by Barb Goffman
“You look tired, Cassie,” Mom said. “Go take a nap. I’m sure you’ll feel better afterward. We’ll see you in a few weeks.”
In less than a minute, they packed up their cooler with the remains of our chicken-salad sandwiches, reminded me to write to my grandparents about the fun summer I was having, and left for the parking lot.
I stood there like road kill, watching them leave me without a backward glance. I’d told them I was miserable, and they didn’t care. I began walking to my cabin, my fingernails slicing into my palms.
Why couldn’t they ever stick up for me? Why did they always pretend things would be great if only I tried harder? Why didn’t they ever get that my life wasn’t the fairy tale they wanted it to be?
It took all my strength not to scream. Then I spotted Jason picnicking with his family. Smiling and laughing. I stared at him, my breaths coming in angry gasps, and something clicked inside my head. Suddenly I felt calmer. Everything seemed clearer. Kids were cruel. Grownups were useless. The only one I could count on was me, and I was done being everyone’s punching bag.
I thought a moment, then headed for the woods.
That night after dinner, when all the happy families had left and my bunkmates played tetherball and did gymnastics, I went to the ceramics building. I had no real reason to go there—my bowl was still in the kiln. But I wanted to take the shortcut. And I wanted Jason to see me doing it.
I rushed through the woods, shaking. Except for that afternoon, when I knew Jason was busy with his parents, I hadn’t been alone in the woods since that day he’d jumped me. I made it safely to the other side, then spent a few minutes in the ceramics building, taking deep breaths.
Soon I started back. Escaping the humid air, I hurried into the woods, where the trees’ canopy kept the temperature cooler and the air drier. I started to tremble again as I stepped over fallen branches and reached the area where the ground was kind of level. Where Jason had surprised me before. My eyes darted left and right. The trees were so dense. Was he there?
A twig snapped, and I started as he sprung out from behind a huge oak. His eyes gleamed while a horrifying smirk creased his face.
My whole body shook as he came at me, leaves and pine needles crunching under foot. I started to run, but after just a few steps, he tackled me.
“Aw, why are you making things hard on yourself?”
I tried to crawl away. I got maybe a yard before he grabbed me again and flipped me over. While he unzipped his jean shorts, I squirmed backward. I’d only moved a few inches before he yanked down my shorts, pressed on me, and the pain began again.
I flailed my hands around while he grunted. Oh, God. Where were the rocks? The rocks I’d scattered around, because I’d figured Jason would choose this spot again. I stretched until I thought I’d dislocate my shoulder. Finally my hand brushed one. I twisted and slipped my fingers around it.
The rock was rough and sharp. Heavy. Eyes closed, I took a deep breath and slammed it against the back of Jason’s head. He shuddered, and I hit him again and again and again. He dropped down on me. The whole world seemed to stop.
Was he breathing? I listened closely. No. I couldn’t hear him anymore. All I could hear were the birds singing in the twilight and my own heart beating ferociously.
I shoved Jason off, nearly vomited, then pulled my shorts up. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He was dead. Had to be. Arms shaky, I leaned over and pushed his thing back in his jeans and zipped them up. I grabbed the rock. It had blood and some of Jason’s hair on it. I threw it as far as I could into the woods. Then I took some deep breaths, shook the twigs and leaves from my hair, and brushed myself off before starting back.
I’d done it. I was free.
I felt stunned with those first few steps, surprised I’d pulled it off. Then happiness surged through me. I began laughing as I shoved away a low-lying branch, ripping its leaves off and throwing them in the air. Free! Score one for the little liar. No one was ever going to fuck with me again and get away with it.
I composed myself before I left the woods and went back to my cabin to read. Not that I could concentrate. I kept waiting for all hell to break loose. It started slowly. After Jason missed the evening activity, some counselors began searching for him. Then more did. And more. But they didn’t find him until the next day. Not until some animals and a lot of insects had feasted on him. Word quickly spread about the state of Jason’s body. Some girls cried.
