Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

  FIT TO DIE

  A Crime and Mystery Collection

  FIT TO DIE

  A Crime and Mystery Collection

  Edited by Joan Boswell and Sue Pike

  Text © 2001 by the authors

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior consent of the publisher.

  We gratefully acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts for our publishing program.

  Napoleon Publishing/RendezVous Press

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada

  05 04 03 02 01 5 4 3 2 1

  National Library of Canada Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Main entry under title:

  Fit to die

  Short stories by the Ladies Killing Circle.

  ISBN 0-929141-87-3

  1. Detective and mystery stories, Canadian (English) 2. Canadian fiction (English)--21st century. I. Boswell, Joan II. Pike, Sue, date- III. Ladies’ Killing Circle.

  PS8323.D4F58 2001 C813’.08720806 C2001-901968-8

  PR9197.35.D48F58 2001

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Fit To Live

  Audrey Jessup

  Race

  Vicki Cameron

  Writer’s Cramp

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Down in the Plumps

  Victoria Maffini

  Double Trouble

  Barbara Fradkin

  Grudge Match

  Therese Greenwood

  A Dirty Jog

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Sign of the Times

  Mary Jane Maffini

  Grand Slam

  Lea Tassie

  Seeing Red

  Linda Wiken

  Fit to Die

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Las Flacas

  Violette Malan

  Snap Judgment

  Sue Pike

  Returning the Favour

  Joan Boswell

  A Brisk Sit Down

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  A Matter of the Heart

  Day’s Lee

  The Brief Life of Alice Hartley

  Liz Palmer

  Tee’d Off

  Mary Keenan

  A Straight Lie

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Although, on the Other Hand

  Pat Wilson and Kris Wood

  Seigneur Poisson

  R. J. Harlick

  Natural Medicine

  Joy Hewitt Mann

  Love Handles

  H. Mel Malton

  There’s A Word for It

  Melanie Fogel

  Old Geezers

  Rose DeShaw

  FIT TO LIVE

  AUDREY JESSUP

  I could have strangled Merrilee Parker. In my role as President of the Social Activities Club at Sunset Lodge Seniors’ Residence, I had just announced that we would be holding tai chi classes every Monday and Thursday morning starting the next week.

  “Tai chi?” Merrilee squawked. “That Chinese thing where people stand around like statues in the park? I don’t think so. What use will that be to us, Eileen? Some of us hardly seem to be moving as it is.”

  Louise Martin’s face clouded, and she looked down at the walker she was obliged to use when her arthritis flared up.

  “It promotes balance,” I said, “and some of us certainly don’t seem to have much of that, mentally anyway. I took it many years ago, and I found it very helpful. But you don’t have to sign up if you don’t think you can handle it, Merrilee.”

  Of course, I knew she would turn up on Monday. She always wanted to know what was going on, and she would certainly want to prove she could do tai chi. But she was never in favour of something suggested by somebody else, particularly if that somebody was me. She had been President until I was elected nine months ago, and our ideas of worthwhile activities were like sugar and pickles. Her idea of interesting events had been a fashion show and a cosmetics demonstration, but the dress shop she selected thought Velcro was a dirty word, and the cosmeticians left us with a discouraged feeling and a bagful of makeup which we never touched again.

  I knew between now and Monday she would be dropping sarcastic remarks to the other residents about the new program I was introducing, and I thought it was really important to keep the mind and body active, not just well-covered. I was therefore very keen on getting as many as possible signed up. I was quite proud of the programs we had introduced in the past months. I had visited other homes where they didn’t seem to do anything except sit in front of a television set, and I certainly didn’t want that to happen to us.

  A few of the residents, friends of Merrilee, complained. “You’ve got too many activities going on, Eileen,” they said. “We like to watch the soaps in the afternoon.” But I noticed when they heard someone yell “Bingo” or caught the sound of the sing-along round the piano, they would gradually creep in and get a card or a song sheet. No, I didn’t think Merrilee would opt out of the tai chi program. She would come if only to say “I told you so” if it didn’t work out.

