When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  Once they settled into a regular life, he also discovered her obsession with her health. A sniffle, and she worried about pneumonia. A cough and TB threatened. A class-A hypochondriac, she bored him with her endless preoccupation with health and diet. It did occur to him that in some circumstances, this could be a plus. If she died, suddenly no one would be surprised, and her trust fund, house, cottage and stocks would all go to her spouse, who would become a rich man.

  He certainly wouldn’t be one while she was alive. She might have a trust fund, but she required a detailed accounting of the money she doled out.

  And if he’d wanted quiet, he got it—Mary Beth spent her evenings reading, usually about the damn Arctic. One night he snapped on her small, antiquated TV to catch Law and Order, the educational program for cons.

  “Foster, I can’t concentrate with all the noise. TV is mindless. Don’t shows like that bring back unhappy memories?”

  He turned it off and bought headphones. The next night it was CSI, another instructional show.

  “Foster, the flickering gives me a headache.”

  He gave up and rented DVDs to watch on the computer while she read, and before she asked him to share a cup of camomile tea, a snack, a walk or to hike off to bed for more sharing. Once in a while he broke out, saw some of the guys and played pool, but mostly it was dullsville on the Rideau. He’d wanted a normal life, but this was like being buried alive.

  It got worse. One spring weekend, they drove to her home thirty clicks outside of Kingston. The whole way, Mary Beth hummed under her breath. Of all her habits, he hated this one the most.

  As they bumped up the long rutted tree-lined driveway, she stopped humming. “Aren’t the trees beautiful? We’ll always be alone here; this is my sanctuary. I never invite anyone to visit. There will be lots of things for you to do. You can putter in the barn, cut the grass and plough the lane. It’ll be an idyllic life for us.”

  Idyllic death, he thought as they entered the old farm house where floorboards squeaked, windows rattled and dead flies clogged the windowsills. Solitary in the pen would be better than this.

  She brushed the flies off the kitchen table. “You’ll love my cottage even more than this house. It’s on an island, and there isn’t any hydro or plumbing. The view from the outhouse is to die for.”

  God, he could just imagine.

  He could have bailed, probably should have, but once a gambler, always a gambler. She wouldn’t last forever, and when he inherited, he’d buy a condo in Toronto and live the good life. He could wait.

  His time frame altered on a May morning.

  Sent up to the Departmental library with a list of material to pick up for Mary Beth, he discovered forensic books shelved in the science section. Pulling one out at random, he thought back to the things Reggie the Rat had gone on about while they’d exercised in the prison yard—poisons and how the modern ones were undetectable. At the time, poison hadn’t interested him; he’d identified himself as a con man, not a murderer. But now...

  After he’d collected the volumes Mary Beth required, he continued to think about what he’d read. Walking into her office carrying the pile of books, he collided with a young woman and dropped them. As she helped him pick them up, her straight fair hair swung around her face, and she looked up at him with worried-looking blue eyes.

  “I’m so sorry. I’m Cindy. I’m new, and I’m typing for Professor McNab.”

  “I’m Foster, her husband and research assistant,” he said. Her effect on him was immediate and shocking. He told himself to cool it; he had a good thing with Mary Beth and was old enough to be Cindy’s father. But when had that ever stopped anyone? Look at guys like Michael Douglas that you read about in the National Enquirer.

  Having a great little bit on the side would make living with Mary Beth easier.

  He launched a campaign to seduce Cindy but soon realized she was different from other women he’d pursued. After he drove her home from work on Friday, he knew that with this pigeon, he would need to lay his trail pretty carefully, or he’d scare her off. And it might be all or nothing, the old “not before marriage” bit.

  Bigamy wasn’t an option.

  “Great morning. Isn’t spring the best? How about going down to the cafeteria for a coffee?” Foster said, sticking his head around the half wall dividing Cindy’s cubicle from the rest of the office. He gave her his “I’m just a regular, harmless kind of guy” smile.

  Cindy looked up from her computer screen and blushed. Catching her lower lip with her teeth, she shook her head and turned a deeper shade of pink. “Thanks, but I don’t know if I should.”

