Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

Carlotta watched as Hilda finally dressed and went home, dragging her feet and clearly unhappy with the new outfit that she had shown off so proudly only that morning. Carlotta rose stiffly to her feet, wondering if she had the strength to return to the office. She felt something at her back. She turned, knowing that…yes, it was the red, blinking eye of the electronic scale. Carlotta looked swiftly around. She was alone. Surely there could be no harm…she stepped onto the scale. She was just waiting for the electronic numbers to stop flashing and announce her weight when she heard a noise behind her.

  It was the little blonde Tiffany. Her earrings swinging. Her teeth longer than natural. Her grin a little too triumphant as she continued into the pool room.

  In that moment Carlotta realized what was happening, and her heart turned cold within her. Of course she was not fat. She was never fat in her life. And Hilda, and the lady who had hung her head after stepping out of the shower, and who knew how many others, were not fat. They were normal healthy women. This was all a virus spread by las flacas, the skinnies. Brainwashed by the silly advertising, the foolish fashion designers and the people who made money from the diets and the exercises and the many, many books that all told you over and over that you were unhappy, that you were not living up to your full potential and that beyond all else you were fat, fat, fat. A conspiracy to make all women feel sick about themselves. To make women spend so much time worrying about how they looked that they had no time to think.

  And this girl. This girl in particular was one of the conspirators, the plotters. Her little remarks, her little looks, all calculated, all poisonous. Look at what she had almost done to Carlotta herself. This girl is killing us, Carlotta thought. She is killing our happiness, our contentment. Our selves.

  She has to be dealt with.

  Carlotta took her bathing suit out of her dressing case. She would relax in the whirlpool for a while. It would soothe her nerves and help her think. She followed the girl into the pool room.

  The next day Carlotta came in at her usual time to find the fitness studio in chaos. She carefully expressed her astonishment when she learned that the little Tiffany had been found drowned in the whirlpool. She had evidently dropped one of her gold earrings as she had entered the water—one could see where it lay gleaming at the bottom of the pool—and when she had reached for it, the vigorous movement of the whirlpool had wrapped her blonde ponytail around the chrome ladder, where it was fastened to the wall. Accidental death, the policeman said. A petition was being circulated to replace the whirlpool.

  “Poor child,” Carlotta said as she signed in.

  VIOLETTE MALAN writes from Elgin, Ontario. Her published fiction crosses several genres, including mystery, romance, fantasy and erotica. Violette won the inaugural short story contest at the Bloody Words Crime Writers Conference, and most recently she has sold a story to Over My Dead Body for their Canadian issue.

  SNAP JUDGEMENT

  SUE PIKE

  Here. Have a look at this.” The bald guy sitting next to me leaned across and waved a photograph in front of my nose.

  It was a small snapshot, an old one judging from the wide border and all the folds and creases. The woman looking up at the camera had great bone structure, but she seemed to be hiding behind too much hair and black eyeliner. Mr. Jones, who leads our high school photography club, was teaching us all about bone structure.

  I nodded and looked away, but the creep leaned closer and tapped the snapshot with a stubby finger.

  “My wife.” Tap. Tap. “She’s dead.”

  He was way into my personal space. I shifted sideways in my chair as far as I could and looked around at the rest of the group, hoping someone more my own age might have come in while I wasn’t looking. But the others seemed pretty old, and they were either crying or staring straight ahead like zombies.

  Now he was leaning forward, peering at the stud in my nose.

  “How d’ya blow your nose with that thing in there?”

  I felt like asking how he tied his shoes with the big gut hanging over his belt, but I just shrugged and looked away.

  “Hey! I’m talking to you.” He reached over and clamped a hand on my knee. Oh, please!

  I jerked my knee away and scraped my chair a couple of inches to the other side.

  The noise made the group leader look over. She cleared her throat. “Welcome everyone. Let’s start by introducing ourselves.” She smiled at each of the five of us in turn. “My name is Helen. I’m Program Coordinator here at Coping with Grief, and I’ll be your facilitator this evening.” She sat down and her voice went quiet. “My husband and daughter were killed eight years ago at a railway level crossing, so I’ve experienced something of what you’re all going through.”