  The person I was concerned about was Nora Barton. She had been at the Lodge three weeks but had been quite reclusive. I had made a point of sitting with her at lunch the day she arrived, and although I had to work at it, I did find out she was the widow of Herb Barton of Barton’s Berry Farms.

  “That must have been an interesting life,” I said.

  She looked at me as if I were crazy. “Interesting?” she repeated. “It was backbreaking and heartbreaking work. As I’m sure the new owners are finding out.”

  “But at least you could get away in the winter.”

  “We had animals, and we couldn’t leave.”

  I thought it was time to change the subject. “And what made you choose Sunset Lodge?” I asked.

  “I didn’t choose it. My son did. He sold the farm out from under me and made me come here.”

  “Well,” I said, as cheerfully as I could, “I know it’s a big change for you. We’ve all gone through it. But you’ll soon find lots to do. As a matter of fact, I’ve brought you a list of the various activities. I’m sure you’ll find something you like.”

  As these places go, Sunset Lodge is very nice. Well, except for the name. Why don’t they realize we don’t need to be reminded at every turn that we’re getting old and coming to the end of our days? There are three levels of care here, according to a resident’s capabilities. The owners call them Pavilions A, B and C. The residents call them Sunset, Twilight and Goodnight. In Pavilion A, we’re all more or less able-bodied. At least we can take care of our personal needs, even if we might be a bit slow about it.

  My aim is to help us all fend off the further deteriorations of old age, physical and mental. The other four members of the Social Committee are not always as enthusiastic about the new programs as I am, and sometimes it takes all my efforts to convince them. I always manage it in the end, though.

  Nora didn’t come down for dinner that first day, and she didn’t sign up for any more meals in the dining room. In Pavilion A, each resident has a small apartment with a kitchenette, but meals are available for a reasonable price in the dining room. Most of us sign up for at least one meal a day. Nora was probably living on grilled cheese sandwiches from the toaster oven provided in each apartment. I didn’t think it could be a matter of cost. They must have been paid a pretty penny for the farm.

  For three weeks, the only time I could catch her was when she came down to check her mail, change her library book or use the washing machines. I tried to tempt her with something every time I saw her. “We’re doing calligraphy this afternoon. Why don’t you give it a try?” “There’s a sing-song tonight aft
er dinner. Why don’t you drop in?” “We’ve got Casablanca for the movie tonight. You should come down. Starts at seven.” She always gave me a polite but firm “No, thank you.”

  I couldn’t figure out what she did with herself all day in her little apartment. I can’t stand people sitting in a corner and sulking because life has taken a new, unwanted path. One must get up and at it and try to enjoy where one has landed. So I took her aside one day. “You know, Nora,” I said, “we’re all in the same boat here. And when somebody is really unsociable, it makes the rest of us feel very uncomfortable. Why don’t you at least come to the tai chi classes? You don’t have to talk to people, and you could use the exercise. It’s not good to sit in your room all day.” She finally agreed to try a class, which I considered a personal victory.

  As she had only been given the most cursory introduction to most of the other residents, I invited her to come down to dinner on Saturday night as my guest. She could hardly refuse. Dinner on Saturdays was always a buffet, and that week there was either chicken pot pie or baked ham (which meant we’d be getting pea soup and ham croquettes next week) and for dessert lemon meringue cake or apple pie. As we were leaving the buffet table with our loaded trays, Merrilee came swishing in behind us. She always changed for dinner, but tonight she had outdone herself with a long embroidered cream skirt and a rose-coloured blouse.

  “Oh, Merrilee,” I said, “I don’t think you’ve met Nora Barton from Apartment 203. Nora’s husband owned Barton Berry Farm over near Manotick.” I turned to Nora. “Merrilee is our resident expert on fashion and decorating.” At least she was always commenting on what people wore and the colour of the cushions in the lounge. I thought it would make her more gracious to Nora if I buttered her up a bit. It didn’t work. She looked sharply at Nora’s black polyester skirt and flowered cotton blouse, and without actually curling her lip, managed to convey disdain in her cool “I’m pleased to meet you.”

