Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  Next I looked at the canvas chairs where the family had been sitting. Their muddy shoes had left some marks but most of the footwear prints had dried and it was hard to make them out. I had been up all night and at this point I was tempted to return to my bed to rest. Then I thought of Sherlock Holmes, another of my heroes, and decided he would not have given up so easily. I concentrated on the marks left by the shoes again. I peered under the bed, where there was a little dust. At last, satisfied, I went outside and studied the footprints there. I started by Caroline and Vincent’s tent and then looked at the crescent-shaped path, and the long track that led to the mess. I spent all afternoon on my hands and knees and only stopped when the first vehicle arrived in from safari, very tired but pleased with my deductions.

  Now my life in Cheetah tented camp continues. I know how the impossible murder has been committed but I have decided I can do nothing with the information. I have no proof, and besides, I know better than to meddle in the affairs of rich Europeans. Everything seems to have returned to normal: I carry water for the showers, greet the visitors, and at night I provide them with security.

  The end of the season comes with the rains. We pack up the tents and I make my plans for the future. I’ve almost forgotten about the locked tent mystery, when I come across the culprit quite by chance. I’m in Kilimanjaro Airport waiting to get a flight to the coast. I have decided to ask my brother in Dar es Salaam for that loan, though I have little hope of success. He is a pompous man and is more likely to give me a lecture than the money I need. Across the busy departure lounge I see the old lady. She’s sitting quite still with her stick between her legs, waiting for the flight to Amsterdam. I can’t think what she’s been doing in the weeks since she left the camp. There’s no sign of her friend Valerie. Her lipstick still matches her beautifully painted nails and she wears a silk scarf tied around her neck.

  It’s the scarf that makes her suddenly familiar, not only as Lavinia, the single woman travelling with the Brookes family, but as Mrs Peacock, the diplomat’s wife, who loved Tanzania and donated her books to our school. Mrs Peacock, who awarded me a prize for my skill in the English language.

  I sit down beside her. ‘How much did the family pay you to kill Caroline Brookes?’

  She turns slowly and smiles. ‘Moses,’ she says, ‘how lovely to see you again!’

  Despite myself I’m touched that she has remembered my name. While I always make a point of memorising the visitors’ names when they arrive at the camp, they seldom make the same effort. She shuts her eyes as if she’s a little tired. ‘I didn’t only do it for the money, you know.’ When she opens her eyes again they’re bright and birdlike. ‘Caroline was a very unpleasant person. I was a pal of Margaret, Vincent’s first wife. Before she died she asked me to look after him. She knew he’d be a soft touch. Caroline had already persuaded him to give up control of the family business, and she was after even more. Vincent knew she was bleeding him dry, but he didn’t have the strength to stand up to her.’ Lavinia shakes her head sadly. ‘There are so many weak men in the world.’

  In the airport an announcer calls the flight to Mwanza and a lot of people drift away. There’s a moment of silence. Lavinia puts a hand on my knee. ‘So you worked it all out?’

  ‘The locked tent mystery? Yes.’

  ‘Is that what you call it? How delicious!’

  I’m shocked that she seems to be treating this as a game and my voice is stern. ‘Is that what you do these days instead of living off your pension? You kill people for money?’

  ‘I very rarely kill. Murder is so vulgar. If Caroline’s attitude had been a little different over dinner that night, things might not have taken such a dramatic turn. But I could see there was no other way out for Vincent. My business is in solving problems. Killing is always the last resort.’ She pauses and sighs. ‘I was a diplomat’s wife, you see, and life became very tame when my darling Ian died.’

  I am about to tell her that I know she was a diplomat’s wife, when she prods my toe with the pointed end of her stick. ‘Go on, then. How did I do it?’

  ‘It wasn’t just you. Everyone must have been a part of it. Everyone except Caroline.’

  ‘Well, yes.’ She nods to concede the point. ‘But it was my idea. Mine and Valerie’s. Val was Ian’s assistant. Indispensable. Then a man was rather beastly to her and she had a nervous breakdown. She works with me now.’

