“Did you look next to the seat cushion?” she asked.
Why should I look in the cushion when I know you took it?”
Never mind that she rarely watched TV in the house and, if she did, watched it in the basement rec room. It was her fault. “Can you please get up?” she asked him calmly.
He rolled to one side, as if presenting a buttock for his shot, and she reached down into the chair. As she suspected, the remote was wedged between the cushion and the arm.
She pulled it out and handed it to him. “Here,” she said. He took it without a word of thanks.
Harry didn’t know it yet, but he was about to experience his own private disaster.
She’d been thinking about it for a long time. Harry was a diabetic. A diabetic who didn’t take care of himself. He snacked on sugary junk foods; he never exercised. As she saw it, he was a goner anyway. In fact, if it weren’t for her, he probably wouldn’t even be around. It was only because of her close monitoring that he’d maintained the delicate balance between too much blood glucose and too little that was required for control of his diabetes. She would only be hastening the inevitable. Probably save him a lot of pain and suffering into the bargain.
And from her ER work, she knew exactly what to do. She even had access from the occasional shifts she still filled in on to the highly concentrated insulin used in diabetic emergencies. Such a drug was a lifesaver for patients whose blood sugar had soared out of control, but could cause the blood sugar of patients whose diabetes was under control to plummet, leading to coma and death. Her only concern was the autopsy: a sharp pathologist would be able to tell the death was due to an overdose. And although she’d read of murderers who had done so, she doubted she could pass it off as accidental. If nothing else, it was unlikely that an experienced ER nurse could claim ignorance of the symptoms of insulin shock. She would have to make Harry simply disappear, though how she was going to do this was still a mystery.
She was still pondering this question when she heard the familiar squeal of brakes. It was usually at this time that the deer collisions took place: twilight, when the drivers were returning home and the deer were out foraging. In her usual panic, she checked for Daisy, who was safely lapping up water from her bowl. Then came the sickening thud of metal colliding with flesh.
“Harry, I think it’s a deer,” she shouted into the living room.
When she received no response, she went out to the living room and announced: “A deer has been hit.” It was a testimony to the depth of Harry’s melancholy that he didn’t even look up. He had long ago given up on his count of deer fatalities.
It was then that it dawned on her what to do with Harry’s body.
She gave him the shot just before dinner a couple of weeks later, as she always did—in the butt. The thigh in the morning, the butt at night—alternating sides to keep the injection sites from becoming irritated. She went through the procedure exactly as usual: inserting the needle through the rubber lid, pushing the plunger down to force the air in, inverting the bottle to mix the contents, and finally filling the plunger with the proper dose. Then she wiped Harry’s cheek with an alcohol swab, pinched the skin between her fingers, pushed in the needle, and depressed the plunger.
It took only a half an hour or so before the drug started to take effect. She was preparing dinner in the kitchen—corned beef and cabbage for Saint Patrick’s Day—when she heard him call. It wasn’t his usual demanding bellow, but a request; it might almost have been called polite. “Barbara, can you come here?”
Emerging from the kitchen, she stood at the door of the darkened room and looked inquiringly into his face, which was enlivened only by the reflected images that flickered across the surface of his glasses. “What is it?’ she asked, paring knife still in hand.
“I don’t feel so good,” he said. “I think I need a sugar pill.”
It was a fact of a diabetic’s life that despite the most regular of routines, the blood glucose level is prone to unpredictable swings. As a result, an insulin dose that reduces the level to normal one day can reduce it too far the next, inducing the symptoms of hypoglycemia. Such symptoms can be relieved by a quick fix of a sweet snack or a glucose pill, which most diabetics have at the ready.
“I’ll get your meter,” Barbara replied. She noticed that behind the glasses and the stubble, he looked pale. Beads of sweat had broken out on his temples.
