by Joan Boswell
Liam froze. He could feel his face flame. He was horribly aware of the others looking on; of the neighbours crowding up behind, their ears flapping.
“Right,” he muttered, “Suit yourself.”
After that, Liam concentrated on nothing but keeping his footing and listening for the jars. Had he got them set right? Would they roll?
The pallbearers made slow progress. Without warning, the casket lurched to one side. Liam grabbed for a handle, yanking the casket hard against his own head. Scotty, in front of him swore, but managed to hang on. The brother-in-law, in front of Ken, had slipped and Ken had tripped over him. Liam felt a terrible urge to laugh. Imagine if they’d dropped the casket! The old man would have a fit. Nothing could be more unlucky. They got going again, but the pallbearers’ confidence had taken a beating, and so, it seemed, had the jars. Almost at once Liam heard one move. No worry that Scotty might hear. He had one of his music machines plugged into his ears, as usual. Liam had spotted the wires under Scotty’s upturned coat collar when they’d almost fallen. The only problem now was whether or not Brendan would hear the jars over the noise of his own steam-engine breathing.
There it was again. A rumble this time—not much padding in the bottom of Douggie’s mid-price boxes, Liam thought, and thanks to a good night’s work, none at all at the foot. Another rumble followed, then two loud, distinct bangs. Brendan stopped abruptly, letting go the casket as if it was red-hot.
“Get him out,” he gasped, backing away. He couldn’t seem to speak properly. His words sounded garbled, and he clawed at his collar, his feet sliding from under him in the snow. “He’s alive in there! He’s alive! Get him ou...”
Almost everyone following clustered around in a vain attempt to assist the twitching mound that had been Brendan. Liam and the others carried on up the lane. With Douggie’s help, they got the casket into place. The priest, who had rushed down the lane with his cell phone to call the ambulance and mutter last rites, soon returned and hurried through the committal service for the old man, aware that there was more snow coming, and he had an invitation to lunch with a friend.
Florrie patted Liam’s shoulder as they were at last able to drive to the Legion Hall for coffee and refreshments. “It wasn’t your fault, dear,” she whispered, “you was just keeping your promise to Dad. Besides, you tried to stop Brendan walking at the back. But there, he always was that pig-headed. Just like his father.”
“Yes,” said Liam, “He always was, wasn’t he?”
Kris Wood lives on the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia with her husband John, mother, Ellen, and Rosie, the dog. She is a retired gerontologist who writes both alone and with her long time friend and projects partner, Pat Wilson. Short stories are her favourite thing to write, especially when they incorporate wild and weird Maritime happenings in the telling. She is the co-author, with Pat Wilson, of the Maritime mystery novel Lucky Strike.
A Really Good Day
Nancy McQueen
The Mouse and Donny had staked out a sunny spot on the steps of the Canadian Regional Bank on the corner of Queen and Bathurst. The Mouse watched Donny smile at no one in particular as he sat his enormous bulk on the second from the top step. The Mouse glared at the people they had just chased off the stairs—a middle-aged Indian man with hair in a greying, greasy ponytail, who was now standing undulating gently on the sidewalk, and an ancient Chinese woman with a stubbly chin and a pinchy mouth that held one protruding tooth. The woman clutched the handle of a rusty, crook-wheeled bundle buggy packed with several overflowing yellow garbage bags and a number of pointy objects wrapped in faded red cloth.
The Indian was holding up his dark, stained pants with one hand and gesturing vaguely with the other toward his possessions on the steps beside the Mouse. The Mouse kicked the man’s filthy sleeping bag with the side of his ratty sneaker, then the torn cardboard box beside it. The sleeping bag tumbled down the steps and landed softly at the man’s feet, but the box hit old one-tooth woman’s buggy a glancing blow and tore a hole in one of her plastic bags. Bits of paper, freed from confinement, began to drift onto the sidewalk and were riffled away by a slight breeze. The woman started to shout at the Mouse in little singsong yelps. The Mouse made a rude gesture and sat down on the top step. As usual, when he got agitated, the iris of the Mouse’s left eye began a loose rolling spin in it’s socket. He hated it when it did that.
