AHMM, March 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "What were you gonna do after you and Ross came in here with your artillery?"

  "Roll ‘em in the lake?” Charley said, not sounding too sure about it.

  "Well, do what you have to. And don't worry about the cops. I'll get the blame anyhow. They've already hung everything on me but the Chicago fire."*

  * * * *

  A few days later, as we drove back to Chicago, Al said, “You know, boys, you gotta have a product that everybody needs every day. We don't have it in booze. Except for the lushes, most people only buy a couple of fifths of gin or scotch when they're having a party. The workingman laps up half a dozen bottles of beer on Saturday night, and that's it for the week."

  It had quit raining, and afternoon sun now poured over the Wisconsin countryside.

  "But with milk!” Al said. “Every family wants it on the table. The people on Lake Shore Drive want thick cream in their coffee. The big families out back of the yards have to buy a couple of gallons of fresh milk every day for the kids ... Do you guys know there's a bigger markup in fresh milk than there is in alcohol? Honest to God, we've been in the wrong racket right along."

  Copyright (c) 2006 M. J. Jones

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  EXPLOITATION by J. M. GREGSON

  Nellie Ganton would be eighty next birthday. When she was young, her friends had sometimes called her Nell Gwynne and made suggestive remarks about boobs and oranges, but those days had now long gone. That was a pity, because she'd rather enjoyed them.

  Nellie had a problem. Many problems, really, most of which came with old age, but one which was entirely new to her. She'd always got on well with the series of home helps the Council had provided for her. And they in turn had enjoyed working for this lively, bright-eyed old lady who had such very modern views about a lot of things. They'd enjoyed talking to Nell about politics, about the war, which had been long over when they were born, about the village school where Nell had taught and provided the foundation in life for so many children.

  The latest home help was a problem. Kate Stubbs was a buxom, cheerful woman in her late thirties, with three lively children, the youngest of whom occasionally accompanied her to Nellie's bungalow during school half-terms and holidays. Kate enjoyed a cup of tea and a gossip about the latest happenings in the town with Nellie. “I try to bring a little of the big world outside in with me to my old people, who can't get about as they used to do,” Kate Stubbs said breezily, and on the whole, she succeeded.

  She worked well enough, even if her standards were a little slapdash for the still precise and observant Mrs. Ganton. But Kate Stubbs wasn't honest.

  Nellie Ganton, who knew far better than to condemn anyone lightly, came to that conclusion reluctantly. The things that began to disappear were of no great value. The little teapot, which had gone from the back of the shelf in the kitchen, had been cracked for years. The set of fish knives, which had been a wedding present fifty-five years ago, had never been used: She would have been quite content to give them away, if she had been asked. Even the painting of the horse from the third bedroom, which had been her husband's study, had surely held no great value. It had been crudely executed, and in all truth, she would have got rid of it years ago if it hadn't been for the fact that Walter had rather liked it.

  Nellie had been a widow for five years now, and she missed Walter far more than she admitted to anyone. He had been a tall man, stooping a little in his last years, but always smiling and invariably polite. She could see him now, lifting his trilby hat to the ladies, in that old-fashioned gesture, which they seemed to like so much. She could see him but not speak to him, not ask him for his advice. At this moment, Nellie Ganton desperately needed advice.

  She didn't know what to do about Kate Stubbs. She'd had the odd case of petty pilfering among her children forty years ago and had dealt with it swiftly and effectively. But once she had become head teacher, the school had been her kingdom. It had been the place where she had made the rules and reigned with confidence, working to combine justice with compassion, relying on the trust of parents and relationships she had built with them over the years of their children's education.

  This was different. It made Nellie feel old and very vulnerable. She tried dropping hints to Mrs. Stubbs, tried letting her know that she suspected, even knew, what was going on. Nellie was sitting on an upright chair and looking at her old dining table, not at the culprit, as she said, “I'm probably mistaken, and I don't want to do anything about it, Kate. I just want it to stop."