  “I seriously doubt that,” the guy beside me said.

  She looked a little surprised. “Mr. Simpson. Would you like to start?”

  “Name’s Russ Simpson. Career army. Retired.” He laid the snapshot on the arm of his chair and stretched back, his fingers laced behind his neck. His shirt was one of those loud Hawaiian jobs with the first four buttons undone. I could see gold chains tangled up in a bird’s nest of gray chest hair.

  “Moved here from Calgary a month ago.” He cracked some knuckles. “My wife, Debbie, was killed a while back.”

  Helen waited to be sure he was finished and then turned to me.

  “I’m Jill,” I said. “My mom died in March. Breast cancer.”

  That was all I felt like saying. My throat and chest had started to ache, and I could feel tears making rat tracks down my cheeks. I sure didn’t want to be bawling in front of strangers.

  “All of us are bound to cry at one time or another during these sessions. And that’s okay. In fact it’s more than O.K.” Helen pushed the box of tissues on the coffee table closer to me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, and after a bit she turned to the woman on my other side.

  “My name’s Mary Anne.”

  I hadn’t had a chance really to look at Mary Anne before because she’d been hunched over in her chair since I arrived. Now I could see she wasn’t all that old, probably not more than thirty. She was pretty too, even with puffy eyes.

  “My little girl died of leukemia. She—”

  “Hey. Life’s a bugger.” Russ gave a low whistle.

  “Go on.” Helen said to Mary Anne, but she’d clamped her mouth shut and was staring down at the wet lump of tissues in her hand.

  Helen waited then looked across the room at an old couple sitting close together and apart from the rest of us. The man had a tight grip on the woman’s arm. “Our daughter and her husband died in a car accident last winter. They were on their way home from a ski trip. Left three kids—”

  “Hoo boy. Gotta take it easy on those winter roads. Wonder there aren’t more accidents. Eh?”

  The old man straightened up and glared at Russ. “The wife and I are doing the best we can.”

  Helen spoke up. “Your names…?”

  “I’m Bert. This is Doreen.” He slumped back.

  “I want to say something.” Russ dropped his hands to his knees and shifted forward in his chair. “The wife here,” he tapped the photo again, “she was a beautiful woman. Great cook and housekeeper, too. I get real mad when I think how some runner could just up and kill her and get away with it. I could kill…”

  Helen frowned. “It’s quite normal to feel anger—”

  “Just walking home from the mall one day, minding her own business and this woman jogger runs past her and pushes her off the sidewalk and into traffic. Wham!” He slammed his right fist into his left palm.

  “That’s terrible—”

  “Police never found the bitch who did it.” He was breathing hard. “Sometimes I get this red, this blood-red light in front of my eyes. Can’t see past it. Tried anger management, but they told me to come to this group.”

  Helen turned to Bert and Doreen. “Were you going to say more about how you’re feeling?”

  “Well, I get a litt
le angry at Trish sometimes.” Doreen’s mouth was quivering. “I know it’s not fair to her. She didn’t choose to die.” She looked at Bert. “But we already raised our family. We didn’t expect to have to raise—”

  “Kids. Nothing but trouble, you ask me.” Russ seemed calmer now and was slapping his heels against the chair legs.

  “The kids are okay. It’s just they’re teenagers, and teenagers are different today. More independent.” Bert glanced over at me and I could see him sizing up the purple streak in my hair and my black leather jacket. I wondered if he might say something else, but he just shrugged.

  “A certain amount of anger is—”

  “You bet I’m angry. Police didn’t even try to find Debbie’s killer.” Russ sat back and drummed on the photo with his fingers. “But I’ll get the bitch. Believe you me.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I can see her right here.” He tapped his forehead with his finger. “And I got a pretty good idea where to find her.”

  He pulled cigarettes out of his pocket and held the pack out to me. I shook my head, and he leaned closer.

