When Boomers Go Bad

by Joan Boswell

  “Don’t worry, I’m following the marine forecast.”

  “I’m just off for a last swim before the hordes descend. Put the cake in the spare fridge as soon as you get here.” She hung up. Now to escape for an hour of peace in her special place on the island.

  The screen door slammed. Tracey stomped in, holding out blotchy red, scratched hands. “Look at me. It’s not going to look good with my dress tomorrow. What’ll people think I’ve been doing?”

  In Catherine’s opinion, no one would notice if Tracey walked through the marquee naked. All eyes would be riveted on her face.

  The first time Charles brought her home, Catherine had been fascinated by the number of rings in her ears. She had wanted to see if the rims would peel off like the edges of perforated paper. She didn’t mind the eyebrow rings but hated the nose and mouth ones. At least the tongue jewellery had gone, but it had taken an infection for that to happen.

  “Let’s see.” Catherine tookTracey’s hands in hers, turning them over. “Have you been picking the late raspberries up in the field?”

  “Yeah. Em showed me the patch yesterday, and we went again this morning.” Tracey took her hands away and started to scratch.

  “Em?”

  “Yeah, the girl who lives in that other cottage on the island. She’s friendly.”

  Not friendly enough to point out the poison ivy.

  “You need something to stop that itch. Wash them with soap while I fetch the calamine.”

  “How’d you stand it all summer? There’s nothing to do and now this fu...stupid poison stuff everywhere and fish and weeds in the water. I’d sell it and buy a condo with a pool.”

  Be positive, thought Catherine, running upstairs, at least the girl had tried not to swear.

  Anna was looking at Tracey’s hands when she returned.

  “Heavens, Catherine, that stuff is useless for poison ivy. I’ll fetch my healing cream. The calendula in it will soothe the skin.”

  Catherine stared at her. Anna never, ever shared her cream. When the church bazaar committee had suggested she donate some to the Christmas bazaar, she had refused. I design it for my skin only, she’d told them.

  “What are you staring at, Catherine?”

  “I...I’m just stunned. You’ve never let anyone else use it.”

  “We have never had an emergency like this before.” Anna stalked off.

  “How’d I get poison ivy anyway?” Tracey asked studying her hands.

  “Hm?” Catherine tried to think what to do for the best. “Probably while you were picking flowers. It’s my fault. I should have shown you the plant. I keep forgetting you’re a town girl.” She wouldn’t mention that the raspberries grew in a particularly luxurious patch of the ivy. “I really don’t think you ought to try Anna’s cream. She makes it from her herbs, and goodness knows what she puts in it. You don’t want to risk another kind of allergic reaction.”

  “Here we are.” Anna came in with a small blue jar. She unscrewed the lid. “Smell.” She held the jar under Tracey’s nose.

  “Cool. What’s it for, anyway?”

  “For the winter. I get dry, itchy skin if I don’t put this on every night. And it keeps the skin flexible.” Anna held out her hands. “How many seventy-four year old women have hands that look as young as mine?”

  Catherine watched the two women. Why did Anna have to choose this moment to do a complete turnaround and become friendly towards Tracey?

  “I’ll try it,” Tracey said, ignoring Catherine’s advice. She reached to scoop some out with her finger.

  Anna whipped the jar away. “No. Not like that.” She took the handle of a spoon and scraped some cream from the jar.

  “Why not use your fingers?”

  “Contamination. I use rubber gloves when I make it, and a clean spoon each time I remove some. Here.” She passed the cream to Tracey.

  “I’m going for a swim,” Catherine said and went upstairs to change.

  For a moment after she dived in, the water felt cold against her sticky skin, but just for that second. Then it was bliss. She swam along the rocky shoreline and climbed onto the flat rock ledge. Her private place. The hot wind blew over her wet skin. She lay back and concentrated on the sultry sky. Don’t think about anything. What will be will be. She watched the oak leaves moving gently in the breeze, then closed her eyes and breathed slowly in and out, emptying her mind the way she’d learned in yoga classes.

  The rumble of distant thunder above the sound of lapping water intruded into her empty mind. The promised storm, but still far away. She slid back into the lake and swam to the dock.

