WHAT LEADS A MAN TO MURDER

by Joslyn Chase

  “Let’s get started.”

  I noticed neither of them was sitting, so I followed suit and stood, listening to Charles speak, his voice pompous, the tones rising and falling like a restless ocean.

  “Simon took me on a field trip last night and we’ve fine-tuned the plan from the last time we met. I’ll let him fill you in on the details and we’ll finalize the arrangements.

  Simon took the floor, laid out the plan, and made sure I understood the changes, while Charles paced in the background like a caged tiger. As Simon wrapped it up, Charles returned to the table, positively simmering with satisfaction.

  “We’re on for tonight.” He said, as he leaned forward, palms on the table among myriad pieces of paper where he’d worked out our strategy. Any questions?”

  “Yeah, actually,” I said. “Why are you doing this? It doesn’t look like you need the money. What’s your issue?”

  He snorted. “My issue?” He pushed back from the table and threw his arms out to his sides, palms up. He turned in a slow circle, taking in the baubles and toys with a hostile eye. “I’m bored. Let’s leave it at that. Anything else?”

  We stared at each other while I wondered whether to pursue the subject and decided not to. I cleared my throat. “Why’d you pick him?” I asked, gesturing toward Simon. “He’s just a groundskeeper. Plenty of other guys carry the same keys.”

  Charles looked smug. “Simon,” he said, “is going to crack our vault.”

  ~~~~

  May 10, 2:14 pm

  Pe' ll'aria fresca pare già na festa... I had a captive audience of seven and after I secured the door and we started moving, I struck a pose and assumed a contemplative expression, singing softly at first and then with more vigor as I sensed their interest and acceptance of my offering.

  The family of four was clearly delighted, the two young daughters giggling into each other’s shoulders. An elderly gentleman with eyebrows like a shelf of snow relaxed the death grip he had on the seatback and smiled at his wife who reached over and patted his hand. Charles smirked from the far end of the car.

  O sole mio, sta 'nfronte a te! I finished to a light round of applause. The old man’s wife caught my eye. She was dressed in an immaculate rose petal traveling suit, greying chestnut hair smooth under a matching hat. Her eyes were kind, the color of brown m&m’s. She cocked her head and asked, “What does it mean, this song?”

  I dropped into the seat next to her. “It is about a man who’s weathered a great storm, but now he sees the sun is shining and he is so happy and so grateful that he can’t help but sing it. And, best of all, his heart is filled with joy and hope for the one he loves, for he sees the sun shine most brightly in her face.”

  The woman smiled and leaned back against her seat. “Thank you for that,” she said and, closing her eyes, spent the remainder of the short journey with her inner thoughts, a serene smile on her rose-colored lips. The rest of us stared out the windows at the spectacular sun-washed vistas as we ascended the mountain.

  We bumped gently onto the landing. I opened the door and with a dramatic gesture, bowed them out. The gigglers’ father tipped me a twenty, the woman’s husband trumped that with a fifty, and Charles pressed a hundred dollar bill into my hand with a note that said Suite 941, 11 tonight.

  ~~~~

  May 10, 8:24 am

  Daytime signals assaulted my sleep, working to pull me from an uneasy slumber. Pale sunlight painted a stripe across my face through a broken slat in the blinds, bathing my eyelids in warmth. Two doors down a dog barked, and grumbling motors passed by the window at varying pitches.

  I tried to ignore it all and stay asleep, but when I felt a furtive weight on the mattress and a careful lifting of the sheet, I knew it was over. Tiny fingers scrabbled at my tummy and I curled my knees up, defending my tickle spot. Like a nibbling rabbit, the fingers poked and tickled, getting around my best defenses. When the bunny started giggling, I made a grab for her, capturing her nibbling fingers and smothering her in a ferocious hug while she screamed with laughter.

  “Why is there a bunny in my bed? Shouldn’t you be in bunny school learning how to hop and gnaw on carrots?”

  She took my face in her two frail and tiny hands, patting my cheeks so that I looked straight into her solemn brown eyes. “Mommy said I don’t have to go to school today. Can we play checkers?”

  Inside my chest, a gong sounded with a dull, vibrating thud. The smile started to slide off my face but I grabbed hold and kept it steady.

  “Checkers?” I shook my head. “Mmmm, I’m not sure I know how to play checkers.”

  “Yes you do! Yes you do!” she shrieked, punctuating her claim with a jab to my ribs.

  “I guess we’ll have to see. Go rack ‘em up.”

  She ran off, singing, down the hall. I shrugged into my robe and followed the smell of coffee. Pouring myself a cup, I grabbed a chair at the small, scuffed table where I could rub the shoulders of my tired wife. Her eyes were puffy.

  “You all right?” I asked softly.

  She stared down at her uneaten toast, then closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. Tears squeezed through her lashes and splashed on the tablecloth.

  “She seems good,” I started. “It looks like—”

  “There’s blood in her urine again, her temperature is elevated, and she threw up her breakfast.”

  “But she’s on the list now. This will work out. I know it. I feel it.”