  But she was aware even as she spoke that she sounded diffident rather than certain, that the words weren't coming out with her old authority. Right was on her side, and she should be in control of the situation. But she wasn't, and she knew it. And if she knew it, then Kate Stubbs certainly would.

  She did. She gave one glance at the bent grayhead over the table, went back to dusting the sideboard beneath the photographs of Walter Stubbs and the grandchildren in Australia, and said, “I've no idea what you're talking about, I'm sure. And I wouldn't go saying things like that, if I were you, Mrs. Ganton. Not if you know what's good for you."

  Kate bustled into some noisy and vigorous vacuuming, brushing the machine hard against the slippered feet beneath the table when Nellie Ganton did not move. After ten minutes of this, she switched off the vacuum and stood panting a little, watching the old lady, who had not moved at all since she had made her original accusation. Kate didn't feel at all threatened by this creature with the bent shoulders and the thinning, whitening hair. She was surprised by the sense of power she felt, in the face of the frailty at the table. Indeed, for some reason she could not fathom, Kate Stubbs felt quite excited.

  She said, “I'll make us a cup of tea now, and we'll enjoy it together. Have one of our little chats, if you like. Least said, soonest mended, I always think.” She banged two mugs on the table by the bent head, enjoyed watching the humped shoulders rear upward in shock.

  Even when the social worker came in for her six-month review of the situation, Nellie Ganton hesitated to speak. A woman's reputation and career were at stake here. Mrs. Stubbs might not find it easy to get other work that would fit in with caring for her children if she lost her job with the Council. Nellie would like her to be warned, not sacked, told to mend her ways and keep her light fingers under proper control. But Nellie couldn't be certain that that was what would happen if she spoke up about this. She wasn't in control of the situation as she had been for all those years in her school.

  And she realized for the first time that she was frightened of Mrs. Stubbs, frightened of the younger woman's physical strength and of her own weakness.

  It was the social worker who gave her the opening, after they had discussed Nellie's visits to her doctor and arranged for the chiropodist to call. She said breezily, “And how are you getting on with our Mrs. Stubbs?"

  "She's a good cleaner,” said Nellie woodenly.

  "One of our best,” said the social worker, snatching a look at her watch, then feeling embarrassed as she realized that the sharp gray eyes opposite her had caught the glance.

  Nellie Ganton understood perfectly in that moment that this well-meaning woman was under pressure, that she had other people to see, that she was doing her best with the limited time she could allot to Nellie in a crowded day. She said rather desperately, “I did have one reservation about her, though. It's probably something that could be put right with a word from you."

  "And what was that, Mrs. Ganton?” The social worker was immediately wary. These finicky old women who brought their standards from a different age didn't realize how lucky they were sometimes. Of course, you had to make allowances; when they were stuck in their own homes all the time, you couldn't expect them to know much about the real world outside, which went on without them. People like Mrs. Ganton couldn't really be expected to know that home helps were like gold dust, that there were never enough of them to go round, that she was really very lucky to have people looking after h
er like this.

  Nellie found herself staring at her table again. “It's difficult, really. Things have been—well, disappearing."

  The social worker's face froze. “We have to be very careful, you know, Mrs. Ganton. We don't want to go saying things that we might regret, do we?"

  "We aren't saying anything. I am trying to tell you something about one of the Council's employees. I am trying to tell you something that might be quite important.” Nellie hadn't meant to be waspish, but she had never liked other people telling her what she thought.

  The social worker looked at her watch again, this time making no attempt to disguise the gesture. “I have to say that it's my opinion that you should think very carefully about this, Mrs. Ganton. I've known people to get themselves into all kinds of trouble over accusations like this, you know. When people get older and live on their own, they get to imagining all kinds of things. I had one of my ladies say something silly only last year. It wasn't her fault really—her mind was beginning to go a little, we think. Anyway, she's in a home now, where her imagination can't run away with her. Best thing for everybody, I suppose, in the long run."