  Foster moved to stand in front of her. He inhaled the light scent of perfume and something soft like baby powder. He couldn’t believe a twenty-three-year-old could be such an innocent. “You mean because of...”

  Cindy nodded.

  “Hey, it was just a kiss.”

  “I know, and I appreciated the drive home when it was raining, but it’s wrong to kiss a married man. I don’t want it to go any further.”

  “No problem. It won’t.” Foster flashed his “disarming little boy” grin. “But we both work here.” He produced a barefaced lie. “Mary Beth suggested I take you, because she’s off to an all-day meeting, and you won’t have much to do.”

  “Mary Beth’s nice,” Cindy said. “Well, if she said to go, I guess it’s okay.”

  Later, as he let himself into their apartment, he thought about Cindy; about how much he’d love an ordinary wife who liked beer and movies and barbecues. He thought of Cindy’s round smiling face and cap of blonde hair. His fingers tingled, and his breath quickened. He shook his head and checked the answering machine.

  “Foster, I have to work on the Inuvialuit claims for tomorrow’s meeting. I’ll be late.”

  Inuvialuit, Inuktitut, Herschel Island, Holman Island, Coppermine—Mary Beth’s world revolved around the negotiations and her research.

  “We shouldn’t go for coffee every day,” Cindy said when he popped into her cubicle next morning. The way she looked at him told him as clearly as if she’d spoken the words that if he was single, she’d be his.

  “Mary Beth told us to. She feels bad because she’s busy with negotiations,” Foster lied. As he breathed in her light, flowery smell, he looked at Cindy’s smooth rosy cheeks and round blue eyes and knew he had to have her.

  Cindy locked her purse in the bottom drawer of her desk and smiled up at him. “It’s my turn to take coffee in to them.”

  Foster’s brow furrowed. “Who?”

  “The negotiators. Our guys, a bunch of Inuit, Mary Beth and the lawyers are in that huge boardroom up on the seventeenth floor.”

  “Let me give you a hand.”

  He realized he’d made a mistake when he pushed the cart with the coffee urn through the door. Mary Beth’s gaze moved from him to Cindy and back to him. Her lips thinned, and she stared at him. Talk about stupid; the last thing he wanted was for her to figure out he was making a move on Cindy.

  Discussions continued while they organized the coffee.

  He looked around the room. The negotiators were gathered around the biggest map he’d ever seen spread. Several of the Inuvialuit had focused attention on a particular bay.

  “It may be the nesting ground of the buff-breasted sandpiper, but I can’t see why it’s significant,” a young sandy-haired bureaucrat with a tiny moustache and a voice that expressed aggrieved disbelief was speaking.

  Cindy whispered, “He’s the senior government negotiator, Martin Anderson.”

  Foster heard something in her voice. He stared at her.

  A blush spread up from Cindy’s neck to her cheeks, which turned a deep pink. She met his eyes and looked down.

  “You’re going out with him,” Foster said in a low voice.

  Cindy gave a tiny affirmative nod. “A couple of times.”

  “According to the Checklist of North American Birds, there is no positive confirmation that the buff-bre
asted sandpiper nests on the northern coast of Banks Island,” Anderson continued.

  The Inuit and their lawyer stopped talking, considered Anderson and switched to what Foster assumed was Inuktitut. Anderson puffed out his chest and made himself resemble the birds under discussion.

  Cindy giggled and quickly put her hand over her mouth.

  Foster also thought it was funny. The Inuit could have been speaking a mystery language from Mars as far as the government guys were concerned; nobody understood them. They didn’t even have to leave the room to have a conference. Sometimes he’d heard the native guys in the pen speaking Cree or some other Indian language. It had driven the guards crazy.

  After they’d served the coffee, he followed Cindy out of the room. In the hall, she smiled at him. “I nearly lost it when I saw how mad it made Marty.”

  Marty! Time to fast-forward his plan.

  The next day, sitting at their usual table in the cafeteria, Cindy sipped her milky coffee and said, “You promised to tell me how you and Mary Beth got together.”

  Foster returned the smile. “Sure. I took her class at Queen’s University. When I moved to Ottawa, I called and asked if she knew of any jobs, and she hired me to help her. To thank her, I invited her out to dinner.”

