Fit to Die

by Joan Boswell

  • • •

  If they say that a clean office is the sign of a sick mind, then Father Donald’s mind was in outstandingly good health. I cleared a pile of old bulletins off the nearest chair, pushed aside a litter of used Lenten folders on the desk and put down the cup of tea that Dorothy had handed me as I came through. She looked grimmer than usual and indicated with a shake of her head that she didn’t want to talk about it. Not that I blamed her. It would only set him off again.

  Father Donald was standing in front of the filing cabinets, doing deep knee bends as he pulled and pushed the two top drawers rhythmically in and out. I wondered if the author of Flex-er-Cise had anything like this in mind when he penned his little volume. I doubted it.

  Before we could begin our work, the doorbell rang and Dorothy appeared with Sergeant Bernie Bickerton of the local RCMP detachment. “The sergeant wants a word with you, Donald.” I started to get up.

  “No, no,” said Father Donald. “Stay, Charles. This won’t take a minute. Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you, not that I can do anything, of course, but I suppose I must be able to do something, or you wouldn’t be here.”

  I saw the familiar dazed look in Sergeant Bickerton’s eyes. “Er, umm. Yes, well, the thing is, we want to corroborate that Mrs. Edith Francis was at the service yesterday morning at St. Grimbald’s?”

  “Why yes, and a lovely job she did, too, especially her rendition of ‘Sweet Hour of Prayer’, most unusual, but quite touching.” Father Donald pulled up his shoulders to his ears and dropped them rapidly three times. Then he rotated them clockwise and anti-clockwise.

  Sergeant Bickerton stared, fascinated. “Got a crick in your neck, Father?” he asked.

  “No, no. It’s my flex-er-cises. You should try them.” Father Donald shifted to his neck rolls.

  Sergeant Bickerton nodded. “Yes, well, very interesting. Now, was Mrs. Francis also at the coffee hour following the service?”

  “Indeed she was. Never missed it, well almost never, although she did forgo once or twice when Mr. Francis arrived early to pick her up, but otherwise, always there. She will be sadly missed.”

  Sergeant Bickerton gamely plowed on. I could see why he was a sergeant. “And did you happen to notice what she ate or drank?”

  “Well, there were some of Carol Morgan’s butter tarts. I’m sure she would have had some of those, except, now that I think of it, I don’t think they were there when she came down, not that they’d all been eaten up, although they often are, right off the bat, everyone wants one, the most delicious butter tarts anywhere, well, perhaps not anywhere, but certainly at St. Grimbald’s, in fact, I often tell Carol she should start a butter tart business, although not a business, more of a home kitchen thing…” He trailed off, unconsciously licking his lips in remembrance of butter tarts past. “Although,” he rallied, “they were gone because Dorothy had taken them back to the kitchen.”

  “She didn’t offer them to Mrs. Francis?”

  “Good grief, no! Dorothy wouldn’t give Edith anything! They were mortal enemies, well not mortal any more, more like immortal I guess, what with Edith being gone and all. But they never got on, never since Dorothy discovered that it was Edith who told the regional president of the A.C.W. that Dorothy…Oh! Shoot! It’s a secret. Dorothy said she’d have my…well, let’s just say it wouldn’t be pleasant, if I told anyone. Can’t say a thing, not a thing, silence of the confessional and all that, not that she confessed, at least not to me, but then she wouldn’t, would she, confess that is. ‘Vengeance is mine’ is Dorothy’s personal motto. No, no, I can’t say another word.” With this, he made the motion of locking his mouth shut, turning the key and throwing it away.

  “So they didn’t get on?” Sergeant Bickerton leaned forward intently. “Was Ms. Peasgood in the kitchen then?”

  “Who? Ms. Peasgood? Oh my sister, of course, I always think of her as just ‘Dottie’. Yes. She was in the kitchen.” He sat on the edge of the desk and lifted both legs up, held them rigid and slowly lowered them back down. His face mottled a bright purple. Steady, I thought, or we’ll be having two funerals at St. Grimbald’s this week.

  “And did you see Mrs. Edith Francis drink anything?”

  Father Donald looked off into space. I could almost see when the light bulb went on. “Why yes! I did! She drank the cup of coffee Dorothy gave her.”