Not me.
The police arrived soon after. A lot of them. All the kids stayed on their cabin porches, peeking at the woods as best they could. The cops were in there a long time. Finally, some of them came out and headed to the camp office. They must have asked if anyone had a grudge against Jason because within minutes Lenny came and got me, his nostrils flaring again.
“You’re an evil little girl, aren’t you,” he said as he marched me to the camp office.
I’m what you all made me, asshole.
I shoved my hands in my pockets to hide the scratches from the twigs and pine needles and kept talking to myself.
You can do this. Stay strong. Don’t let them get to you.
My heart thudded so loudly as we neared the office, I was sure the whole camp could hear. But as I stumbled across the threshold—thanks to a little push from Lenny—a cop with a red mustache shook his head.
“This is the girl you told us about?” he asked Lenny, rolling his eyes.
Lenny nodded.
“Nah. No way she could’ve done it. She’s way too small. The boy was hit from behind near the top of his head. Whoever did it must have been much taller. Go round up the older kids and the counselors. They’re the ones we want to talk to.”
I fought not to smirk. Being short had finally paid off.
I practically floated back to my cabin, feeling stronger than I ever had before. Invincible. Then I saw Darla standing on the porch, giving me the evil eye. I gave it right back to her.
One down. One to go. And then I’d take care of the head bitch back home.
I laughed out loud. Dad was right. This was going to be the time of my life.
I once heard an editor say that she loved stories with interesting, unusual settings. I live in the suburbs. Haven’t traveled much. I wondered if I could I create a setting that isn’t the same-old same-old? And then I thought of sleep-away camp. I went to a wonderful sleep-away camp in Connecticut as a kid. I remember the smell of the grass, the songs, the sports, the friendships, and the girl you couldn’t stand (until she came back the next summer and became your best friend—had I changed or had she?). That was the world I wanted to re-create in “Evil Little Girl.” Where the plot came from, I’m not quite sure. It’s certainly not autobiographical, except for the title. In the third grade, I got into an argument with my best friend. I then tattled on her to our school librarian. I’ll never forget how the librarian looked at me and said, “You’re an evil little girl, aren’t you?” I can’t remember the librarian’s name, but her words have stuck with me. I’m glad I’m finally able to put them to good use. And Mrs. X, wherever you are, don’t worry. I’ve turned out just fine. Okay, I kill people for a living, but it’s fictional, so I hope we’re all good.
MURDER AT SLEUTHFEST
Mother was always vigilant about hygiene. Someone sneezes near you, wash your hands. Leave the house and touch anything, wash your hands. And don’t just wash them, scrub them. When I got older and started wearing rings, Mother trained me to remove them when I washed. Mustn’t let germs hide beneath the band.
Even now, with the advent of Purell and Mother dead a good twenty-five years, I’d wash my hands thirty times a day if I could. I might not have noticed the effects of the disease so early if I weren’t meticulous. The slight tremor in my fingers might have escaped me five years ago if I hadn’t paid so much attention when I scrubbed.
I’d never have known back then that the disease that killed Mother had come for me, too.
; Three kids in my family, but I’m the one who watched her die. My brother, Dave, is a Manhattan shrink. When we realized Mother was becoming helpless, he had a kid and an extravagant wife to support. No way he could afford a sabbatical from work. Marion, my little sis, was in law school. We told her not to take time away from school. She happily obliged. Mother had imposed a fear of germs on Marion, too. So much so that when Mother got the disease, Marion shied away, even though it’s not catching.
That left me. The unmarried mystery writer. I could practice my craft from anywhere, and I had nobody to leave behind. So I packed up and moved back home to Philly. To Mother’s sterile house. And I watched the disease attack her muscles, destroying her mobility and, in turn, her dignity. Until the day she couldn’t swallow anymore. She refused a feeding tube. We buried her two weeks later.
The doctors told us the disease wasn’t hereditary. They didn’t know the cause, but they knew that.
I didn’t believe them.
