Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

  “Mrs. Woo came back to tai chi on Thursday. Can you believe it?” Mrs. Tan lowered her voice so the other customers wandering up and down the aisles would not overhear. “That woman knows she is not welcome in our group, but still she comes.” Mrs. Tan’s shoulders heaved. “This time, she told your grandmother exercise cannot protect a person. Healthy and fit people are not immortal.”

  An invisible weight pressed against Jenny’s chest. “Was she threatening my grandmother?”

  Mrs. Tan’s face was grim. “She chooses her words carefully. I believe she meant to make your grandmother uncomfortable. Hopefully, it was nothing more.” She moved away to serve another customer.

  De la Gauchetière Street was crowded with Saturday morning shoppers. The street, which had been converted into a bricked pedestrian mall years ago, was lined with sidewalk merchants selling inexpensive toys, slippers, incense and other dry goods. Jenny stepped into the flow of the crowd and headed east to St. Laurent Street.

  She saw her grandfather first. He stood on the corner gesticulating wildly at a petite woman who held herself rigidly against the storm of his anger. It was the Widow Woo. Jenny’s curiosity propelled her towards them. Neither of them noticed her.

  “I am not ruining your life,” the Widow said icily. “It was you who ruined mine.”

  “You cannot hold me responsible!” Jenny’s grandfather bared his lips and forced the words out from between his clenched teeth.

  Anger clouded the Widow’s face. “You could have saved me. Instead, I was forced to marry an unmerciful man.”

  “Jiély?” Jenny’s grandfather had noticed her. “What are you doing here?”

  The Widow smirked. “Ah! The truth is out, Mr. Leung.” With a proud tilt of her head, she left.

  • • •

  Granny’s favourite shopping day was Sunday, when she always bumped into friends in Chinatown. Jenny couldn’t shake the conversation she had heard the day before and volunteered to accompany her. If Granny ran into the Widow, Jenny wanted to be there.

  The sidewalks along St. Laurent Street were crowded with open crates of exotic vegetables and fruits. Shoppers jammed the narrowed sidewalks. The street was a confusion of double-parked trucks unloading more crates and cars looking for a parking spot. The buzz among Granny’s friends was about more than who had the freshest fruit. The shocking news was that Mrs. Yu had committed suicide because her ex-lover had met and married a woman in Vancouver.

  Jenny balanced herself with the grocery bags she carried in each hand and hopped over some mangoes that had fallen out of a crate to the sidewalk. Scanning the shoppers for Granny, Jenny spotted her examining fruit on a stand in front of the next store and headed towards her. Suddenly there was a crash of boxes and cries of astonishment.

  People quickly collected around the store entrance. Pushing through the crowd, Jenny saw someone lying on the sidewalk amidst cracked crates.

  “Granny!” she exclaimed when she broke through the throng, dropped the bags onto the ground and knelt beside her grandmother who was cradling her left arm.

  “She was pushed!” someone cried out.

  Jenny scrambled to her feet and scanned the crowd.

  With a furtive glance over her shoulder, the Widow Woo hurried away from the scene.

  • • •

  Jenny couldn’t prove the Widow had pushed Granny, but she intended to confront Mrs. Woo at the next tai chi practice. Grandfather had had a fit when she told him she’d seen the Widow walking away. She’d been afraid he’d have a heart attack right there in the hospital emergency room. His face became beet red and he clenched his fists and pounded his knees. She had never seen him act like that; she’d also never feared for her grandmother’s safety before.

  The next Tuesday morning, she arrived at Fletcher’s Field a few minutes after eight. As she walked up Duluth Street, which bordered one end of the park, she saw everyone at the usual spot, except for Granny. who had been ordered to stay home and rest. Jenny drew closer and realized they were standing around someone lying on the ground.

  Grandfather! Her heart pounded as she raced across the street.

  The sight of him safe and sound brought tears of relief to her eyes. He stood comforting Wendy. When Jenny halted breathlessly beside them, she discovered they were hovering over Mrs. Woo.

  “What happened?” Jenny asked in bewilderment. Wendy’s hands covered her face, muffling sobs. Her grandfather stared in shock at the still figure on the ground.

