IV, part of a long-running anthology edited by Peter Sellers, and published by Mosaic Press. They were looking for original stories and dangling a huge carrot…the book would be launched at Bouchercon, the international convention for mystery writers, to be held in Toronto the following autumn.

  Talk about motivation!

  And then there’s Oscar Chump, a small-town mystery with a fifties’ feel. For years, all I had was the title and the lyrics from a 1956 rock-and-roll song by Jim Lowe continually playing in my head. He kept asking “Green Door, what’s that secret you’re keeping?” I had no idea, so I asked Oscar Chump. I’m pretty sure the secret I came up with wasn’t exactly the answer Jim Lowe had in mind, but I had my story.

  We’ll file that one under writer’s revenge!

  And while divorce does turn deadly in Bitter End, I swear this one’s total fiction. Except for maybe the odd bit about sailing (I had a part interest in a twenty-four-foot Shark at the time), and an article I had recently read about forensic accountants searching for the hidden assets of a deposed dictator. In my short story, the assets are, shall we say, far more personal…and it definitely ends with a twist!

  Bitter End first appeared in the May, 2016, edition of Mystery Weekly Magazine.

  About the Author

  A freelance writer and journalist,Anne Stephenson spent much of her childhood reading about other people’s adventures. Now she makes up her own. When not writing for nine-to-12 year olds, Anne is busy plotting how to commit murder on the page.