  Sergeant Bickerton was instantly alert. “So, you’re saying that Ms. Peasgood did give Mrs. Francis something, after all?” he asked in a voice of steel. “I think I should have a little talk with Ms. Peasgood myself.”

  “Oh, dear, must you? She gets upset so easily. It’s her nerves, you know—very delicate. Always have been, although not when she was younger of course, not that she’s all that old now, but still, the pills have made a great difference, although she’d rather not have anyone know that she takes them, in fact please don’t mention I told you, she’ll kill me, I’m sure. She’s capable of almost anything when she gets in a temper…”

  After that, I watched it go steadily downhill. The upshot was that Dorothy was asked to go into the station with Sergeant Bickerton to give a statement, and Father Donald insisted on going along to give her moral support. Frankly, I feared he’d given her far too much support all ready. I, of course, was asked to take the Parish Council meeting in his absence.

  • • •

  I arrived several minutes late, but contrary to their usual practice, everyone was already there. Even Morley Leet made it, although I thought he still looked a bit shaky. It seemed appropriate that I break the news about Edith so that we could begin with a moment of silence for our dear departed substitute organist.

  “I have some very sad and serious news,” I began. “Today, we have lost a vital part of St. Grimbald’s, someone who is near and dear to each and every one of us, someone whom we will all sorely miss, someone who unselfishly contributed so much towards the spiritual worship in our congregation. I know you all feel as saddened as I do by this tragic loss.” I paused dramatically, thinking I’d done pretty well by poor old Edith, and wondered if I’d be called upon for the funeral eulogy. Before I could continue, Morley Leet stood up.

  “I’d like to say a few words,” he said. I was surprised, since I hadn’t realized he was especially fond of Edith.

  “I’d like to have it put on the record that I have always admired the steadfast leadership and deep spiritual qualities that were brought to this parish by Father Donald. I’m sure I speak for us all when I say that he was a good rector and an all-around good human being.” He wiped a tear from his eye, sat down and looked solemnly around him.

  Before I could say anything, the door banged open and Father Donald bounded into the room. “I’m back! Well I wasn’t really away, just gone for awhile, but I was with you all in spirit. So how’s the meeting going, Charles—have you told them my good news?”

  Morley Leet stood up. His chair fell with a crash backwards onto the cement floor. He thrust an arm towards Father Donald. “You! You’re, you’re…” and he fainted dead away.

  Suddenly, I flashed back to yesterday’s coffee hour, and I could see the arm thrusting the cup of coffee into the Father Donald’s hands. I could hear the voice, “Here you are, Father Donald. A double-double. Just the way you like it.” It had been Morley Leet. The drugged coffee was not only deliberate, but it had been meant for Father Donald. And Edith was dead because of Dorothy’s vigilance, not vengeance.

  “Shoot! I knew Morley Leet was going to love my news about the money, but I never expected him to be this excited, well maybe not excited, although he is pretty overcome.” Father Donald rushed to Morley’s side and slapped him, not too gently on the cheeks. Morley sat up and looked groggily at Father Donald.

  “I guess ten thousand is a lot of money, Morley, enough to make any treasurer faint,” Father Donald told him.

  “Ten thousand! I never took that much! Just enough to put a down payment on the boat!”

  “No, no! You’
ve got it all wrong. The Bishop has given us a grant of $10,000 for a new well and septic system. I don’t think we can help you with your boat, although, perhaps you could get some kind of grant from the government, they’re always handing out money for fishermen, although you don’t fish do you, or at least not professionally, although on the other hand…”

  It was time for me to intervene. “Excuse me, Father Donald, but Morley Leet and I have some business with Sergeant Bickerton, don’t we, Morley? I’ll just leave you to carry on with the meeting.” I got a firm grip on Morley’s arm and hustled him into the kitchen, where I could lock the door while I made the phone call. Behind me, I could hear Father Donald’s voice.