  “Mrs. Woo had a heart attack. Mrs. Tan has gone to the house to call for an ambulance.” He closed his eyes and bowed his head. “But I think it is too late.”

  • • •

  After the ambulance had removed the body, the group abandoned practice for the day. Jenny returned to her grandparents’ house with Mrs. Tan. The four of them settled in the living room where Mrs. Tan plumped cushions for Granny.

  “Mrs. Woo died of a heart attack?” Jenny stated in disbelief.

  Her grandfather nodded. “It happened when Wendy struck her.”

  “Are you saying Wendy killed her?” Shocked, Jenny looked from her grandfather to Mrs. Tan. “Why would she?”

  “Ah!” exclaimed Mrs. Tan, easing herself onto the sofa next to Granny. “Revenge. If not for the Widow’s interference, Wendy’s mother would still be alive and her father would not be an invalid.”

  “But how did she do it?” Jenny recalled there had been no weapon and no blood.

  “We had started the form,” her grandfather explained, “and they both stood behind everyone else. We heard them scuffle. I saw Wendy strike Mrs. Woo’s chest. Hard. Mrs. Woo collapsed.” Grandfather looked thoughtful. “Maybe she didn’t mean to kill her.”

  “Did anyone tell the ambulance attendants?” Jenny asked.

  “We couldn’t say for certain that Wendy killed her,” Mrs. Tan replied. “So we told them what we thought was true. Mrs. Woo died because she had a bad heart.”

  DAY’S LEE lives in Montreal and buys pork buns in Chinatown. This former tai chi student gave up martial arts for action behind the keyboard. Her fast-fingered exercise has resulted in the publication of several short stories.

  THE BRIEF LIFE OF ALICE HARTLEY

  LIZ PALMER

  Excuse me?” Alice tapped gently on the counter in Richardson Falls police station.

  Constable Blain looked up from the comics on the back of The Falls Fare. “Miss Hartley.” It came out as a groan. “What can we do for you today?”

  “I’d like to report a murder.”

  Constable Blain folded his paper and laid it on the desk. “Where did it happen this time?”

  “Up by the new development.” Alice mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

  “The road construction site?”

  Alice nodded.

  The constable stood up and came to the counter. “Do you know there are laws against wasting police time, Miss Hartley? If there were as many bodies as you’ve reported, it wouldn’t be a road they’re building, it would be a bloody cemetery.” He took a deep breath. Alice thought if she hadn’t been a cripple, he would be shouting at her by now. “I don’t have the manpower to send people off on wild goose chases, Miss Hartley.”

  “But I saw the body. A woman. I couldn’t tell who she was because she was lying face down. Grey hair, red sweater, grey skirt and one shoe…”

  “Here. Hold on.” Constable Blain slipped round the end of the counter and steadied her. “You’ve gone pale. Come and sit down.” He helped her limp to a chair. “I’ll get you a coffee.”

  Alice waited, hands clenched, fighting down the bile which threatened to rise into her throat. She could still picture the stockinged, shoeless foot.

  A minute later, Constable Blain came into the waiting room, a styrofoam cup in hand. “Why didn’t you telephone? It’s too far for you to come.” He handed her the coffee.

  “You know it’s a party line.” Alice heard the quaver in her voice. “And the police should be first to know.”r />
  “Don’t you worry about that.” He reassured her in the false tone some people use for children. “Just for the record, where were you when you saw the body?”

  “In my living room.” Her hand trembled, and the tea slopped over the rim of the cup onto her white glove. She winced as the hot liquid hit her skin. “It entered into my head shortly before lunch this morning.”

  • • •

  One shoe. One shoe. Limping towards the bus stop, the words pounded in Alice’s head, keeping time with her steps. She felt sick with dread. She could not wait to reach the safety of her house.

  The tree-lined lane to the old farmhouse curved sharply away from the main road. Her churchgoing clients, not wanting to be seen visiting a psychic, had been grateful for this feature. Today, stepping down from the bus, Alice wished the lane were shorter, wished she had left her bike at the corner. She must not hurry; it would be out of character. One mistake was already one too many.