  “Me, too. I’m sure you’re right. It’s just…” There was a long pause full of shaky breaths. ”It’s just so hard to get through each day. And how on earth are we ever going to pay for this?”

  When your child is dying, wasting before your eyes, you do everything you can, every desperate measure, and you tell yourself not to worry about the cost.

  But you do.

  ~~~~

  I kissed my two girls goodbye, holding each one for a long moment, drawing in their sweetness and their strength. I grabbed my pack and hopped the bus for work. I leave them the car whenever I can. In case.

  I got off at my stop and walked the short distance to the Italian-styled village that marked the lower entrance to Il Paradiso. Here there were restaurants and gift shops, artisan’s workshops, candy kitchens, and all manner of tourist-drawing enterprises. The village is geared to attract ordinary people, although an upper-income is implied. Only the richest can afford to board the gondola and spend time at the top.

  Tucked among the shops is a courier service so that folks don’t have to limit their shopping to what they can carry. They simply ship it home or to their friends as gifts. I entered the courier’s and waited my turn in line. At the counter I said, “I’d like to have a couple letters delivered securely. Can we arrange it for tomorrow morning?”

  ~~~~

  Actually, I’d written five letters. One for my wife, which I’d tucked in my underwear drawer. With it, was the one for my precious bunny, the hardest one to write. How can words ever convey what I want them to know? Do actions speak louder? I hope my actions may resurrect the good guy I once was.

  I’d done my research and written a letter to the head of the Robbery unit at the local precinct, marked URGENT, and explaining how, under duress, I’d agreed to help Charles Dahl rob the vault at Il Paradiso. I told them that if my plan worked, they would find Charles’s fingerprints on the flashlight we’d used and which was secured in my locker in the basement. I also suggested they might be able to use the sample of Charles’s handwriting I hoped to pilfer from him during our last planning session and which might, with any luck, yield another print or two. I expressed my wishes for the successful capture and prosecution of one Charles Dahl, but I had my doubts. He’d have the best counsel money can buy.

  I’d written a letter to the president of Il Paradiso Inc. in which I apologized for my behavior and explained that, if all went according to plan, the stolen property could be found in a locked cabinet in the custodian’s room where I keep some tools and equipment for
the running of the gondola. I planned to make a quick exchange, having prepared bundles of cut newsprint and bags of pebbles, stowing them in the cabinet.

  I think that after Charles sees me off in the gondola and lets go of that gun in his pocket, he’ll open the duffel. He’ll see my deception and understand the ramifications, and he will laugh. He will be delighted. There’s nothing like a good chase to get the blood pumping and drive away the dregs of boredom. The higher the stakes, the bigger the thrill, and he’ll be playing for his life.

  The last letter I wrote was the first one I mailed. It was addressed to my insurance agent, confirming my plans to increase my life insurance coverage to the maximum allowed by law and containing my check for the first premium payment. He received it last Thursday.

  ~~~~

  I changed into my gondolier costume and signed in for my two o’clock shift. I held the door open and welcomed seven passengers aboard; a young couple with two giggling daughters, an old couple holding hands, and Charles Dahl.

  I smiled and started singing.

  NOTES

  This story came about as a result of the very first piece I ever sent David LaBounty at The First Line. It was based on this:

  We went as far as the car would take us.

  What kind of car? I didn’t want an automobile. I needed something creative and unique, but not too unique. I didn’t have time to write David a science fiction saga.

  How about an elevator car? That was my first idea. Maybe we went as far as the elevator would take us, but we wanted to access the penthouse and that required a special key. How could we get past that and why would we want to? A heist story?

  What other kind of car might I use? How about a gondola car? Okay, I like where this is going. How far can a gondola car take you? It can only go in three directions—forward, backward, and down. Uh-oh, I don’t like where this is going. But it could make a great story.

  Only problem, if the car is going on a fast track down, and we went as far as the car would take us, that means we’re dead. Where do you go from there? You rewind, peel back the layers of the story to get to the why. Why are we dead? What events lead up to our being dead? I decided to tell the story backwards.

  I like this one. I enjoyed writing it and I got an email from David saying how much fun he had reading it. I hope it was fun for you too.

  If you enjoyed this book, please help me spread the word. Share this link to my website, joslynchase.com, so your friends can join my Reader’s Group and receive their own free copy.

  Also, if you purchased this book on Amazon, please return there and give it a good review. Reviews are a huge part of helping new readers to find me. Thank you so much. I really appreciate my excellent readers!

  WATCH FOR MY NEXT BOOK, COMING JULY 2017

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Joslyn Chase writes suspense fiction, ranging from mysteries to thrillers and veering toward the occasional horror story. She is also a classical pianist, music teacher, public speaker, and storyteller. She loves American History and holds a degree in American Studies.

  Joslyn loves to travel and has ridden camels through the Nubian desert, fended off greedy monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar, punted on the River Cam, and hiked the Bavarian Alps, but she still believes that sometimes the best adventure is in getting the words on the page or in the thrill of reading a good story.

  She currently lives in the Pacific Northwest, with her husband, a dog, and at least one child at any given time, but has previously resided in Spain and Germany as well as various locations in the United States.

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