  Nora, poor naïve soul, thought Merrilee really was pleased to meet her and tried to fumble her tray onto one side so she could shake hands. As she extended her right hand, the tray began to tilt and the chicken pot pie started its fatal slide down Merrilee’s skirt, followed by the lemon meringue cake, which landed with a soft plop on her shoe.

  Nora was frozen to the spot, her eyes wide and her mouth open. She started to babble. “I’m so sorry, oh dear, I’m so sorry.” She bent down to gather up the debris at Merrilee’s feet.

  “Don’t touch me,” shrieked Merrilee, jumping backwards. “Look at my new skirt. And it came from the French Salon. I’ll have to change.” With that, she gathered up the edge of the garment and stalked off, stopping at her cronies’ table, where she loudly said something about farmers.

  “I’ll pay for it to be cleaned,” Nora said to her back.

  “You certainly will,” said Merrilee without turning around.

  The kitchen staff had come out by this time and were cleaning up the spill and handing Nora another tray. Louise came forward and took it, saying “Come and sit with me. Your accident did my heart good. I’ve wanted to throw my dinner at Merrilee Parker many times.”

  Nora and Louise hit it off very well. Everybody gets along with Louise. She’s a kind soul and usually very even-tempered despite the arthritis, but Merrilee often tried even her patience. “Has she been here long?” Nora asked.

  “About six years. Her husband was a dental surgeon. He had a heart attack about eight years ago, right in the middle of a root canal. Her sons were both married with children and Merrilee went to live with each of them in turn, but from what I heard, she just wanted the whole house to revolve around her and the daughters-in-law couldn’t take it.” Louise frowned. “It probably won’t be long before you hear about her husband.”

  Merrilee never missed an opportunity to remind us of his important, and well-paid, profession. Nearly all of us were widows, in varying stages of the grief process and financial comfort, but if you tried to mention your own husband, Merrilee always found a way to turn the conversation back to hers. The general irritation with Merrilee was such that most of the people who had witnessed Nora’s mishap with the tray stopped at our table to say a few words of welcome to her. Percy and Janet Lowther even sat with us for a while and reminisced about the many happy times they had spent picking berries at Barton’s Farm with their children and grandchildren. So, all in all, the evening accomplished everything I had hoped for.

  • • •

  It was no surprise when Merrilee started her usual tactics at the tai chi class. The notice had suggested that we wear flat shoes or slippers, but Merrilee turned up in sandals with one-inch heels.

  “They’re the lowest things I own,” she stated. “Flat shoes make me look so…”

  “Short?” suggested Mr. Lowther, his eyes twinkling. His wife gave him a dig in the ribs, and Louise covered her laugh with a mock sneeze when Merrilee shot her a glance.

  “Oh, you,” cooed Merrilee, batting her eyelashes, “you’re always teasing me.” Had the comment come from one of the women, her reaction would not have been one of amusement. Merrilee had been Miss Buttermilk in the 1945 Renfrew Fair, and she had never gotten over it. She was still a pretty woman, petite and dainty, but she had made no concessions to her seventy-two years. She still dyed her hair blonde and wore it in an outdated page boy style. She bought clothes for her size rather than her age, and many of her outfits were meant for someone younger. Today she was wearing peach slacks with “Lauren” embroidered in black down the left leg and a matching top saying “Number One”. She must have gone out to buy them on Saturday, because I had never seen her in that outfit before.

  Mrs. Yee, our diminutive Chinese instructor, had brought a bag of those black cloth Chinese shoes, and she offered to lend Merrilee a pair for the first lesson until she got something suitable.