In a moment, she was back at his side with a blood glucose meter. After pricking his finger, she dabbed the blood sample on a test strip and inserted it into the device. According to the readout, Harry’s blood glucose level stood at fifty-two, with fifty being the level for hypoglycemia. She took his pulse; it was already racing.
“Yes, it’s low,” she agreed. It was a good thing his attention was riveted to the arrest taking place on TV; he didn’t see how low. “I’ll get your pills.’’
She had planned for this eventuality too. Instead of his usual glucose pills, Barbara gave him inert placebos that researchers at the medical center were using in a double-blind study on the effect of a new medication.
After handing him three, she retreated into the kitchen. No sooner was she back at the sink than he called her again, this time for a blanket, which she brought him, tucking it neatly around him. She noticed that his skin had become cold and clammy.
A few moments later, he called again. He was saying her name, though his speech was so slurred she could barely make it out. When she entered, she found him with his head thrown back against the back of the recliner. He was sounding a low, steady moan.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
There was no reply.
As she stood there, his body stiffened; his arms were thrust straight out in front of him. Though his eyes were open, he didn’t appear to be conscious. Then his entire body started to convulse. He was having a seizure.
It was only a matter of minutes before it was over.
The most elaborate preparations had been for the disposal of the body. Inspired by the deer collision, her first thought had been to wrap it in the deer hide. But she quickly realized that wouldn’t work. The hide simply wasn’t big enough, trophy buck or no.
Then she remembered another hide in the attic—a memento of a kill from Harry ‘s younger days. This she sewed together with “Harry,” punching the holes with an awl and stitching the edges together with leather shoelaces. She had spent a couple of weeks’ worth of evenings on the queen-sized bed in the motor home engaged in this task while watching TV with Daisy. The result had been well worth her time: a sleeping bag—like deerskin pouch with an opening at one end. It was probably not unlike the sleeping gear that Indian squaws had once stitched for their braves.
Once she could no longer detect Harry’s pulse, she retrieved the deerskin bag from the motor home and spread it out on the carpet next to the recliner, which she extended fully by pulling the lever on the side. With the chair extended, it was a simple matter to roll Harry’s body over the arm. She was used to moving inert bodies around from the hospital. It landed on its side with a thud. After binding the arms and legs, she worked it head-first into the deerskin bag. Harry hadn’t been a large man, and it fit perfectly, forming a neat package about five-and-a-half feet long. His feet stuck out a little, but she could fix that by bending his knees when she sewed up the end.
After half an hour, her handiwork was complete, and she stood back to admire it. As deer went, Harry was fatter than most, but she doubted this would arouse suspicion since many of the carcasses cleared from the roadsides had already begun to swell. All that was missing was the head, which looked down at her from over the mantel, though whether it was with reproach or approbation she wasn’t sure.
The next step was loading the body onto the hand truck. She was a strong woman and almost as large as Harry himself, so it wasn’t difficult. Finally, she wheeled the hand truck out to the garage, which was attached to the house—all the better to shield her activities from nosy neighb
ors—and maneuvered the load into the trunk.
The deer disposal pit was located in the woods at the rear of the public works garage. She had scoped it out one evening the week before. A gravel driveway led around the garage to the edge of the pit. If the best place to hide a body was a battlefield, as it was said, then the next best must be a charnel pit, especially when that pit was for deer and the body was covered with a deer hide.
By now it was after ten, and the site was deserted. Barbara backed the car up to the edge of the fence surrounding the pit and popped the trunk. Then she opened the gate, lifted Harry’s body out—this took some effort—and rolled it over the edge. He didn’t fall far: the pit was nearly full of deer carcasses. These would be covered over tomorrow with a six-inch layer of soil, which she had learned was done every Wednesday. It was a good thing, too: the smell was getting bad.
Concealed in the deer hide, Harry’s body was indistinguishable from the other carcasses. But to make sure that no one would recognize it as such, she covered it with a layer of lime from the barrel at the edge of the pit and then sprinkled it with leaves and twigs to make it blend in with the carcasses cleared from the roadsides.