Donny stared at the Mouse’s spinning eye. “Are you mad, Mouse?”
“Shut up, Donny,” the Mouse said, as his eye picked up a bit of speed. “And don’t stare at me neither, or you can go sit somewheres else.”
Donny dragged his gaze from the Mouse’s face. “Donny likes this day, Mouse. This is gonna be a good day, a really good day.”
“It’d be a better day if we had a coupla hundred bucks.”
The Mouse had rolled a young guy the night before in an alley behind a club on Adelaide Street in the entertainment district, but the kid’s wallet had only held a twenty and some small change.
The Mouse looked at Donny. “Maybe Tony needs us to do some collecting.” The Mouse often hired Donny out as muscle. He looked huge and impressively intimidating as long as the target didn’t realize Donny wouldn’t actually hurt anyone. Hurting people didn’t fit in with Donny’s sunny disposition. Fortunately, a smile on Donny’s meaty, uni-browed, ape-like features looked like a menacing growl to those who didn’t know him.
Such a grin appeared suddenly on Donny’s face as he looked over the Mouse’s left shoulder, causing several pedestrians to decide to hurry across the street now and take their chances with traffic, rather than waiting for the light to change.
“Look Mouse, it’s Drake-the-Snake. Hi, Snake!” He gave a cheery wave with one huge paw.
The Mouse whipped around, but it was too late to escape. Detective Drake, recent undercover cop, was already starting up the bank steps toward them, chewing on the business end of one of the carved toothpicks that the Mouse knew he extorted by the hundreds, along with other considerations, from the hole-in-the-wall Yung Fat Trading Company Emporium on Dundas Street.
“Donny and me aren’t doing nothing,” the Mouse said quickly.
“I can see that. So I’m gonna give you the chance to do something good with your day,” Detective Drake said, rolling his toothpick to the other side of his mouth with his tongue.
The Mouse looked around quickly from under lowered eyelids. Even though Drake was dressed to fit in with the neighbourhood, ripped-knee jeans and a once-white t-shirt that read “Ontario—Yours to Discover”, and had only recently started working this area, the Mouse did not want to be seen talking to him.
Drake scratched the stubble on his chin. “I need some information.”
“What kinda information?” the Mouse asked shortly. He looked Drake in the face.
Drake grimaced. “Jesus, can’t you do something about that damned eye? It gives me the creeps. One of your bad-ass friends should rip it out one day. Or maybe I should just do it myself, eh?” He grinned at the Mouse around his toothpick.
“Gee, Snake, Mouse don’t like it when you talk about his eye. Do you, Mouse?”
“Shut up Donny. Whadda ya want, Drake?”
“Seems to me you should be glad to give me this information, Arthuuuuur,” Drake said, drawing out the Mouse’s real given name. “Seeing as how you owe me a favour and all.”
The Mouse felt his rolling eye pick up it’s tempo. “Drake, you ain’t never going to forget that guy! It was an accident. An ak-see-dent. How was I supposed to know he would breathe in his own puke and die?”
“Well, Arthuuuuuur, he was just a drunk, stoned club kid on his way home, and if you hadn’t happened by to tap him on his skull while he was upchucking in that alley, he would still be here, and likely a credit to his family.” Drake swivelled his toothpick then snapped it with a crack of his large front teeth. He spat it on the sidewalk and pulled a replacement from his back pocket, licking both ends before installing it in the co
rner of his mouth. “Way I figure, you owe me favours until you die.”
The Mouse’s left eye was now exceeding the speed limit. “All right, all right, whadda ya want?”
“With your underworld connections, Arthuuur, I want the name of a local exterminator.”
The Mouse saw Donny’s face crease in a frown. “You got roaches, Snake? Mouse’s and my place’s got roaches too. They’re bad.”
“Shut up, Donny. He ain’t talking about roaches.” The Mouse’s could feel his eye reaching escape velocity. It made him feel dizzy and ill.
“Sure I am, Donny, a she-roach who’s bugging me.” His voice hardened. “Someone I need to disappear. And before you ask, it’s none of your business why.”
“You wanna hit on a woman?” The Mouse kept his voice barely above a whisper. His body tensed.