  “She better watch her step, eh?” And then, I swear to God, he giggled.

  Helen stood up. “I think we could take a short break now. Top up your coffee or juice. The bathrooms are just down the hall, and you can smoke outside on the front steps. See you back here at 8:15.”

  Russ must have left during break, because when I got back from trying to scrub the mascara off my cheeks, the discussion was starting again, and his seat was empty. We talked about a lot of things in the second half. We talked about the shock of not having the person around any more, and I said that even though my mom was sick for so long, I felt real empty when she was finally gone. And I told them how worried I was about my dad, who just played computer games all evening. Without Russ there to hog all the conversation, everybody else had a chance to talk, and I recognized a lot of my own feelings in what they were saying.

  Nine-thirty came before I knew it. Helen did a final check on how we were doing so far, then said she hoped we’d all be back next week. I waited while the others got their stuff together and Helen was gathering up coffee cups and juice bottles.

  “I know you’ve already spoken to my dad, but do you think you could try talking to him again about coming next week? He’s driving me nuts. He never talks about his feelings, just tries to be cheerful all the time. I asked him to come tonight, but I think it would be better coming from someone his own age.”

  She laughed at that, and I realized I’d jumped to conclusions. It was hard to tell, but I thought she might be in her early forties. She had a nice smile, and I decided she might be just the one to get my dad away from solitaire.

  “It would be better if you could make him see how important it is to you.”

  We agreed we’d both try to talk to him. As I was leaving the room, I noticed the snapshot of Debbie Simpson sitting on the arm of Russ’s chair. I picked it up to have another look at it.

  Helen frowned. “I hope Russ didn’t upset you, Jill.”

  I shook my head and studied the snapshot. I sure liked the way the photographer had angled the light on her cheekbones.

  Helen held out her hand. “Here. I’ll give it to him next week”

  “Could I borrow it? It’s got good composition. I’d like to show it to Mr. Jones in my photography club.”

  Helen looked a little unsure, but then her briefcase started ringing, so I stuffed the photo in my backpack and left her rummaging around for her phone.

  • • •

  I showed the photo to Dad the next morning, pointing out the lighting and how the camera had captured her bone structure. I could tell he wasn’t really listening, and that didn’t surprise me. He’d been pretty spacey ever since Mom died.

  What did surprise me was when he looked over and said, “How did you get a picture of her?”

  “What do you mean? Have you seen her before?”

  “I think so. I don’t know her name, but she’s often at the gym, and she takes part in most of the charity runs.”

  I guess my mouth was hanging open, because he tapped it shut with his finger and laughed, “What’s this about, Jill?”

  I told him about Russ Simpson and his dead wife.

  He held the photo up to the light by the window and shook his head. “She looks older now, but I’m pretty sure it’s her.”

  “But this woman is dead.” My head was spinning.

  He was looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late for work.” He picked up his briefcase and keys and opened the door. “I’ve registered for the 10K race on Saturday. Why not come along and see if she’s there.”

  • • •

  I wasn’t sure I’d be able to pick out the woman in the photo from a whole field of runners, and I realized Dad would see even less from inside the pack, so I called Helen to see if she’d go with me. I was pretty sure she’d been seriously spooked by Russ and would be curious to see the woman Dad thought resembled the one in the snapshot.

  I stuffed my camera and tripod and some high-speed film into my backpack ready for Helen to pick me up at eight-thirty the next morning. Barriers were already up along the Parkway, so we left the car near the university and walked back through campus. We found the registration tent and grabbed a printout of runners’ names and registration numbers. Then we pushed our way through the crowd to the starting line. There were already several hundred spectators on the sidelines and twice that number dressed in shorts and stringy tops with numbers pinned to them, stretching and jogging in place, waiting for the starter’s pistol.

  I looked for Dad and pointed him out to Helen. Then I scanned the front-seeded women. I looked at the photo again and stopped short on Number 36. She had short gray hair and her face was tanned and lined, but other than that, she was a ringer for the woman in the snapshot. I nudged Helen and she nodded, then ran her finger down the list and said: “Number 36. Amber Thompson.”

