Thought You Were Dead

by Nick Craine

  “Including that nifty little clipping about you. Don’t ask me why she had that. Strange woman. Speaking of weird ladies, how’s your mother? What a gem. On the bright side, there’ll be someone to inherit your new furniture. The thing is, Chellis, you’re destined to be Mrs. Havlock’s fatal date. Work relationship gone bad, that sort of thing.”

  He shrugged. “In for a penny . . . .”

  “Murder-suicide is the best scenario, I think. Can’t keep you around, I’m afraid, you do like to blab.”

  “You’re scripting this as you go?”

  “Makes it more interesting. The research I did while I was living with you was extremely helpful. And guess what? You’re in my book! You’ll live on, so don’t be upset. I’ve immortalized you.”

  “Can’t tell you how thrilled I am to hear that. I’m curious, though. Fiction aside, that mother we wept tears over, was she yours?”

  “Mm-hmn. Mine and Gerald’s. She wasn’t as hard done by as I made her out to be. Merely stupid.”

  “Fat old whore,” muttered Jerry.

  “Jerry’s your brother?” said Chellis. “Jeez, you sure know how to pick’em.”

  “When I was a girl he protected me from a lot of very bad men. When he could, he wasn’t always around when mother was entertaining. I don’t like men much, Chellis, except maybe for you, and you don’t really count as a male. You can’t even take advantage of something hot when it’s offered.”

  “Unlike Dick Major?”

  “Richard Major was the one who was up to no good.” Her voice remained calm, but the subject obviously nettled her, everyone’s eventual response to Dick. “He almost wrecked everything. After Gerald borrowed his car to abduct Mrs. Havlock, he had to make a few repairs to it. Richard hasn’t been saying too much since, consciousness being a requirement for that. Thanks, by the way, for the wallet. We didn’t think we’d see it again after Jerry lost it, and it’s come in handy, no-limit credit cards, you’ve gotta love it.”

  Chellis glanced at Elaine to see if she was loving this news of Dick’s demise, but she looked instead quietly horrified. As well she might be. The plot had thickened to such an extent that he could scarcely breathe.

  “Did Jerry have to fix my car, too?”

  “I didn’t,” said Jerry. “Touch that thing?”

  “Something happened to your car? Chellis, you do attract the worst kind of luck.” She grinned at him, dropping her eyes to the front of his pants. “Aw, how sweet, I see I still have a stimulating effect on you.”

  “Not at all, Eddie. I’m clean of mind and body. This is only a bar of soap. See!”

  Chellis yanked Elaine’s soap out of his pocket, spat on it – thus adding a spritz of superhero body fluids to its tacky consistency – and whirling around, slapped it across Jerry’s bulging eyes, where it stuck fast. This slick move was coordinated with that of kneeing the man lightly, but serviceably, in his G spots, which allowed Chellis to snatch the gun away from him. Jerry began to freak, injured in face and gonads, roaring as he tried to yank the soap off his face without extracting his eyeballs, and Chellis began to freak because he had a gun in his hand. Unlike his BB Gun, this was serious and weighty. But Lazar had held lots of guns in his day, and lots of urbanites had, not to mention all those gun-loving farmers and hunters who slept with racks of them above their beds, and guntoting was a right in the US . . . so with the collegiality of his fellow gunslingers fully behind him, he grasped the handle firmly and tried to point it in the right direction without shaking too much or dropping it on his foot.

  Elaine, meanwhile, had not been idle. She flipped her wig – as planned. When Chellis attacked Jerry, she whipped it off and hurled it into Edna’s face, and then with a few economical, Kill Bill moves had the astonished woman in an arm-lock and on the floor, knee pressed into her back. If Elaine’s butcher knife had been handy, Ed’s head may have been rolling across the floor instead of squashed into it, and she herself unable to shriek so violently in muffled rage.

  What next? Chellis was racking his brain – rope? 9-1-1? what? – when an unlikely deus ex machina put in an appearance.

  After a brief fusillade of raps at the front door, a woman, roughly Fiona’s age, stuck her head in and gave them a filthy look. Chellis didn’t think she was a representative from the local Welcome Wagon come to shower them with gifts.