  Cindy’s eyes shone. “That was nice. Did you bring flowers?”

  Foster pretended amazement. “How did you know?”

  “And chocolates. Mary Beth loves eating. She told me she never gains weight.”

  “Right. But not chocolates. She doesn’t have a sweet tooth. Nuts, popcorn, trail mix—she loves salty food. One thing led to another. I felt grateful. She was lonely. We ended up taking the plunge.”

  A puzzled frown replaced Cindy’s look of rapt attention.

  Before she could ask, Foster sighed loudly and allowed his mouth to droop. “You’re wondering how it worked out.” He puffed his lips and exhaled. “It hasn’t. Our reasons for getting married weren’t the greatest. It hurts me to admit this, but Mary Beth loves the north more than she could ever love me.” Foster watched Cindy’s face as he spun his tale.

  “How could she?” Cindy asked and patted his hand. “How could she with a handsome husband like you?” Her eyes widened. “I’d never do that.”

  “I know you wouldn’t,” Foster said softly. “And I wish I’d had more sense. We’ll probably get a friendly divorce pretty soon.”

  As he fed this line to Cindy, he mocked himself. They might get a divorce, but Mary Beth would keep all the assets. Because of the prenuptial agreement, the only way he’d cash in would be if Mary Beth died. Otherwise Foster knew he’d get sweet bugger-all. And he hadn’t spent all these months toadying to Mary Beth to come out with nothing. Even in stir, you left with a small stash of cash for the work you’d done inside.

  On the way home, he stopped to pick up a pizza. He expected to have the house to himself, but Mary Beth stood in the living room peering at the floor to-ceiling bookcases she’d brought from Kingston and filled with her books.

  “I didn’t think the negotiations would finish early,” he said and held out the box. “Pizza. Sorry, it’s pepperoni and double cheese. I would have bought vegetarian if I’d known you’d be home.”

  “Scrape the pepperoni into the garbage bag and take it outside,” Mary Beth ordered before she explained. “That’s why we worked late last night. The group flew home today because hunting season begins on Friday, and most of them live at least partly on the land. They’ll be gone for a couple of weeks.” She waved at the bookcases, “I’m looking for Edgar Christian’s diary. They’re working on the Dene Indian land claim next, and I have to be sure of the historical precedents for drawing the demarcation line between the Dene and the Inuit at the mouth of the Mackenzie River.” She paused. “I don’t want to read it again.”

  High-handed bitch. He’d damn well eat the pepperoni outside. He controlled his rage. “How come? I thought you found something new every time you read one of your books.”

  “Not this one.” Mary Beth hugged herself and shivered. “Christian starved to death when he wintered at the mouth of the Thelon River, where it drains into Coronation Gulf on the Arctic Ocean. You think you had it bad in prison; this was much worse. It was a terrible way to die. Even thinking about the book makes me hungry. The last time I read it, I ate a whole box, a large box, of Laura Secord’s mixed nuts. Do we have any of your trail mix?”

  “We’re out,” Foster said and checked his watch. “I’m going to the beer store after supper. I’ll stop at the health food store and pick up what I need. Hang on for an hour, and it’ll be ready.”

  “Coffee?” Foster said, sticking his head into Cindy’s cubicle.

  Cindy sat clutching her stomach and rocking back and forth. “No, I don’t think so.” She swallowed and breathed shallowly through her mouth.

  “You look terrible,” Foster said.

  “I feel awful. I think I’m getting the flu. My head aches. I wish I could throw up, and my heart’s beating weirdly.”

  “You should be home in bed. How come you came in?”

  Cindy tightened her grip on her stomach and doubled over before she said, “I felt terrific first thing this morning.” She groaned. “Whatever this is, it hit me after I got to the office.”

  Foster stepped closer to her desk. “Get your things. I’ll drive you home.”

  Cindy shook her head. “No, I should go to the nurse’s office and see if she can give me something to settle my stomach.”

  Standing next to her desk, Foster looked down at her waste paper basket. “What have you had to eat today?”

  Cindy ventured a pathetic imitation of a smile. “Nothing much. The only thing I had was a bag of your trail mix that Mary Beth gave me.”