  I was studying the woman’s profile when I heard Helen gasp.

  “Look!” She was pointing at a man climbing up a grassy slope near the bicycle path that runs alongside the Parkway. He was dressed in a bright yellow rain suit, rubber boots and work gloves and he was holding a glass mason jar out in front of him.

  It was Russ Simpson. He lifted his head, and I saw the weirdest look on his face. I turned to see what he was staring at and sure enough, there was Amber Thompson, right in the cross hairs.

  I dropped my backpack to the ground, scooped the tripod out of it and took off running as fast as I could, trying to cover the distance between Russ and me before he got to the top of the hill. The grass was still slick with dew, and I almost slipped, but I got to him just before he made it to the road. I came up on his right side, crouched down and thrust the tripod in front of his ankle. It snared the plastic pant leg, and he went down with the whooshing sound of air going out of a tire.

  He twisted around and kicked out furiously, his boot catching me square on the nose. The bottle fell from his hand and bounced, splashing its contents over him and the grass. I got a couple of drops on my hand and they burned like mad, but that was nothing to what the stuff seemed to be doing to him.

  I could hear him screaming as the fluid burned into his scalp and face. The grass around him sizzled and steamed, and I rolled away down the hill. Finally, I came to rest on my back, and by the time I got my bearings, Dad was leaning over me. He looked pretty worried, so I reached up and touched my nose with my hand. It came away covered with blood.

  “You’ve lost your nose stud,” Dad said, handing me a wad of tissues.

  “No problem. It’s time I lost it, anyway.” I struggled to my feet and looked over to see the race officials trying to coax Russ into the First Aid Tent. He was still shrieking and flopping around on the grass. The exposed skin on his head and neck was turning a sickening red.

  Helen came up beside me carrying a big plastic cup of water. I plunged my sore hand into it. It
sure felt good. “So, I guess you two have met, eh?”

  Dad shook Helen’s hand. “Jill tells me I’ll be coming to your grief session next week.”

  I grinned at Helen and she gave me a thumbs up.

  I turned and looked up the hill then, to where Amber Thompson was standing stock still, staring at Russ. She caught my eye and walked stiffly over to where we were standing. I hoped she wasn’t going to pass out.

  “I want to thank you,” she said, and her voice sounded wobbly and weak. “That acid was intended for me.”

  “I figured.” I said. “Did you know he came to our bereavement group and he was carrying a picture of you?”

  “Bereavement group?” She closed her eyes and sighed. “So he’s still grieving for Debbie Simpson.”

  “Did you even know he was in town?”

  “No. I had no idea he’d managed to track me down. It’s been years since I got away, changed my name, my appearance, everything. I thought I was safe.”

  “I’ve been wondering,” I said, “if you’re the woman he told us about, the one he says killed Debbie Simpson.”

  She looked puzzled. “Is that what he said?” Then she nodded without waiting for my answer. “That would make some kind of sense, I guess.”

  “It would?”

  “Absolutely. I did kill Debbie Simpson, and she deserved to die. She was a pathetic, frightened little girl, totally controlled by her abusive husband.”

  “I see,” I lied.

  There was a long pause. Then she held her hand out to me.

  “I think I’d better introduce myself,” Amber Thompson said. “I am Debbie Simpson.”

  SUE PIKE doesn’t own a camera but she greatly admires anyone able to capture mood and meaning in a single snapshot. She limits her hobbies to writing and has had stories in all of The Ladies’ Killing Circle anthologies. “Widow’s Weeds” from Cottage Country Killers won the Arthur Ellis Award for best short mystery story of 1997.

  RETURNING THE FAVOUR

  JOAN BOSWELL

  Finished with the day’s training and back in my dorm, I flipped through my mail. Pizza Pizza—a two-for-one deal. VISA—a pitch for my business. A hand-addressed envelope—probably a machine-simulated charitable appeal.