  “Shoot! What a shame! Charles has let the cat out of the bag, and I wanted to be the one to tell you the good news, well not really news now since you already know, and not really good since I suppose he told you about poor Edith, well, not poor in spirit, but poor in, well, not poor at all, especially where she’s gone. At least I presume that’s where she’s gone, although, on the other hand…”

  PAT WILSON AND KRIS WOOD have been friends for over 30 years, although they’ve seldom lived near each other. Instead, they’ve run businesses, written stories and collaborated on many projects through e-mail, fax and phone. Pat is an international speaker. Kris is a gerontologist. Both are published authors. Now they are next-door neighbours living in Nova Scotia. The characters in this story will be appearing in a full-length mystery novel that the pair are currently preparing.

  SEIGNEUR POISSON

  R. J. HARLICK

  Maudite neige!’ Jacques cursed as he fought through another deep snow drift. Those stupid old fools to go fishing in such weather.

  With his eyes half shut against the stinging snow, he scanned the frozen lake, hoping to see his grandfather and great-uncle. The sooner he found Pépère and Mononcle Hippolyte, the sooner he could get back to his tape of last night’s hockey game.

  “Impossible to see in this soup,” he muttered at the wall of swirling white. He pulled his hood tighter.

  Wondering how far he’d come, he looked back to the shore and groaned when he saw the red blur of the barn, its light the only sign of life in this vacuum. Sacrifice! He’d only come a short distance. But then again, it meant the beer he’d abandoned was still within easy reach.

  It would serve those two crazies right if he left them to handle things on their own. After all, it was their pig-headedness that had forced him out in this blizzard.

  He wavered for a second. He could almost feel the smooth beer running down his throat. Then with a deep drag on his cigarette, he turned back into the storm’s fury. He had no choice; he had to find those stupid old men.

  It was difficult going. And the blasted snowshoes didn’t make it easier. He heaved one foot out of the snow and slapped it onto the shifting surface in front of him. It disappeared under a foot of powder. He picked up his back leg and swung it around.

  “Tabarnac!” he yelled when his leg, minus a snowshoe, plunged into the snow. He’d kill that old man when he found him. He jammed his boot back into the binding and cursed forward.

  When he’d discovered that his new high-tech snowshoes were gone from the barn, leaving only the ancient bear-paws, Jacques had blamed his grandfather for taking them. Now he figured it was really his uncle’s fault. Hippolyte had put Pépère up to it, which wasn’t surprising. Ever since his younger brother had arrived, Pépère was doing things he’d never dare do before.

  Like today. It was only because of Hippolyte’s goading that Pépère had risked ice fishing in such weather. After eighty years, his grandfather knew better than to go out on the snow covered lake in a blizzard, when you couldn’t tell sky from ground. Sure, it wasn’t snowing when the two of them had set out this morning, but Pépère knew those clouds on the other side of the lake meant it would be snowing like stink by midday, that’s for sure. He’d even said as much, but Hippolyte wasn’t having any of it.

  “Eh ben! You gone soft behind the ears, old one?” Hippolyte challenged in his hoarse smoker’s voice. “Afraid of a little snow? Maudit crisse, you are truly an old man.” His grandfather didn’t even bother to reply, just stomped out of the room.

  Next thing Jacques knew, the two burly shapes, loaded down with tip-ups, buckets and other ice fishing equipment, were lumbering down the hill to the flat plain of the lake. Each was the bookend to the other. Although there were ten years separating the two brothers, the passage of time had made them twins, short and stocky with thick spare tires around their middle, that even heavy duffel coats couldn’t hide.

  And of course they both had the nose, the Tremblay nose that Jacques too had inherited. No one could miss it for the amount of space it occupied on the high cheek-boned Tremblay face. And from the side profile it jutted straight out with a sharp downward turn like the beak of some giant bird, which was why people around here called the Tremblays the Crow’s Beaks.

  Unfortunately, a nose of this size had one distinct disadvantage in this weather. It froze. Jacques rubbed the numb tip with his icy mitt. He tried to see if there was any sign yet of the two fishermen and was blasted once again by the wall of blinding snow.

  “Pépère, you there?” he shouted, praying they’d had the sense to fish in this part of the lake and not where they usually went. But the only response was the muffled rasping of the snow against his hood.

  A quick backward glance brought on a faint lick of fear. The shoreline had vanished. He was cut off. And his track, the last reference to home, was fast disappearing.