The deed was done.
She was packing up the last of her clothes two months later when she heard the familiar squeal of brakes, followed by the thunk of metal on flesh. This time there was also a crash: the driver must have lost control of the car. After calling the police, she went out to the road. The driver had hit the maple in front of the house across the street, but appeared to be okay. He was inspecting the damage to the front of his car. A dead doe lay on the roadside at the rear of the car; it must have been flung over the roof by the impact.
Warren Miller arrived a few minutes later, followed by a pickup from the public works department. While Warren wrote up the accident report, two members of the road crew hoisted the carcass into the back of the truck. The damage to the driver’s vehicle wasn’t great, and after a few minutes the scene of the accident was cleared up.
“How’s Harry?” Warren asked once everyone was gone. “I expected to see him out here. Isn’t he keeping his deer count anymore?”
“Nah,” Barbara replied. “He couldn’t keep up. The numbers were getting too great. Plus, the paper stopped reporting deer collisions in the ‘Police Beat’ column, and he wasn’t about to start running out to count every carcass.”
Warren shook his head in sympathy. “Yep, it’s getting worse and worse. It’s carnage on the roads. Especially out this way. We’ve had to open a second deer pit. The last one was filled up after only three months; we thought it was going to last a year.”
“Oh really?” Barbara commented innocently. “When did that happen?”
“We covered the old pit just yesterday.” He nodded in the direction of the departing pickup. “I expect this doe will be the first occupant of the new one. We’re looking into hiring an outside contractor for disposal. There’s just too many to keep up with.”
Changing the subject, he nodded at the real estate company’s SOLD sign on Barbara’s lawn. “I see the house is sold. Are you and Harry finally going to take that trip out west that you’ve been talking about for so long?”
Barbara turned to look at the motor home in the driveway. “Yes, we are,” she told him with a smile. “We had a house sale last weekend. Sold most of our belongings. The rest we’re putting into a storage locker.”
“Footloose and fancy free at last,” said Warren.
“You bet,” Barbara replied, her voice ringing with delight. “We’re leaving on Tuesday. First we’re going to Alaska. Then we’ll meander south. We don’t have any plans, other than to visit all the national parks. That’s always been Harry’s dream.”
“Mine too,” said Warren, his youthful countenance alight with enthusiasm. “But I don’t think it’s going to happen in my lifetime. Or at least not until the kids are grown. How long do you figure it’s going to take you?”
“Oh, years!” exclaimed Barbara. “There are thirty-nine major national parks in the forty-eight contiguous states alone.”
“Then you’re not planning on coming back?”
Barbara shook her head. “Maybe for a visit.”
“Do me a favor,” Warren said.
“Of course,” replied Barbara.
“Send me a postcard.”
It was three months later that Warren Miller got the postcard. It was a view of a snow-capped Mount McKinley at sunrise, with Denali National Park written diagonally across the photo in red script. On the back it read:
* * *
On the road, Aug. 4
* * *
Dear Warren,
It feels great to be on the road at last. We’re at Denali National Park now and getting the hang of our rambling lifestyle more and more with each passing day. Our address now is Alaska, but after that who knows? The continent is our neighborhood now. We love our little house on wheels.
We caught our first red salmon the other day: cooked it on the grill and shared it with a fellow we met in Washington State. We’ve been traveling with him for a while now, and we get along very well. We don’t have a single regret. We would do it again in a heartbeat.
Cordially,
Harry and Barbara (Daisy too)
Any Old Mother
Charlotte Hinger
This would make the third mother she’d done. Dazzled by the beauty of this estate, Annie rang the doorbell. As she waited, she eyed the shiny brass knocker and the carefully trimmed shrubbery. The two-story brick house was enormous. It was centered on beautifully landscaped acreage framed by old oak trees. Her heartbeat accelerated with the approaching footsteps on the other side of the door.