After noticing my first symptom, I felt vindicated, in a sick sort of way. The doctors treated me like a hypochondriac when I showed up and claimed the rare disease as my own. Now that I can’t type my stories anymore, that I can’t wash anymore, that I can hardly move and have to recite this in my wobbly voice, now they believe me.
But I knew from that first tremor. And I knew I didn’t want to die like Mother did.
So I hatched a plan and in March headed off to the annual Sleuthfest mystery conference in Fort Lauderdale. I met up with old pals, and over a round of margaritas, I pitched my next book. It’d involve a murder for hire. I wanted to make it authentic. Who could I speak with for details? They shared names of cops. But I wanted someone on the inside, I said. My friend Gabby came through. Her town had a big case like that a few years back. She recalled the killer’s name and where he sat on death row.
I sent a letter of introduction the next morning. It didn’t take long for the guy to agree to see me. Guess he wanted company. Securing official permission to visit him took longer. Finally I got it. By my third visit we were old chums. That’s when I revealed my plan. I needed someone in his line of work. Could he help me?
I know I would’ve saved a lot of time and trouble if I’d just killed myself, but Mother had raised me to be squeamish. I simply couldn’t.
It was the next February when I finally struck the deal with Rex. I never knew his real name. We made all our contact using pay phones. I felt devious, like a character in my books. That made me feel better.
Rex didn’t want me to see his face, and I agreed. I feared I wouldn’t be able to go through with it if I spotted him, knowing what was coming. I sent him payment in cash to a post office box. We resolved it should happen not in my town or his. And then I thought of Sleuthfest. I hadn’t planned to go that year. The disease had progressed steadily, and I couldn’t climb stairs anymore, had trouble opening doors. Moving hurt. But it seemed the perfect place. With all those people milling about the hotel, Rex could come and go without being noticed. It’d be easy. And it had style. Murder at a mystery conference.
Rex didn’t know exactly what I looked like. The photo on my books had been taken ten years and twenty pounds ago. I offered to send a current picture, but he said no. He didn’t want to risk anyone he knew seeing it. Might connect him with me. The old photo on the library book would be good enough. So I told him my brown hair now had streaks of gray. I said I’d wear the gaudiest ring I owned. A big fake diamond surrounded by large imitation sapphires and rubies. It’d be on my left ring finger. He couldn’t miss it.
After the first session of the conference, I headed to the ladies room. Had to wash my hands. I removed the ring while I scrubbed and forgot to put it back on. Left it sitting next to the sink.
I realized my blunder fifteen minutes later. By the time I made it back to the restroom, the ring was gone. I hoped a kind soul had found it and turned it in at the hotel’s front desk. Nope. I had announcements made in each session for the rest of the day. A ring with a large diamond surrounded by sapphires and rubies was left in the women’s restroom. Great sentimental value. Please return it if you found it. I even offered a $100 reward.
I prayed the thief would be smart enough not to slip it on during the conference.
No such luck.
A scream interrupted the last session that day. A woman had been found dead in the silent auction room at the end of the hall. She’d been shot at close range, her blood soiling the beige carpeting onto which she’d crumpled. She was an unpublished author, I learned. Searching for an agent. Her hair was brown and graying like mine. And there, on her left ring finger, sat my ring.
The police questioned me, being the owner of the stolen ring, but my alibi was solid. I eventually got the ring back. I don’t wear it.
I never spoke with Rex again. As far as I know, the Fort Lauderdale police never solved the murder of the woman who stole my ring.
And I sit here in my wheelchair, straining to breathe, unable to move, waiting to die. After the conference, I decided this should be my punishment. My punishment for being so scared of the disease. So scared my plan might be discovered that I let a thief be murdered.
I just wish I could wash my hands one more time.
“Murder at Sleuthfest” first appeared in Chesapeake Crimes II, originally published by Quiet Storm Press in 2005. This story was nominated for the 2005 Agatha Award.