“Why, Arthuuur, you wanna protect the weaker sex or something?” Drake paused then grabbed the front of the Mouse’s shirt, pulling him close, the carved end of his toothpick an inch from the Mouse’s swirling left eye. The Mouse cringed and tried to pull back. Drake’s voice was deep, low and slow. “And if I hear anything—a peep, a whisper—about this little conversation, Arthuuuur, you will find yourself locked in a cell forever with the meanest, most perverted, drug-dealing biker I can find. Get it?” He let the Mouse drop, and only Donny’s bulk behind him prevented him from falling down the steps.
“Get outta my way, Donny,” the Mouse snarled. He broke Drake’s stare and looked down at the sidewalk. He only hesitated a moment, and his voice, when it came, was low, but steady. “You wanna good job, Hecate’s the best. She looks like an old gypsy lady—tells fortunes even, from her walk-up on Queen above the Budapest Bakery.” The Mouse gestured further down Queen West. “The victim never suspects this li’l old lady, and next thing, he’s bleeding on the sidewalk, floating in the harbour, or eating cement on a construction site.”
“But Mouse,” Donny said, his face puckering in a frown.
“Shut up, Donny, and I mean it! Don’t say no more, or I won’t let you hang around. Got it?”
“I got it, Mouse. But Mouse...”
“No more, Donny, I swear...”
Drake turned back as he began walking down the steps. “So Arthuur, remember what happens if I hear anything about our little chat. In fact, maybe I should give you a taste of jail time anyhow, just so’s you can try it out.”
“Nobody hears nothing from me,” the Mouse said quietly, his eyes still on the sidewalk.
Drake turned down the street toward the Budapest Bakery.
“Can I talk now, Mouse?” Donny looked up at the Mouse, but the Mouse kept his gaze on Drake’s back as the cop strolled up Queen Street.
“Yeah, what?”
“Mouse, Hecate don’t do women! It makes her crazy mad even to ask her. Donny heard the last guy who asked her just disappeared.”
The Mouse turned around. “Aw, Donny, that’s just a story. We don’t know that for sure. If Hecate don’t do women, she’ll just tell the Snake, and he’ll find somebody else.” The Mouse sighed and stretched his arms above his head. “Remember how you said this was gonna be a really good day? I’m thinking you’re right. Tell you what, I’ll pay for breakfast over at the Kowloon Chinese-Canadian Restaurant, I’m thinking it’s gonna be such a good day.”
The Mouse looked down at his friend and smiled. His left eye was rock-steady.
Nancy McQueen is a new mystery writer, although writing of the non-fiction (mostly) variety is part of her day job. She lives in downtown Toronto, quite near the location of her story, with a very cranky Quaker parrot named Malki, and Malki’s pet budgie Pip. She is working on a novel-length historical mystery, and some short non-mystery fiction inspired by quirky characters in her neighbourhood (including herself, and possibly a loud, crabby parrot).
Dead Against Telling
Linda Wiken
So, who did it? Who did the old babe in?” Detective Julie Kellogg spun around to face the hoarse voice demanding an answer. She had to look down at the wizened creature propped up by a cane.
“You ask me, it was young Bulldog Face. Probably got caught humping Poodle Cut and knew the old dame had to go if he wanted to keep his paycheque. Old lady McGuire kept real quiet, looked like a Shih Tzu, all silk ‘n bows, popping in and outta mass and rattlin that rosary around in her pocket. She wouldnta stood for having anything on the side around here. No sirree, she’da been sniffing around for secrets.” He snorted. “Can’t have any fun around here.”
“Now, Mr. Sorens.” A tall thin woman dressed in a pink uniform appeared from a doorway. “And, where should we be?”
“I’m on my way to my room,” Sorens snapped, “but you sure as hell cant come with me.” He shook an arthritic hand and continued his shuffle down the hall. Julie could just make out the tune he whistled, “I got my thrill on Blueberry Hill”. She smiled.
The nurse’s aide grimaced, shrugged her shoulders in Julie’s direction, and ignoring the old guy’s warning, followed him.