  The grass up the slope to the house felt dry and dusty beneath her toes. She glanced at the glowering clouds and sniffed the air. It smelled of rain.

  “Catherine. Where have you been? Charles sent me to look for you. You’re never there when you’re needed. Tracey isn’t very well, and she’s saying some dreadful things.” Anna’s helmet of white ordered curls was now in disarray. Her hands clutched at Catherine.

  “She was fine an hour ago.” Catherine ran the last few yards and rushed to the kitchen. Tracey drooped in the rocker with Charles hovering over her.

  “Let me see, Charles.” Catherine knelt by Tracey, noting her dilated pupils. She felt her forehead. “She’s very hot.” She took Tracey’s hand. “You are having an allergic reaction to something. Did you eat anything other than the raspberries when you were out?”

  “It’s not what I ate. It’s her. The old witch. She never thought I was good enough for Charles. Now she’s poisoned me.” Tracey rubbed her eyes. “I can’t see properly.”

  “Nonsense. Think back. It’s important. What have you eaten?”

  “Just the blueberries Em gave me and the raspberries.”

  Catherine turned to Charles. “Emily knows her berries. Charles, check which flowers Tracey picked.”

  “You don’t think...? Anna looked at Catherine. “Emily wouldn’t, would she?”

  “No.” Catherine turned back to Tracey.

  “But she might,” said Anna. “She is in love with Charles. Or it could have been an accident.”

  “Whatever it is, is an accident.” Catherine snapped. “She could be super-allergic to poison ivy.” She ran a tea-towel under the cold tap, wrung it out and held it against Tracey’s forehead.

  “She hasn’t picked anything that could hurt her.” Charles crouched down. “Tracey, we need to get you to hospital. Mom, call 911 and have an ambulance meet the boat at Gananoque. Gran,” he turned to Anna, “go and find Dad.”

  “He’s in the boathouse,” Catherine told her, dialling the emergency number.

  “I’ll fetch him.” Anna almost ran from the kitchen.

  “This is medical, and it’s urgent.” Catherine said. “We need an ambulance to meet us at the town dock in Gananoque. My son’s fianceé is having a severe allergic reaction to something.”

  “I’m not,” Tracey screamed. “I’ve been poisoned by that fucking old witch. I want the police.”

  “Hush now. You mustn’t say things like that.” Charles stroked her hair.

  “But it’s true. She put something on my hands for the poison ivy. That’s what did it. I’m going to die, aren’t I?” Tracey rocked back and forth, wailing.

  “Yes, I’ll hold. They’re connecting us to the hospital,” Catherine said to Charles. “Hello?”

  “Ma’am, an ambulance has been dispatched. It could save time if we know the likely cause. Can you describe the symptoms?”

  “Her vision is impaired, and she feels very hot.” This isn’t supposed to be happening. Catherine felt unreal, as though she was acting a part in a drama. “Oh, and her pupils are dilated.”

  “What about her mouth. Is it dry?”

  “Tracey, how does your mouth feel?”

  “Like my tongue is too big, and my skin is too tight. I want off this island.” Tracey clutched at her chest.

  “You heard that? The possible causes,” Catherine watche
d a frowning Hugh usher Anna into the kitchen, “are eating the wrong berries or a reaction to a home-made herbal cream.”

  “No.” Anna teetered across the kitchen and snatched up the small blue jar. Using her fingers she scooped out a great dollop and began smearing it up her arms and rubbing it into her skin. “I stand by my cream.” She had almost emptied the pot before Hugh wrenched it away from her and put it down.

  He looked at Catherine. “I’m taking Mother with us. You’ll stay here. The guests will be arriving in Gananoque in a couple of hours. When they call, tell them to wait at the hotel until we contact them.” He sounded very stern. “And check the marquee, the wind is getting up.”

  Thunder rolled across the darkened sky as the procession headed down to the dock. Ten minutes over the open water, and the rest of the trip would be sheltered by the other islands. Catherine watched the boat take off, spray flying from the bow as it bit into the waves, and knew it would be an uncomfortable twenty-minute ride.