  She got out as quickly as she could, shutting out the image of Nellie Ganton standing in the doorway, staring bleakly after her as she drove away. She hoped she hadn't been too harsh with the old lady. You had to remind yourself sometimes that they'd been quite important people in their own day, these old dears. She told her staff that all the time.

  Nothing happened for a month. Nellie Ganton and Kate Stubbs moved warily around each other in the little bungalow, watching each other like animals guarding their territory. They exchanged much the same greetings and pleasantries as they had done before Nellie made her discoveries, the small phrases, which normally oil the wheels of life between people from different backgrounds. But the words had lost that function now; they rang false and hollow between two friends who had become adversaries. Kate Stubbs got on with the cleaning, and the woman she was here to help made sure that she was in the room next door to her. It was rather ridiculous, but it seemed to work. Nellie began to hope that the issue had been resolved without anyone suffering too severely.

  Then the little carriage clock from the spare bedroom disappeared. It had no great value; it was a cheap thing to start with, and it hadn't worked for years. But it had been the first real gift that her son had bought for her when he was thirteen, and Walter had always kept it in pride of place on his old bureau.

  Nellie had a sleepless night before Mrs. Stubbs's next visit. She said before Kate had taken her coat off, “The clock's gone missing from the spare bedroom. The one that Chris gave to me."

  "What clock was that, Mrs. Ganton?” Kate's blue eyes stretched wide in inquiry.

  "The little brass carriage clock. You must remember it."

  "Can't say that I do, Nellie. You're sure you're not imagining things?"

  "Quite sure.” Nellie looked her full and firm in the face this time: She had determined on that as she tossed restlessly in the first gray light of this long day.

  "Only the mind begins to play strange tricks as you get towards eighty. I've seen it often in the people I work for. You're eighty next week, Nellie, aren't you? Most of them end up in homes, once they begin to have fancies like that. I wouldn't like that to happen to you, Nellie. I really wouldn't.” She had a strange little smile on her face as she went to plug in the vacuum.

  Kate Stubbs brought a garish old vase with her when she came the next week. She'd never liked it, from the day it had been given to her years ago by her mother-in-law. When she filled up with petrol at the garage, she picked up a little bunch of spray carnations. “I brought you some flowers for your birthday,” she said unctuously to Nellie Ganton when the old lady opened the door to her. She pushed past her, went into the kitchen, and said breezily over her shoulder, “The twenty-third of October—I expect you thought I'd forget, but I didn't. I even stuck this vase in the car, in case you hadn't anything to put them in."

  Nellie made a clumsy, artificial thanks; this was the last thing she had expected from a woman she had now established as an enemy. They hardly spoke at all for the hour of the visit. When Kate was leaving, Nellie managed to muster the words, “It was nice of you to think of my birthday. The carnations are very pretty, aren't they?"

  Kate Stubbs gave her a rather mirthless smile and drove away. She was pleased with what she had done, though. If there were any comebacks for things missing, a birthday present would be tangible evidence of how she had felt tenderly for the old girl, how she had done her very best to be a friend to her.

  It was the autumn half-term the next week, and Kate brought her son Charlie with her. He was a bright nine year old, and his mother was surprised how well he got on with Nellie, how much the decrepit old woman seemed to know about children. The boy was very keen on football, and Nellie got out Walter's old programs, from matches he had attended in the fifties and sixties.

  Kate came in and found her son immersed in the study of the forty-year-old programs from Tottenham and Arsenal. “I haven't seen him read like that in months!” she said. “I find it difficult to get him to read anything, with the telly always on and the other kids around."

  "He'll read what interests him,” said Nellie calmly. “Get him plenty of stuff about football, then get him to go on to other things from that. I still have some children's books that will interest him. We'll have a look before he goes, if you like."