She clutched her good leather purse to her side, knowing it was just the right touch. It was important not to look too poor, or too rich. Seconds away now. She had her speech down cold. Every word, every gesture worked out in advance.
It wasn’t as though this was a cold call. She had spent two months collecting information. This mother was a widow, worth a small fortune, with a platoon of lawyers and accountants guarding the gates. Today was the downstairs maid’s day off. Mrs. Elaine Simms would answer the door herself.
Like the other two mothers, Elaine Simms had given a baby up for adoption. Looking back, Annie decided it was as though the first two women were for practice.
For the first mother, it hadn’t taken much. A little gold cross, some scruffy loafers, run-down heels. She would never forget the face of the good Christian woman when she answered the door.
“Mrs. Woodruff?” Annie had asked cautiously. Then, “Mother! You’re my mother.”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” the woman cried out. “Oh please no.” Furtively, she’d looked around. “My husband. Please. Please. He doesn’t know.”
“I’ve had a terrible life,” Annie said. “You abandoned me to a cruel home. Terrible people.”
“I didn’t know,” Mrs. Woodruff whimpered. “I swear to God I didn’t know.”
From there on, it had been easy. All she’d gotten was ten thousand dollars. But it was enough for Annie to realize the potential. Working in the state adoption agency gave her access to all the records. Once she found her mark, she did not have to fake any of the feelings. An adopted child herself, orphaned now, she had never really fit in.
“You’re special,” her parents had told her. “We chose you.” Well, she had never thought they were very special. Not special at all. They were mediocre middle-class little worker ants, and she knew in her soul she had been born to better. It was just a matter of finding them.
The second mother was solid, shrewd. Sized her up in about three minutes. But she believed me, Annie thought with a smile. Oh yes, she believed me. The big secret was worth twenty-five thousand to that one. But Annie had known better than to ever come back.
Annie’s stomach tightened with anticipation. The deadbolt clicked. She had big plans for this mother. Her blood pounded in her ears. She’s old, Annie rem
inded herself. Going to die soon anyway. What’s life worth to an old bat like her?
Through her snooping around, she had learned this woman had an invalid daughter, on dialysis. Perhaps Elaine Simms’s life is worth something to the daughter, she thought with a grim smile. Invalids did best with a mother’s care.
At last. The woman on the other side peered through a crack, then slid back the chain and opened the door.
Elaine Simms was a slim woman, patrician, with beautifully arranged white hair. She had perfect carriage, and wore a brightly embroidered denim tunic over matching pants. On her wrists was an array of slender turquoise and silver bracelets.
“Elaine Simms?” Annie asked tentatively, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Mother?”
But the well-rehearsed words stuck in her throat. Before she could get them out of her mouth, the woman’s face drained of color. Simms gave a little gurgle and silently worked her mouth as she clutched her hand to her chest. She fell against the door jam, her head bent.
Terrified, that she was having a heart attack, Annie reached to steady her. This mother couldn’t die now. It was too soon. It would ruin everything.
“Oh please,” begged Annie. “Please, please be all right.” Dazed, she tried to make sense of the woman’s reaction. All she had done was say her name.
Then Mrs. Simms’s head shot up and she clasped Annie’s cheeks between her palms and smothered her face with little kisses. “Darling, darling girl,” she murmured.
“Laurie,” she called loudly. “Laurie. Annie’s here. Your sister is here!”
Disoriented and light-headed, Annie took a series of deep breaths. From the hallway, she could see a flash of chrome; a chair rapidly propelled by strong, efficient hands silently whooshed down the long oriental runner. She stared at the woman who wheeled into the doorway. Stared at her own features. The face before her was broad, beautiful, faintly Slavic with high cheekbones and a distinctly cleft chin. Her eyes were blue. Even their honey-blond hair was styled in the same tousled cut.
Blood on Their Hands (Mystery Writers of America Presents: MWA Classics) Page 20