  “Don’t point that thing at me,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Chellis countered. “Look, could you – ”

  “I know you’re criminals, I’ve been keeping an eye on this place. What have you done to that poor man?”

  “We’re not. He’s not. Look, we need – ”

  “You stole my ladder!”

  “Christ.”

  “Don’t you swear at me. You should have you mouth washed with – ”

  “Shut up, will you. Call the police, can’t you see we have a situation here?”

  “I called them already. Serve you right. Hear that? Sirens. My son’s in the force, I’ll have you know. He’ll fix your little wagon, mister.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Here he is! Don’t worry, he’ll make sure you’re put away for years. No parole, tougher laws these days, it’s life for you, buddy. Scum. Despicable human being. Call yourself a man? Hello, sweetheart.”

  Two officers and a plainclothes cop had rushed into the room. The plainclothes one stepped quickly in front of her, providing a filial screen.

  The old bat said, “There they are, Artie dear, the ones I told you about.” Proudly, she patted her son’s shoulder, until something caught her eye, something that marred the impregnability of the fabric. She reached up and plucked it off, then gave it a critical examination. A long blonde hair.

  “Good work, Ma.” He eyed Chellis. “Mr. Beith.”

  “Inspector Foote? Arthur, I knew we’d meet again.”

  “Are you seeing anyone, dear?” Mrs. Foote enquired, unhappily.

  “Nah, that’s Trevor’s hair.”

  “You’re from Claymore?” Chellis said.

  “Born and bred. Sure beats being from Farclas, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Not at all.” Chellis waved the gun airily. “Um, I realize this looks a bit fishy, but I can explain.”

  “You didn’t steal my mother’s ladder?”

  “Well . . . .”

  “Kidding.” Arthur gave a nod to the two officers, who began to round up Edna and Jerry.

  “What the – ?” one of them said, trying to tug the bar of soap off Jerry’s face, while Jerry howled and thrashed around. Edna, on the other hand, seemed more than relieved to get away from Elaine, arm unbroken, and was giving the younger, more handsome cop a shrewd assessment as she proffered her hands for the cuffs.

  “We were already on our way here when Ma called,” Arthur said. “I believe you know a fellow named Richard Major. You might want to send him a little thank-you card.”

  “You better,” interjected Mrs. Foote.

  “Dick?” said Chellis. “You’re still kidding, right?”

  “No sir. He saved your bacon. Although you two didn’t do a bad job here yourselves, I see. But tell me, did anyone save Athena Havlock’s?”

  23

  Assuredly a Goddess

  MOE’S PRE-ANNUNCIATION SHOWER was in full swing, mostly in the kitchen and mostly involving a number of friends, male and female, who were pouring volumes of alcohol down their gullets. Except for Moe, who was keeping her gestatory vessel unsullied and in receptive readiness. Potential life was the celebratory subject of the shower, and the almost-embryo, the spark-of life-to-be, the muchdesired-daughter was the guest of honour. The provisional parents had received a range of gifts: a his and hers frothy black negligee (one size fits all), a package of oysters, a Club Med coupon, a half-used pack of Viagra, a pregnancy testing kit, a bottle of nitroglycerine tablets, and a DVD of the John Waters movie Pecker.

  “One of my favourite films, definitely in the top ten,” Chellis said to Moe. They wer
e leaning against the counter, enjoying the swelling surge of talk and laughter. “It’s not what you might think, if you’re thinking porn, as I know you always do.”

  “Chelly! You’re teasing me.”

  “Actually, a better choice might have been Andy Warhol’s Empire. That would have sent you two scurrying off to bed in a hurry.”

  “The only gift I want from you is you.” She tapped him on the shoulder. “I’m so happy you’re still here, still . . . .”

  “Alive?”

  “What you went through! That horrible woman.”

  “You mean Fiona Gordon?”

  “No. Although she wasn’t very nice either, was she?”

  Hunt made his way over to them, beer in hand. “Mea culpa,” he said meekly.

  “I should say so, sweetie,” admonished Moe. “You shouldn’t be drinking that.”

  “Couldn’t find the fish oil. But I’m rendering my apologies to Mr. Beith here.”