  “Jean Mayhew ate some stew, fell asleep and lost her shoe.” The rhyme sprang, ready-made into her mind. Alice sniggered, then pressed a hand to her mouth. She was becoming hysterical, a sure path to disaster.

  “Discipline, discipline.” Edie-Rose’s voice whispered from the past, and Alice, breathing slowly, heeded the words.

  Unlocking the house, she slipped in, pushed the door shut with her shoulder and slotted the chain into place. She stood for a moment in the dark of the windowless hall, thinking back. She was sure no one had seen Jean arrive. She had come at dusk, walking along the abandoned logging road which ran behind the farmhouse. Alice sighed, took off her heavy-rimmed glasses and tucked them into her skirt pocket. She went into the lace-curtained parlour and sat down on the sofa. Folding her gloved hands on her lap, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the events of the previous evening.

  • • •

  “Miss Hartley. I’m here.” Jean Mayhew called from outside the kitchen door.

  Alice let her in. “Miss Mayhew. You will join me for a little supper first, won’t you?” She watched Jean’s eyes glance first at the scrubbed wooden table set for two, then alight eagerly on the Tarot cards waiting on the pine dresser.

  “I hadn’t really—”

  “Please,” Alice interrupted. “I missed lunch and I can’t concentrate when I’m hungry.” She pulled a chair out for Jean and went over to the stove. “I hope you like beef casserole.” Lifting the dish from the oven she carried it to the table. “There. Fresh bread and butter, and a glass of wine.”

  Jean Mayhew didn’t argue, but then Alice hadn’t expected her to. Clients never wittingly upset Alice in case it affected her ability to see their future.

  Obviously eager to start the session, Jean ate quickly, pausing only to praise the meal. Alice deliberately slowed herself. She needed Jean to drink more wine.

  By the time Alice laid down her fork, Jean had finished her second glass and looked ready for more. Three would be too many. “I’m done,” Alice said quickly. “Another spoonful for you?”

  “No, no. Quite delicious. Let me help.” Jean stood up and carried the plates and glasses to the sink. She stopped and leaned against the counter. “I…I feel a little funny, Miss Hartley.”

  Alice rose and limped over to her. “Perhaps you drank the wine too quickly. Take my arm.” She led Jean back to the table. “Sit down. I’ll fetch the cards.”

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t.” Jean shook her head. “It was a mistake coming here. Reverend Stevenson would be so disappointed in me.” She started to rise.

  Alice put a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t really need to use the cards, Miss Mayhew.” She put them down on the table. “I can see both your past and your future without them.”

  Jean sank back into the chair, staring up at Alice. “What do you mean?” Her eyes held a look of uncertainty.

  “I’ll tell you a story, and you’ll see what I mean.” Alice returned to her chair and looked across the table. “There once lived a little girl and her widowed mother. Elizabeth was spoiled and liked to show off, but she wasn’t a bad child. When she was eleven, her mother married a divorced man with a fourteen-year-old daughter. This girl, Leslie, hadn’t had such a soft life. Rejected by her mother, she had come to live with her father in Westing not long before he remarried.”

  Jean’s hands clutched the edge of the table.

  “I see you recognize the story, Miss Mayhew. Everyone in Westing knew about it. Some thought Ruth Sullivan foolish to marry Eric Mills. She with all that money and he a salesman with a troublesome teenager. Others thought it would be good for Elizabeth to have a father. No one consulted Elizabeth Sullivan or Leslie Mills.

  “Elizabeth learned a lot from Leslie. How to shoplift. How to lie convincingly. She experimented with marijuana and she got to know the local criminals. She didn’t become addicted to drugs, but she did become a moody, difficult teenager.”

  “Terrible girl. Thought she was so clever.” Jean’s words slurred.

  “Yes. You didn’t like her, I know. What did she used to call you? Miss Make Spew.” Alice laughed. “You weren’t alone in your opinion. Most adults found her a pain then, while Leslie…Leslie settled down, grew out of her difficult ways. She became soft-spoken and polite. People thought well of her—except those whom she had blackmailed. No, Jean. May I call you Jean? Don’t try to stand. Your legs won’t hold you.” Alice reached across the table and patted Jean’s hand.