  ‘Were the family coming to Africa anyway?’ I hope to get to the point before Lavinia’s flight is called.

  ‘Caroline always wanted to do a safari,’ Lavinia says. ‘There was something of the predator about her. I can see why she’d be attracted. I organised the itinerary and tagged along for the Serengeti leg. Vincent said Val and I were friends of his first wife’s and that we’d reduce the cost. That swung it. Like many rich people, Caroline was very mean.’

  After another pause, Lavinia continues the story herself. I suspect that she wanted to tell it in her own words from the beginning. ‘Vincent and the children bored her. It wasn’t hard to persuade her to leave them drinking that night.’

  ‘And when I went back to collect the others from the mess, you killed her,’ I said.

  She claps her hands. ‘Beautifully deduced.’

  ‘It had to be then,’ I say. ‘I was watching the tent for the rest of the night.’

  ‘I knew you would be.’ She smiles. ‘I have a spy in the camp. He told me how conscientious you are.’

  It occurs to me then that Lavinia would have made a good spy herself and I wonder if she was more than a diplomat’s wife when she travelled the world. She slides her hand down her stick revealing the buffalo’s head at the top. ‘This is rather heavy. It did the job very nicely, though it did take a couple of blows to finish her off.’

  I feel sick. This woman must have no morals despite her link to the Tanga High School for Boys. But curiosity gets the better of me. ‘Then you pretended to be Caroline and called the others in.’

  ‘Well, we couldn’t have them accused of murder. You were needed as an alibi.’

  I remember the hot night, stillness after the rain. ‘You mimicked her voice very well.’

  She considers that for a moment. ‘It’s kind of you to say so, but we hear what we expect to, don’t we? And I imagine one well-bred English voice sounds much like another.’ She pauses. ‘Though I was quite a star in the Amateur Dramatics Society Ian and I formed in Saigon.’

  I continue: ‘Then when I followed Mr Brookes to his children’s tents, you slipped away into your own. I heard a scuffling noise but I thought it was a rat.’

  She seems a little put out. ‘I have been likened to many things but never to a rat.’

  I ignore the comment. ‘When Vincent returned to the tent it only took seconds for him to pull the rug with Caroline rolled inside it from under the bed.’

  ‘And I thought I’d been so clever,’ Lavinia says. ‘How did you work it out?’

  ‘Your shoe marks were inside the tent. You walk with a limp and the left mark was clearer than the right. You didn’t seem part of the family so you had no reason to be there.’ I pause. ‘And outside there were holes in the mud made by your stick.’

  She claps her hands again. ‘Oh, you clever boy. I could have trained you myself. Now what are we going to do about this? I do hope you’re not going to run to the police.’

  ‘It is probably my duty,’ I say, ‘to tell them that you have confessed to murder.’

  She looks at me intently. ‘Aren’t you the Moses Joho who won the Tanga English language prize in 2006?’

  In that moment, I forget about her lack of morals and I love her. I picture Caroline Brookes with her strong hyena jaw and her pitiless eyes. ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘there would be no proof. It would be your word against mine.’

  She reaches out and grasps my hand.

  We part as very good friends.
When Lavinia walks away to take her flight she stops and calls back to me: ‘Let’s keep in touch. I could use an associate like you.’ Then she disappears through the gate.

  I go to the Precision Airways desk and cancel my flight to Dar. I don’t need to trouble my brother now. Instead, I’ll go into Arusha and catch a bus to Pangani. In my pocket is a cheque large enough to buy a good second-hand Land Cruiser. Thanks to the locked tent mystery, I’m already in business.

  Blind Date

  Jeffrey Deaver

  Halfway through dinner, she felt apprehension grow within her like a fever.

  Oh, up until then, things had been going great. Sitting in the quasi-fancy restaurant, across from Tim, they’d been laughing, dropping some facts, withholding others, getting to know each other, as they navigated that oh-so-tricky time from first hello to second wine.