  “I should say so, sweetie,” said Chellis. “Fiona seriously ripped me off.”

  “All your stuff?”

  “Only the new furniture and kitchen gizmos. Glad to be rid of it, if you want to know the truth. Unpleasant associations. I’ll be able to live like the celibate monk I am, stripped of material possessions and maternal attentions. I can spend my days doing penance for betraying Rennie, my best and truest mother.” He gazed at his friend and shook his head, amused. It had been a clever hoax. Hunt had been certain that the new-found sister was pulling a fast one and to prove it had come up with a ruse of his own. He’d hired a mother stand-in, apprised her of the situation, and sent her to Chellis’s place to test the imposter’s reaction. It had worked, causing the then Bethany to beat a hasty retreat. More hood, than sister.

  “Who is she in real life?” said Chellis.

  “Fiona? Her name’s Brandy. She’s Bev’s sister, Bev from The Age Spot.”

  “Good God. Bev might have been my aunt! It boggles the mind. For a while there I thought the mother-from-hell was the one who’d torched my car, but turns out it was some Mafioso dude I encountered in the hospital waiting room when you were in having your heart retooled.”

  “You sure know how to make friends and influence people,” said Hunt.

  “It’s a gift.”

  “Chelly,” said Moe. “I don’t think you should feel bad about Rennie. Done is done. It’s time to move on. She’d want that.”

  “Is that your motherly advice, Moe?”

  “It is.”

  “I’m taking it then. I’m moving on . . . into the living room. See you two later, unless of course you sneak off for some private canoodling.”

  They beamed at him and shifted closer to one another, Hunt reaching for Moe’s hand. All hands would have to be on deck when they won the baby lottery, whenever that might be. Chellis knew he was going to love being an honorary uncle, not that he could top the masterly performance of Uncle Bob, presently flat out on the table among the bottles and bags of chips. Bob had been the one to smuggle Elaine’s soap into 17 Boswell, soap that Jerry had unadvisedly tried before tossing it in the cabinet of the downstairs bathroom.

  “He saved our bacon,” Chellis had remarked to Elaine, once they were allowed to leave the police station (Chellis with his wallet!) after repeatedly recounting their story.

  “I saved our bacon. It was my soap.”

  “Elaine, you imperilled our bacon, remember? On your headlong rush to perdition? We’re lucky our bacon isn’t green and stinking in some bag in the morgue.”

  “I should sell that soap.”

  “Yeah, any number of ethnic cleansers would love to have it.” Leaving the kitchen gathering behind, Chellis wandered into his nearly-deserted and despoiled living room. One of his guests had strayed and he wanted to reassure himself that she was all right. She was standing motionless by the window, staring out, but not unaware that someone had arrived. Her shoulders clenched slightly.

  “It’s only me, Mrs. Havlock.”

  “Darling,” she turned around. “Lovely party, but I needed a minute. I was appreciating the gorgeous night, the stars – ”

  “And breathing?”

  “That too.”

  “You had us all fooled, Mrs. H. Or Edna did. I was terrified when the cops went to search for you.”

  “Edna did enjoy her tormenting little games of cat and mouse. She was keeping me fresh for you, I believe. My executioner.”

  “I would have died first.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yep, I would have checked out, then checked out the afterlife amenities for you.”

  “My dear concierge. I hate to say it, Chellis, but that might have been the best book I’ve ever written. She had some workable ideas and it was her framework, more or less, but I put the meat on its bones. I certainly polished it enough. I knew better than to end it in an inspirational rush. She wasn’t half bad herself, really. As a writer.”

  “A passable plotter, let’s say? What are you going to do with the manuscript?”

  “Destroy it. After the police are done with it. Good riddance to excellent rubbish.”

  “You told me a fib.” He wagged a finger at her. “About Dick Major.”