  She turned and went slowly up the hill again. Why was Hugh snapping at her? And what did he expect her to do? If the damn tent blew away, she wouldn’t be able to stop it.

  Behind the cottage, the white canvas sides of the marquee hardly moved. They’d chosen a sheltered spot, and it looked safe for now.

  Inside, the first thing Catherine saw was a pot of milkweed wilting on the makeshift altar. Tears filled her eyes. I didn’t mean it to happen to Tracey, she said silently to whoever was listening.

  But since it has happened, she told herself, perhaps it’s for the best. You didn’t want Tracey to be the mother of your grandchildren. Now you’ll be rid of them both and be free in September instead of having to wait for Anna to use the cream in the winter.

  It sounded so easy, but her mind kept seeing the look of terror on Tracey’s white face.

  A flash of lightning lit the tent, followed immediately by a loud crack of thunder. Catherine covered her ears and ran for the cottage.

  The rain came in sheets, pounding on the roof, drowning all other sounds. She rushed around, closing all the windows.

  In the kitchen, she poured herself an iced tea and sat at the table. She imagined what would happen now. She would have to testify at the inquest, under oath. She had no need to lie. Anna did experiment with her herbal cream and always kept the ingredients secret.

  The coroner’s jury would come up with a verdict of accidental death—which was true of Tracey’s death, she hadn’t planned that—then they would make lots of recommendations on the dangers of using herbs. And that would be that.

  “Then there’s Emily,” she said aloud. Supposing Anna was right. In a couple of years maybe, they would be doing this again, this time with the right bride.

  The sound of the phone startled her. She leapt up.

  “Yes?” She covered her other ear to keep the drumming sound out.

  It was Hugh. “They think she’ll be okay.”

  “What?” Catherine pressed the phone to her ear. “I didn’t get that.”

  “Tracey.” Hugh shouted. “She’s probably going to be okay. They think she ate some nightshade berries. She’s very ill, but it looks really hopeful. Mother is crowing, of course.”

  Nightshade berries? Not the cream. How could it be? She stretched over to the table and picked up the blue glass jar.

  The label read; Anna’s Healing Cream, 2002.

  It was from last year. Catherine’s knees gave way. She collapsed into a chair, her heart thumping.

  “Can you hear me?” Hugh shouted in the sudden hush as the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started.

  “Sorry. I’m just, just so relieved.” And it was true. I must have been mad. Thank you, thank you, Powers That Be, for saving me. The heavy lump she’d felt in the pit of her stomach disappeared. She wanted to dance, to raise her voice and sing with joy.

  “We’re all relieved,” Hugh said, “but Mother has been going on about Emily being in love with Charles and giving Tracey the berries. I tried to shut her up, but now it seems the police have been called in.”

  “Surely Emily wouldn’t deliberately...” She didn’t finish. She knew Emily would never mistake a nightshade berry for a blueberry.

  “No. Tracey probably picked it herself. Um, Catherine, I have a confession to make and an apology to offer,” Hugh said. “I don’t know how to say this. But remember last month when I came in and you were stirring mother’s potion? You had a strange look on your face and...” he went on, but Catherine didn’t hear. She was remembering the panic of that moment. Had he arrived one minute earlier, he would have seen her dropping the monkshood into the vat of simmering herbs.

  Oh my God. She stared at the phone. In the moment of euphoria at not being a murderer, she’d forgotten this year’s batch of healing cream was still sitting in Anna’s room. All twenty-five jars laced with monkshood. Each one lethal.

  “Catherine? Catherine? Are you still there?”

  Liz Palmer’s stories have appeared in the last four Ladies Killing Circle anthologies. Her story “When Laura Smiles”, published in Bone Dance, was shortlisted for the 2004 Arthur Ellis short story award. Liz writes from Quebec, where her home overlooks the Gatineau River. She is often to be found kayaking on the river but claims she is still working as she plots best whilst paddling.

  Cold Dead

  Linda Wiken

  It’s all right, Mr. Salvatros. You’ll be just fine. A patrol car will be here in a few minutes to give you a ride home.”