  He thought of the advice his grandfather had pounded into him since he was a child. “In a whiteout, stay put, mon p’tit. Don’t move, you’ll get lost, maybe even fall into a hole in the ice.”

  Yeah, well, a fat lot of good that advice would do him now. He might as well fall into a hole rather than return home without his grandfather.

  “I don’t trust that God-cursed Hippolyte,” Maman had shouted from the kitchen. “No saying what he’ll get up to in this tempest. Turn that TV off now and go find your Pépère.”

  And when Jacques hesitated, she shouted “And if something happens to him, you’ll answer to God.”

  So what choice did he have? Besides, he knew she was right; he didn’t trust Hippolyte either. With a last drag on his cigarette, Jacques turned back into the driving snow.

  For sure, his grandfather and uncle were fishing in the bay at the other end of the lake, next to English Bait Point. Since the big storms always blew from that shore, he figured if he walked straight into the wind he’d eventually stumble into them.

  There was a curious thing about this particular fishing spot. Before his uncle came to live with them, the old man had avoided it like it was the devil’s curse. Instead, his grandfather fished winter and summer near Indian Rock, convinced the biggest walleye hung out in the surrounding deep water. In fact, he fished there so often people had renamed the giant slab of granite “Crow’s Beak Rock”.

  It had taken some convincing by Hippolyte to get his brother to go against habit and of course his fears: Pépère clung to the belief that even one step on the neighbouring water was a step towards death. Hippolyte had argued hotly and loudly that his brother was a silly old fool to believe in such superstitious nonsense. It had happened so long ago that it was only crazy old men like his brother who still believed that death would come to those who walked over the dead man’s bones. Besides, everyone knew that the bones had long since been reburied in the Protestant cemetery at Mont Georges.

  At first, Pépère wouldn’t budge. As far as he was concerned, Indian Rock had been good to him. Indian Rock was where he was going to fish come hell or high water. Hippolyte could go fishing where he damn well pleased, but he’d go alone. Atleast that was what his grandfather had said, until his uncle came home with the biggest, meanest looking walleye Jacques had ever seen. Next time Hippolyte went ice fishing, he didn’t go alone.

  “Tabarnac!” yelled Jacques, as his
boot slipped out of the ancient bindings again. He struggled to retrieve the snowshoe and promptly lost his balance, landing nose first in the snow. Sputtering in frustration, he fought with the icy powder until he gained enough purchase to push himself onto his feet.

  They deserve to freeze to death, he thought as he kicked his boot back into the binding. He jerked the strap tight. It broke. He tied the broken end of the strap to the webbing. It broke again. In a fit of anger he flung the snowshoes away.

  Sacrifice! He was screwed. But he couldn’t turn back.

  He lit up another cigarette and struggled through the deep snow. It felt like he was moving a ton of bricks with each forward step. Tabarnac! He’d never reach his grandfather in time. A sudden squall sent him reeling backwards. But he braced himself, and, bending into the wind, ploughed onward.

  It was curious how Hippolyte had just turned up out of the forest one hot day last summer. Why, Jacques didn’t even know he had a great-uncle by the name of Hippolyte until the gnarled old man was standing in the doorway, swatting black flies and demanding to see his brother. Even his grandfather seemed a bit puzzled by the stranger in the crumpled suit, clutching the tattered suitcase. But as recognition dawned—for you couldn’t mistake the Crow’s Beak nose—Pépère’s face cracked first into a suspicious scowl then into a weak welcoming smile. “Hippolyte? C’est vrai? It is really you? Unbelievable. We thought you were dead, that’s for sure.”

  And so Hippolyte came to live with them, but not without considerable opposition from Jacques’ mother. As far as she was concerned, looking after one old man was enough; two would make it impossible, particularly since the newest arrival probably hadn’t lifted a finger to do any work in his entire life. She searched through the family for another home for Hippolyte.

  Of his eleven brothers and sisters, only three had the courtesy to reply. Sister Claudette, the youngest, pleaded that a convent was no suitable place for an old man. Father Jean-Paul, the second eldest, said he had no room in the presbytery. And Madeline, the bluntest of all, said that not even for an audience with the Pope himself was she having a crazy live with her.