  Jean jerked away. “The wine! You put something in it.” She tried again to push herself up from the table. “Let me go.”

  Alice watched her struggle. “I’m sorry, but I’ve been wanting to tell you this story for a long time. Sit still and listen.” She leaned forward. “What secret did Leslie discover about you, Westing’s respected librarian?” She waited for an answer. “Not going to tell me? You were lucky Elizabeth and Leslie had that fight the day you went to confront Leslie, weren’t you? All the world heard Elizabeth yelling ‘I’ll fix you for good’ when she slammed out of Leslie’s place.” Alice got up and filled a glass with water. “I’m not used to so much talking.”

  Jean didn’t move. Blue veins stood out against the pallor of her skin.

  “Back to the story. Naturally, when the body of Leslie was discovered and Miss Mayhew, staunch pillar of the church, claimed to have seen Elizabeth leaving the house at the crucial time, everyone believed her. Especially since you described seeing Elizabeth’s prized possession, her black racing bike, leaning against the hedge. No one believed Elizabeth when she said she’d been asleep in bed. Elizabeth Sullivan in bed before eleven! The police laughed.”

  Putting her head on one side, Alice studied Jean. “You killed three people that day,” she said softly. “Leslie, Elizabeth and her mother.”

  “No.” Jean swallowed, then licked her lips. “No. Only Leslie. Had to kill her.”

  “I can understand you killing Leslie. Blackmail’s despicable. But why blame Elizabeth? Did you think being rude to you, the librarian, warranted a lifetime in jail? Imagine the different path her life might have taken if you had helped her. You had the chance. Remember that? It was before she became so unmanageable.”

  If Alice closed her eyes she could see Elizabeth, bright with enthusiasm, skipping up the steps to the old brick library, dark braids bouncing against her back. See her at the desk. “Hi, Miss Mayhew. I need some books on speed cycling. I want to race.” See that brightness fade at the look of distaste on the librarian’s face. “That’s not the sort of thing your mother would like, Elizabeth. Nice girls play tennis and go horseback riding. Anyway, bicycle racing is only for men.”

  Alice picked up the cards again. “Racing would have given her a goal, and losing would have been good for her.”

  Jean raised her head. “She always wanted to win. Show everyone how clever she was.” Jean spoke like someone whose mouth had been frozen by the dentist. “Anyway, it didn’t stop her. She failed Grade Ten because she skipped classes to ride her bike.”

  “That�
��s true. She loved the freedom, the speed and the feel of the wind in her hair. Did you ever wonder what it felt like to be nineteen and have that freedom taken away? To be sentenced to twenty-five years? Be deprived of a chance to marry and have a family? Would it surprise you to learn Elizabeth became a model prisoner and holds two degrees? It was hard at first, of course…” Alice’s thoughts veered to her turbulent early years in prison and to her saviour, Edie-Rose.

  Edie-Rose, staring at her with compassionate brown eyes set in a scarred face.

  “Ain’t no use fighting the system, little girl,” she’d said. “We’re all here for a reason. Maybe you didn’t commit no murder, but if’n you’d been a nice p’lite girl no one would’ve fingered you.” She’d stroked the bruises on Elizabeth’s arms. “You make a plan for what you’re gonna do when you get out. Me, I’m gonna do murder, and ain’t no one gonna guess who done it.”

  It had been the goad Elizabeth needed. How to take revenge and get away with it? Under the wing of Edie-Rose, her life in prison had changed. Inmates didn’t dare touch her. She was Edie-Rose’s protege. Never a lover, although some thought they were. Edie-Rose had become her mentor, teacher and comforter.

  Twenty years they had worked together on plans for the perfect murder. Along with courses in French language and literature, Elizabeth had soaked up Edie-Rose’s knowledge of the underworld. In the mornings, Elizabeth studied French verbs. In the whispered quiet of the night she learned where to get false identities and the art of simple disguises. They’d created “Alice” together. No one, Edie-Rose had asserted, really looks at a cripple.

  Edie-Rose had favoured a Ford pick-up for a get-away vehicle, but she never got the chance to use it. She had died of a heart attack three weeks before her release. Elizabeth owed it to her to succeed.