  “I did, didn’t I? One doesn’t always own up to knowing people in his business, but he was very helpful. Jude Thomas had been stalking me for some time, which is why I moved to the country. Richard took care of it for me, terrified the man, I expect. That’s when Richard must have gotten involved with Edna, the girlfriend. He likely thought it was a straightforward affair with an irresistible babe, but then Thomas was murdered. Not that he knew she’d done it, not right away. She may have been planning on setting him up, or she may have fallen for him, I don’t know. She certainly would have pumped him for information, about you for one, an old high-school acquaintance and my employee. In any event, the brother let slip a few details about their abduction plans and Richard came by to warn me. Unfortunately, they acted faster than I did.”

  “I thought I saw you with him in his car once, but it was hard to tell. On a TV newscast, weirdly enough.”

  “That would have been Edna, keeping out of sight, I don’t doubt. The only ride I had in the ill-fated Lexus was with Jerry. I would have made a break for it when he stopped at the liquor store – Jerry isn’t the sharpest knife – but the one with the sharpest knife was in the back seat, worse luck.”

  “They must have tried to bump Dick off shortly after that. I can’t believe his car ended up in the drink again, and again he survived to tell the tale. This time he was so furious he told it in full. Dammit, I suppose I do have to send him that thank-you note.”

  “I’d send him a get-well card, if I were you. All the publicity about the crime didn’t hurt me, on the contrary, but his wife, Diane, naturally wasn’t pleased. He’s back in the hospital.”

  “Ouch.”

  “On top of that he seems to have picked up a nasty case of lice. That’s what one gets for associating with riff-raff.”

  “Ha, that’ll teach him. I have to say, though, Mrs. H, I’m beginning to get the impression that women are dangerous.”

  “They are, dear.” She patted his hand, then gave it a fingercrunching squeeze. “I’d be careful if I were you. Where is your friend, by the way?”

  “While we’re on the subject of dangerous women? Don’t know, she’s late. Probably working on some invention that will make Moe instantly pregnant. With sextuplets.”

  “We’ll have to get back to work, too, Chellis. Submerge ourselves, it’s the only way to process our ordeal. Did you get everything on that last list?”

  “Shit, no. Sorry, the envelope’s still sealed. I guess you could say I got distracted.”

  Athena had not let go of his hand, so gave it another minidisabling, but fond squeeze. “Doesn’t matter. My corpse walked.”

  “Your corpse? That guy under the bush?”

  “I thought he was dead, but he got up one day, brushed the twigs and fallen leaves off his cloth
ing and wandered off, his back to me the whole time. I still don’t know who he was.”

  “The prig. He wanted all the attention. I did find out about that grave in Kinchie, mission not-so impossible as it turned out.

  “The missing woman, Bethea Strange? Do tell.”

  “She ran off with the town’s Presbyterian minister. You won’t believe this, it’s too good to be true, too wild, but his name was Reverend McGuffin.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I kid you not, it was a fabulous scandal at the time, kept tongues wagging for decades. The spirited Bethea must have thought better of snuggling up to her mouldering hubbie for an eternity. But, and this is the interesting bit, it turns out that she was our McGuffin. Beside that gravestone was a smaller and much newer one, scarcely visible in the photo, that marks the grave of an infant named Bea Havlock.”

  “Good Lord.” She dropped his hand. “Could this be true? She’s not mine, if that’s what you’re thinking. Never heard of her.”

  “You don’t have a long-lost child?”

  “Chellis, I may have made a few mistakes in my life, but getting knocked up wasn’t one of them.”

  “I thought not, or why would you need to send me up there to snoop around. My guess is that Jude Thomas sent the photo to you for whatever unhinged reasons he may have had, and that Jerry or Edna – probably Jerry – tried to stop me from finding the grave, seeing as she was going to pose as your daughter. Not that you couldn’t have two long-lost children, but Thomas must have convinced Edna that the dead baby was yours and she figured it would be a snap to turn up the birth certificate, a genuine birth certificate. Once the murder-suicide hit the papers, she’d put in an appearance, playing the teary prodigal.”

  “They did search for my will, wisely kept at my lawyer’s. And true enough, she also had me write some nonsense about a lost daughter, but my hand poisoned the confession with duress, I’m sure. My lawyer, Mr. Maroon, would not have bought it.”

  “Mr. Maroon? I’ll be darned. He’d be too busy buying booze. But say, Mrs. H, why did you have that clipping about me? And my runaway mother. The one they found in your office.”