  Foster wanted to swallow, but his mouth had gone as dry as the Sahara.

  Sweat coated Cindy’s white face. She gasped and held her breath before she exhaled noisily. “Mary Beth said you’d made it especially for her to eat while she read some horrible book. When she decided not to read it...” She clutched her stomach. “She brought the trail mix in for me, because she knew how much you liked me.” She moaned. “The cramps are awful.”

  Foster couldn’t form a sentence. Had Mary Beth known what he’d done? Had she set him up? Trapped, his brain ricocheted endlessly, searching for an exit.

  Tears rolled down Cindy’s cheeks. “Didn’t Mary Beth tell your?”

  “Last night I called one of my buddies and played pool. I came home really late, so I slept on the couch, and I didn’t see her this morning.” He didn’t add that he hadn’t expected to see her at breakfast, because he’d figured she’d be dead.

  Cindy punched her fists into her stomach. “If I could just get this to stop hurting and my heart to stop jumping around.” She mewed like a tiny pathetic kitten. “I wish I hadn’t eaten the whole bag.”

  Foster thought of how he’d laced the trail mix with the contents of several packages of larkspur seeds. He remembered the words in the book on poisons, “Death results from increasing the force of the heart’s contractions. Too much irritates the heart and jacks up the central nervous system. Death results within six hours.”

  What should he do?

  If he called 911 and told them about the larkspur seed, they’d save Cindy’s life. But, not only would he lose her, the police would charge him with attempted murder, and he’d go back to stir.

  If he called 911 without telling them the contents of the trail mix, the doctors in the emergency ward might not find out what she’d eaten in time to save her life.

  If he did nothing, she’d die and Mary Beth might blow the whistle.

  No matter what he did, he’d lose.

  Cindy, who had slumped over her desk, raised her head and looked up at Foster. “Please, help me.”

  Foster picked up the phone. Life inside wasn’t that bad—probably better than it would be living with Mary Beth in that godforsaken house. And there was always the library. God knows, he might end up
with a PhD.

  Joan Boswell’s work has appeared in magazines and anthologies in Canada and the U.S. In 2000 she won the $10,000 first prize in the Toronto Sunday Star Short Story contest. As a member of the Ladies Killing Circle, she has had stories in each of their six anthologies of mystery short stories as well as co-editing the fourth, fifth and sixth books—Fit to Die, Bone Dance and When Boomers Go Bad. Her first mystery. Cut Off His Tale, was published by Rendezvous Press in the spring of 2005.

  An Omen for Gwen

  Kathryn Cross

  Gwen hobbled from one flower bed to another, deadheading nasturtiums and petunias and cursing the swollen ankle of her sprained foot. She also damned her late husband’s quad cane that really didn’t provide the support she needed on the uneven ground. And when she shoved the thick-lensed glasses, also her late husband’s, back onto the bridge of her nose for the fiftieth time, she cursed those as well. If not for her stupid ankle, she would’ve driven into town long ago and had her own glasses repaired. “Damn, blast and bloody—”

  Gwen tilted her head, brows furrowed, listening. Some idiot of a fool was hammering her front door. What now? she wondered.

  “I’m in the back yard!” she hollered. “I’m back here!”

  Heavy footsteps crunched in the crushed stone of her walk. Too late, Gwen remembered the JW’s who’d been dropping in over the past few months. Nice enough people, but their persistence annoyed. She’d thought telling them of her faith in omens and her interest in Wicca would’ve scared them off.

  He was big, coming round the corner of the house. Big as in tall and broad-shouldered. Formidable looking, especially with that revolver hitched to his hip.

  “Mrs. Shire?” From the somewhat perplexed tone in his voice, Gwen knew she wasn’t the person he’d been expecting.

  Little wonder. Clad in her old-lady gardening clothes, loose at the waist and baggy at the knees, leaning unsteadily on a quad cane, her eyes vague and owlish behind the thick lenses of the glasses, she probably looked ancient and absolutely decrepit, at least to him. “Yes,” she said, letting a waver creep into her voice, a mischievous grin tugging one corner of her mouth. Let him think her old and feeble, physically incapable of any wrongdoing. Should she have done anything wrong.