  Merrilee was horrified. “Wear shoes worn by someone else?” She recoiled as if she had been physically struck. “I won’t have any trouble in my own. I used to be a dancer, you know.”

  Mrs. Yee looked at her and nodded before addressing us all. “Merrilee right to mention dance. Tai chi not dance but like dance, movements are graceful and smooth. But done very slowly. Thing to remember is all movements circular. And don’t forget—breathe!”

  She told us she was going to teach us the eight-minute version of tai chi, which only has twenty-seven forms in three groups. She thought this would suit us better than the classical long program which has 108 movements. I thought we’d do well if we could remember seven, let alone twenty-seven, but we’d see how it went. Merrilee, of course, seemed to master the moves quite easily, but Nora was in trouble almost at once. The opening move was fine, because you stayed in one place. It was when we got to the second form, “Parting the Wild Horse’s Mane”, that the trouble surfaced. It quickly became obvious that Nora couldn’t distinguish her left from her right, and she got completely turned around. Mrs. Yee was patience itself. She repeated the sequence several times, and she stood with Nora and guided her arms and feet. In the end she paired her with Merrilee, telling Nora to follow her movements. Poor Nora got mixed up again, though, and ended up crashing into Merrilee, who flounced off saying loudly that at this rate we’d be lucky if we ever got beyond Lesson One.

  “I won’t come again,” said Nora. “It’s not going to work.”

  Louise came to the rescue. Despite her physical limitations, she had made a good attempt at the movements, and she wasn’t going to let Nora quit so easily.

  “You aren’t going to let Miss Margarine of 1935 make you give up, are you?” she said. “You’re only like the rest of us: a bit overweight and a lot out of practice.”

  “Now, Nora,” I said, “you come from a farm, and you know all about setbacks. Did you give up every time your crops failed because of bad weather? Just think of Merrilee as a big wind, but in her case she can only do damage if you let her. Don’t give up. Practise in your room.”

  The second lesson was no better.
When we arrived, Merrilee, who had, I noticed, bought herself some black satin ballet slippers, seemed to be arguing with Mrs. Yee. I heard her saying something about two groups, but Mrs. Yee just said: “We see. We see. Too soon.”

  The class started with a repetition of the moves from the first session. Nora was only marginally less awkward and frequently got turned around. “I’ve been practising,” she told me, “but there’s not much room.”

  Merrilee snickered. “Everybody else is parting the horse’s mane. Nora seems to be working on the tail.”

  While we learned the two new moves, “White Stork Cools Its Wings” and “Brush Knee”, Louise and I took our places on Nora’s right and left, but even so, we lost her a couple of times when she started to go north while we were all going south.

  Nora found the session very stressful, but fortunately, Mrs. Yee always finished with a period of meditation during which we all cooled down mentally and physically. Before we left, Mrs. Yee gave me a book on tai chi showing the exercises. “You help Nora,” she said.

  “I don’t care about the book,” Nora said. “I’m not going back.”

  “Why don’t we give it another week?” Louise said soothingly. “Now Eileen has the book, we can take our time. We won’t have to keep up with anyone.”

  Nora reluctantly agreed to Louise’s proposal, but Louise herself was having doubts. “I’ve been wondering,” she said to me later, “whether we’re right to persuade her to continue. It’s quite upsetting for her.”

  “But it’s the only activity I’ve managed to interest her in,” I said, “and she needs to do something. If she gives it up, she’ll just go back to moping in her room. I think we should press on for a few more lessons, anyway. It’s still very early.” Louise looked sceptical. “You know, on the third floor there’s quite a large space at the end of the corridor to the right of the elevator, where the stairs come up,” I said. “You and I could help Nora practise there, and we’d be out of the way.”

  On Friday we took Nora up to the third floor. She protested that she would never be any good at it, and she might just as well give up right now, but I managed to convince her to keep on with us helping her. We tied red bows to her right wrist and ankle and green ones on her left wrist and ankle. I held a large red rosette and Louise held a green one.