Life in the seniors’ fast lane, Julie thought. She spotted the stairs, opted to bypass the elevator, and climbed the three flights. The start of a new case always got the adrenaline pumping. A murder, especially that of an older person, added a note of dread. Especially one in a seniors’ residence. She’d been in a lot of them this past month, looking for the perfect new home for her mother, juggling the guilt she felt, even though her mom kept assuring Julie it was time.
She shook herself out of her reverie as she reached the door to room 310. It opened as if on cue, and two officers in blue—one a constable, the other, Sergeant Lorens of Delta platoon who’d called in the homicide to Criminal Investigations—backed out of the room.
“Hey, Kellogg...it’s all yours,” said the sergeant.
“Ident get started?”
“Not here yet. Dawson’ll fill you in.” He winked and strode towards the elevator. They’d gone through Police College in Aylmer together, and now, twelve years later, Ken Lorens was sergeant and Julie still a constable. Not that it really bothered her. She’d meant to take the sergeant’s exam a couple of times, but life had a way of interfering. First, her no-fault, amicable divorce that turned out to be neither and had consumed her energy. Now, all the worry about her mom, not to mention time spent looking at places.
“What’ve you got?” Julie asked Dawson.
“Victim’s name is Mary Margaret McGuire. Age seventy-nine. Took one shot right between the eyes. 911 got the call at 1720 hours. I arrived on scene at 1724.”
“Who called it in?”
“One of the staff. A nurses’ aide, Peggy Warden. Came to see why McGuire hadn’t shown up for supper. Took one look then called us. Unfortunately, she used the phone in there, but, get this. She had to unlock the door to get in.”
Julie opened her notebook and wrote down the details. “Any sign of the weapon?”
“Nada. And I’ll bet you my parking spot for a month that nobody heard or saw a thing.”
“No bet, Dawson. Although the sound of a gunshot is usually hard to miss. You on watch here?”
He held up the yellow plastic “crime scene” tape. “You got it. Just going to start decorating the hall.”
Julie found the administrator’s office back down on the main floor, along a hallway that ran the length of the building. The door stood open, and a male, medium-build, in his late thirties, sat at the desk. She knocked.
“Excuse me, I’m Detective Julie Kellogg. You’re Mr. Gant?”
“Yes, I’m David Gant, come in. This is a very sad thing, but I’ve got to start making some phone calls. Damage control. When this makes the eleven o’clock news tonight, there are going to be some very unhappy backers. I don’t mean to sound crass, what with Mrs. McGuire just dying, but I have to face the reality of bad press. I’ve been at Ogilvy Manor for ten years, and nothing like this has ever happened before.”
“I do need to ask you some questions, Mr. Gant. Now would be a good time. It w
on’t take long.”
Gant hesitated, then pointed to the chair. Julie remained standing.
“Tell me, as administrator, do the residents talk to you about their problems? Share confidences?”
“I hear about their financial problems, of course.”
“How were Mrs. McGuire’s finances?”
Gant shook his head and shifted in his seat. “I’m really not certain. She had been concerned just before Christmas, as I recall, but hadn’t mentioned anything lately. And her payments were always on time.”
“Does she have any relatives?”
“She has a niece who lives in Toronto. Here’s her phone number. I’m not looking forward to this call.”
Julie scribbled down the number. “I’ll make the call.”
“That’s a relief. Look, I need to know how your investigation will affect the routine around here. The residents are creatures of habit, you know. Everything has to be right on schedule, or we hear about it.”
“I can understand that,” Julie said. “My mother’s like that. Any changes, no matter how small, and we’re into a crisis.”
Gant nodded.
“The Ident crew could take a long time, and we’ll need to keep her room unavailable until they’re finished,” Julie explained. “We’ll need an office where we can interview the staff tonight, then in the morning, a couple of officers and I will be back to interview the residents.”
“How about the photocopying room next to the library? There’s a desk and telephone in there. And here’s a copy of our monthly newsletter with the daily schedules in it. That might help.”
“Thanks. And I’ll need a list of the residents and their room numbers.”
“Just let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” Gant said, handing over the list.
Julie left the office and headed back upstairs. Two attendants from the body removal service lounged against a gurney in the hall to the left of the door at 310. She nodded at them and knocked before entering the room.