  Constable Sylvie Moran checked on her motorcycle, balanced her helmet on the handlebar and looked around for some place the old man could sit down. He hadn’t stopped shaking since she’d found him. Hadn’t spoken a word, either. The two-foot cement wall would have to do. “Just have a seat over here while we wait, sir.” She reached for the old man’s arm.

  “Don’t need your help. Don’t need a ride either. You’ve got some nerve, stopping a law-abiding citizen...” he paused, wheezing... “who’s out running his errands. Some nerve. I ain’t never been stopped by the cops before.” He turned his head to the side, spat, then looked her straight in the eye, chin stuck forward, hands on his hips. Still wheezing.

  “Mr. Salvatros, I stopped you because there was an all points bulletin to keep an eye out for you. Someone, your family maybe, thought you were lost. We’re just trying to help.”

  “Well, lady, I don’t need your help. I’m doin’ okay on my own.” Another pause, this time to suck in some air. “I didn’t get to be seventy-nine by getting lost and not being able to take care of myself. That’s a lot of BS. I’m not lost. Ask my goddam nephew.” He flinched, like he thought Sylvie planned to grab him. “I was headin’ for the mini-mart, only it wasn’t where he said it was. So I’m looking for it. There a law against that?”

  “No, Mr. Salvatros. Like I said, someone was worried. We were asked to find you. You’re found. Now, in a minute, a patrol car will be here to give you a ride home.”

  He grunted, slid his hands into his pockets and nodded in the direction of her bike. “Can’t you take me on that?”

  Sylvie stifled a grin. “Against regulations. I’m sorry.”

  “I’d sure like a spin on that.” He gave in to a short coughing fit, cleared his throat and spit. “What’s a pretty young thing like you doing riding that, anyway?”

  “I’m on traffic duty, Mr. Salvatros. I asked to be on a bike.”

  A white patrol car pulled up beside them before the old man had a chance to say anything else. Sylvie gently steered him toward the back door as the officer driving got out.

  “Watch your head now, Mr. Salvatros. Constable Drake will take you home. You take care of yourself now.”

  He’d gone silent again.

  The call beeped onto the screen of her MVT just before two a.m. The dispatcher echoed the words. “Any available unit...a 10-45 on the railroad tracks just south of Riverside at Pleasant Park.”

  She automatically reached for the mike. “MC-4. I’ll take it.”


  “10-4, MC-4. Meet VIA Rail Security at the scene.”

  Another mike flipped on the airwaves. “Delta 410. I’ll back up.”

  Sylvie flipped the switch for the overhead lights. No need for a siren at this hour of the morning. She did the eight blocks in a couple of minutes. No black ice, even though the temperature had dipped below freezing, and there was plenty of frost around. If she’d been on her bike, she would have made even better time, but the bikes had been stored for the winter. Thank God. Just the thought of being out on it in this weather froze her toes.

  It took her another minute to walk the distance from the cross street, to where the train idled. She tried to prepare herself for what she’d find. She dreaded these calls. Ten years on the job, and the dead bodies still got to her.

  The security officer waved her over. “Bet the poor bugger didn’t know what hit him. Looks to be pretty old. In his eighties or so.”

  “Where’s the train engineer? I want to talk to him.”

  “He’s pretty shaken up. Told him to go sit in my car.”

  “You didn’t touch the body?”

  “Naw. I know the routine. Looks weird though, like he had a raincoat over the top of his pyjamas.”

  Sylvie walked back to the marked security car, opened the back door, leaned in and identified herself.

  The engineer looked to be in his mid-forties. He gave his name and address at her prompting, his hands clasped together in his lap. Sylvie noted that it didn’t do much to stop them shaking. In fact, his entire body shook. Shock.

  “This won’t take but a minute. Can you tell me briefly what happened?” Sylvie asked.

  “I saw something on the track. I...I didn’t know what it was...just a shape. I blew the whistle and rang the bell, slammed on the brakes back about...oh, three hundred yards back.” He took a deep breath. “But that doesn’t do much. It takes a good thousand yards at least to get to a crawl, let alone stopped. I tried. I really tried.” He looked at Sylvie, and his face crumbled.

  “You just wait here a minute. The paramedics will take care of you.” She touched his shoulder, eased the door shut and waved a paramedic over.