  Of course, Joannie hadn’t been too worried. Sure, they’d met online. But not through a one-night-stand site. It was a legitimate service, to meet people with common interests and, possibly spark a friendship, someone who might turn into something more. Hook-up wasn’t on the front burner, though any time men and women met on a blind date (or ‘visually impaired,’ Tim’s joke on political correctness), that possibility was always present.

  But for the first hour or so, through the escargot (they both loved ‘garlic butter with snails on the side’) and the salad (vinaigrette, their fave), everything had gone smoothly, with little awkwardness.

  Joannie Karsten was thirty-four, divorced. The five-foot-two-inch blonde (always cut short) was a marketing manager for a Whole Foods wannabee, with three stores in the Indianapolis area. Tim Evans was thirty-six, never married. When she’d volunteered that she had no children he’d nodded thoughtfully and said, ‘I don’t either.’ A brief moment had passed. ‘But I keep getting these notices from around the country, “Paternity Order.” What’s that mean? You know?’

  They’d both laughed.

  That was Tim, low-key, funny. He worked for himself, a freelance computer programmer—he tried explaining the code he wrote, but it went right over her head, though she could understand the games he liked to play. They were called first-person shooters. You stalked around some battlefield or distant planet and blew the hell out of bad guys (or good guys, depending on which team you picked). She herself had no interest in computer gaming. But her nephew—her sister’s teenager—spent hours playing them. Too violent for her. Tim reassured her, though, that he only killed aliens humanely. Never using a chainsaw or machete.

  Another laugh, though she just noted that he sure seemed to play them quite a bit.

  At least it was better than getting drunk on beer while watching a game.

  Now that she thought about it, he looked a bit like a soldier. Thin waist, muscular shoulders. Trim brown hair. His blue eyes were focused and he had no problem looking directly into hers.

  They navigated a few political differences, but neither of them was rabidly red or blue. She went to church occasionally; he did not, but didn’t hoist the atheism banner. And on the subject of films and books and NPR programs, they were in close harmony.

  But then, just as the main courses arrived, so did the apprehension.

  This had nothing to do with Tim. She grew distracted as he was chatting away and cutting a bite of steak. He had, it seemed, asked her a question, but her eyes were on the TV above the bar. The sound was too low to hear but the images were clear and the crawl of type at the bottom of the screen explained that the Roman Numeral Killer had murdered again—a waitress at Callaghan’s Road House, which was two miles away from where they sat. The crawl added that the police thought there may be some witnesses in the latest razor-attack murder, but so far the killer was still at large.

  ‘Sorry?’ she turned back.

  ‘I was saying, on your Facebook page? Those pictures of the garden, the flowers. Beautiful.’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’

  ‘What kind of camera?’

  ‘My iPhone.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  Tim had explained that he was an amateur photographer and was obsessed with photo gadgets. Then he seemed to think that, on a first date, he shouldn’t be using the O-word. And grinned. ‘Well, let’s just say, I’m not weirdly obsessed. But here’s a rule: don’t order things on eBay late at night after a glass of wine.’

  And don’t call exes.

  Or your mother.

  She kept these to herself, though. Family and former relationships were not suitable material for a blind date.

  Tim asked, ‘Was that Cooper Gardens? I thought I recognized the bridge.’

  ‘Yeah, I live right across the street from the Wilson Street entrance. I run there every morning. Well, some mornings.’

  ‘I live across town but I like to bike there. That last hill—by your house. It’s a tough one.’

  She nodded absently. Her mind was elsewhere, thinking about the girl’s murder. The cold, still, dark-green body bag. The detective’s face was somber. His silent words would be about urging people to be careful, she guessed.

  ‘You okay?’ Tim asked.

  This brought her around. ‘Sorry. Just, that story. It’s terrible.’ She indicated the screen.

  ‘The killer.’ He closed his eyes momentarily. ‘That’s the third, right?’

  She nodded and said she thought so. ‘And, you know, none of the murders were very far away.’