  Kate Stubbs was more interested in the football programs. They were worth a bit, those things. Ten, twenty, even thirty pounds, sometimes. She'd seen something about it on that Flog It program on the telly. She tried not to sound too eager as she said, “He's interested in those old programs, though, at the moment, isn't he?” She gestured to the spread-eagled shape of her son on the carpet, poring over the programs he had spread out there.

  "Charlie's certainly very taken with them, yes,” said Nellie Ganton, staring down at the child fondly, glad to be taken back forty years in the bond she had established with him whilst his mother was cleaning the bathroom.

  Kate Stubbs tried not to sound too eager. “They're only old tat, those things, aren't they? Do you suppose he could take them home with him? I'm really anxious to get him into the habit of reading, the way you said I should."

  Nellie pursed her lips, looked a little troubled. “I don't suppose they've any material value, no. But they were Walter's, you see. They do have a certain sentimental value for me."

  "Oh, we'd bring them back, of course. Not that they'd be any great loss. You should really be thinking of clearing out some of your rubbish, you know. You have to be ruthless, as you said yourself. Ruthlessness is something I find old people aren't very good at."

  Whereas you are very good indeed at it, thought Nellie. Both of them knew that if the programs left her bungalow, they would never come back to it. But it was true that the place was too crowded, that she should be clearing out some of the stuff she would never use again. She could spare Walter's old football programs better than most things, and young Charlie would certainly be delighted to have them. But he shouldn't be allowed to “borrow” them and never return them. That would be very bad training for the boy.

  Nellie said, “I think I'd like Charlie to have them for good, you know.” She smiled down on the boy's delighted round face as he looked up at her.

  "Oh, we couldn't just take them without giving you something in exchange,” said Kate Stubbs, putting the token resistance, scarcely believing that she was going to be able to take away this latest trophy quite legitimately.

  Nellie looked vaguely round the room, shaking her head. Then her gaze lighted on the fading carnations, and her eyes lit up. “You could leave me the vase you brought with the flowers for my birthday, if you like,” she said. “I've rather taken a fancy to it. It's cheerful, you see, for fading old eyes like mine."

  Kate could scarcely believe her luck. She had intended to dump the vase here when she brought it with the flo
wers last week. She'd be glad to have the garish thing out of her own house for good. And she might get sixty or seventy pounds for those programs, once Charlie's first enthusiasm was over and she could sneak them out of his room. She tried not to sound too eager as she said, “You keep it, Nellie. Count it as part of my birthday gift, eh?"

  Charlie Stubbs and his mother were both delighted as she drove away from Nellie Ganton's bungalow. Kate would have been a little disturbed if she had known that there was an equally happy third party gazing at the despised vase in the living room of the bungalow.

  The nice young man from next door but one had only worked at the auction room for the last month. He was very pleased to take the vase into the sale room for old Mrs. Ganton. He was not only pleased, but also impressed when he brought her back a check for eleven hundred pounds. A rare and early Clarice Cliff design, as Nellie had said. And even more rare for being signed. It seemed they knew a thing or two after all, these old ‘uns.

  The social worker called the day after the summary of the sale and the account of Mrs. Ganton's vase had been carried by the local paper. She was nervous. Her words came out in a rush, as if she wanted to get through them before Nellie could argue. “I'll be sending in a new home help for you, Mrs. Ganton. Mrs. Stubbs doesn't want to come here anymore. You won't know the new lady, but I've had very good reports about her. Her name's Debbie Haynes."

  Nellie Ganton's smile extended this time to those bright gray eyes. “I do know Debbie, as a matter of fact. I taught her to read, forty years or so ago. A friendly, honest little girl. She will be most welcome."

  Copyright (c) 2006 J. M. Gregson

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  BOOKED & PRINTED by ROBERT C. HAHN

  Music fills the spheres and, increasingly, the pages of mystery novels. No matter how esoteric your musical tastes, it seems likely that you can find a mystery with a theme to match. Take for instance these three recent offerings from Poisoned Pen Press that shatter glass with operatic arias, tickle the ivories with a ragtime theme, and cavort wildly during a folk festival.