When I wrote “Murder at Sleuthfest,” I’d been working on a mystery novel for a while, but I hadn’t written any short stories since high school. (Let’s not talk about those beauties.) In fact, I’d never published any crime fiction. But I was inspired: I had attended the Sleuthfest mystery conference earlier that year, where my lovely diamond-and-sapphire ring was stolen. (I bear no ill will against the conference organizers; I’m the dope who took off my ring and left it on a bathroom sink in the hotel, from where someone pocketed it.) If I was going to lose that ring, I was going to ensure something good came out of it. So I devised this story, setting it at Sleuthfest, where someone steals a ring and gets her just dessert. The result was my first published story, and it was nominated for an Agatha Award, too, which was amazing icing on the cake. While I wish I had gotten the ring back, the theft is what ultimately inspired me to begin writing short stories, and for that, I’m actually, somewhat, grateful.
TRUTH AND CONSEQUENCES
“We discussed prostitution, adultery, and drug use in school today,” I announced at dinner. “Did you know they’re victimless crimes?”
My mother nearly choked on her green beans. “You what?”
“It was all Andy Telwacht’s fault. He and Robbie Winters did their oral debate in Social Studies on marijuana. Robbie called it a gateway drug and said people should go to jail for a long time for using it. Then Andy said that smoking pot didn’t hurt anyone, and it should be legal here in Illinois just like it is in Europe!”
Dad’s eyes bugged out while Mom’s face turned a deep red. Boy, I loved to get them going.
“You know how Mr. Carracio always tells us to ‘think for ourselves,’” I went on. “So we got into this big debate about whether marijuana is dangerous. Bonnie Kingman said it’s not, that it’s just like prostitution and adultery. If everyone’s a consenting adult, what’s the problem? I kind of think she’s right.”
Mom slapped the table top so hard, my plate of chicken bounced. “This is what we get for spending our hard-earned money on that fancy private school.”
She scowled and wagged her finger at me. “You listen to me, Cara. Drug use, prostitution, and adultery are not victimless crimes. People get hurt in ways you can’t even begin to fathom when you’re fourteen years old. If you even think about doing drugs and I find out about it—and believe me, I will—you will rue the day.”
I rolled my eyes. Rue the day. Mom was so melodramatic.
* * * *
An hour later, Dad poked his head in my room. His curly brown hair fell across his forehead, cover
ing his eyebrows. He looked so dorky. I tugged off my iPod earbuds.
“Mom and I are going to the supermarket,” he said. “She wants ice cream. I’ll turn on the alarm on the way out.”
“Okay,” I said. “See you later.”
I tried to play it cool, but I was psyched. Now I could ditch my algebra homework for something far more important: searching for my Christmas presents. Ten days till Christmas. No way I could wait that long to see what this year’s haul would be. Over the last week, I’d hunted around the house for my gifts. I’d only found one: a black and gray Dooney & Bourke wristlet buried in a Tupperware container. Mom’s been real sneaky about hiding my presents since fifth grade, when she caught me searching for them. Boy, had she yelled that day.
“Cara Beth Holloway, what do you think you’re doing?”
I was elbow-deep in her underwear drawer. What did she think I was doing?
“You get out of this room right now, young lady. Snooping can be dangerous business.”
Yeah, right. I couldn’t imagine what I might possibly discover that would be dangerous. My parents simply weren’t that interesting.
Now, with them out for probably an hour, I concentrated my search on their bedroom. Every nook and cranny had to be systematically examined. Mom’s stealth knew no bounds.
Unfortunately, after a half hour, I still hadn’t found anything meant for me. Dad had apparently bought cruise tickets for him and Mom (which meant—please no—that my grandparents would come to watch me while they were gone). Where was my stuff? I really wanted that new phone Kim got for her birthday. It’s tiny. It could be hidden anywhere.
I decided to hit the closet by the front door. I hadn’t checked there yet. I rifled through every pocket of every coat. Nothing. Then I reached down to the snow shoes we kept in the back of the closet. Maybe Mom had slipped something inside one of them.