  ‘Young white professionals,’ he said. ‘The first one was a nurse. Tonight...’ He glanced at the screen. ‘A waitress. Both women. But there was a man, too, wasn’t there?’

  Joannie frowned. ‘I think so. Right. A grad student.’

  ‘Nothing sexual?’

  ‘No, they’re saying he just likes to kill for the thrills of it.’

  ‘And cuts those numbers in their foreheads. Roman numerals. What’s that all about?’ Tim’s eyes were now on the screen, too. Some talking heads were saying something—surely speculating on motive or the psychology behind serial killers. The crawl said, ‘Who’s at risk?’

  Me? she wondered.

  Then she forced herself back—mentally—to the table.

  But the damage had been done.

  The odds were that she wasn’t in any danger, of course. But Joannie Karsten was the queen of paranoia. She was meticulous in every aspect of her life. Always prepared, she planned ahead of time to avoid any risk or problems. Like having her house checked for termites and rot monthly. She carried plenty of property, health, and liability insurance (even for Bosco). In her shoulder bag she kept hand wipes and spare footwear and even a spare driver’s license, in case she lost her wallet. At work her reports were always prepared early, and she triple-checked them for typos.

  On the street she was always aware of her surroundings and sized people up carefully. (Okay, she’d Googled Tim Evans and checked him out carefully before the date, though she stopped short of a criminal background check. Because how to explain that if the subject came up later?)

  And all this serial killer talk—what could she do to be safer?

  And she had to be safe. She couldn’t afford to have anything happen to her. Kim—her mother—was on disability; Joannie’s father had lived a high life and, when the heart attack finally got him, the resulting insurance proceeds went mostly to pay off debts. Joannie helped out with the woman’s rent and getting her to and from PT twice a week, as well as paying some of the medical bills. She was the go-to babysitter for her nephews. And, of course, Bosco needed her, too.

  Then she forced away her concerns, almost smiling to herself at the thought that a Jack Russell terrier was a reason for her to be on particular guard.

  Girl, you definitely need to get out more.

  The news story changed to a game. Tim launched into an account of a disastrous bachelor party he’d put together for a co-worker. And the waiter asked
if they’d like dessert.

  Her concerns didn’t vanish, but she was able to turn her attention back to the man across from her and laugh at one of his silly jokes.

  The bananas Foster—the flambé dish that was showy and always tasted damn good—was spectacular.

  She and Tim dug with relish into the syrupy dessert and found they had sweets in common too…and that they both were lucky that they liked to exercise. Biking was his thing. She liked to run. They almost simultaneously commented on how unfair it was that so few calories were burned by a workout. Her comment was: ‘This morning I ran half a bagel, dry, with a teaspoon of jelly.’

  They both laughed once more.

  Joannie reflected how good it was to be out with someone and feel no awkwardness. No pressure. He really was a very nice man. And, she had to admit, a good-looking one, too. Of course, he might never call her. That happened, even on the best of blind dates. But instinctively she had a sense that she’d hear from Tim Evans again.

  The conversation continued to meander, pleasantly, for a time, over coffee. The restaurant began to empty. It was Friday night, but this part of town was populated more with families than professionals and folks were heading home to bed. Joannie, too, was tired and she knew the time had come to leave. Never overstay a good thing.

  He insisted on picking up the check—wouldn’t even let her leave the tip. She said, impulsively, ‘Well, next time’s on me.’ And he responded with what was clearly genuine enthusiasm, ‘That’s a deal.’ She felt a thud, a pleasant one, looking into his eyes.

  She rose, picked up her large bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  Joannie wondered what would happen next—if Tim would suggest driving her home. He’d driven. But there was a protocol for the blind dates. You arrived separately, you left separately. Even if things went perfectly, this was the way it worked. You needed to make your companion comfortable. Tim played by the rules perfectly. When she said she’d better grab a cab back home, he offered her a ride. But when she demurred, saying, ‘Oh, no, it’s late,’ he nodded and didn’t take it any further.