The Thrill List

by Catherine Lea

  Malkin decided there was little risk. Navarro would be happy to keep Malkin’s ten thousand dollars, and he’d now have someone to go after for another twenty. When Kaplan was unable to make good on the debt, Navarro would enjoy doling out the ultimate punishment, and Bornstein’s problem would be taken care of.

  Malkin released a big sigh, and mucked his cards. A smile spread across Navarro’s face, and he moved to scoop up his winnings.

  That’s when things went wrong. Walker spoke.

  “He’s scamming you, Hector.”

  Navarro and Malkin both looked at Walker.

  “Check his cards. I’ll bet he has you beat. I’ll bet he’s unloading a worthless piece of paper on you.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Malkin spat at Walker. He turned to Navarro. “Why would I throw away ten thousand dollars?”

  Navarro looked at Walker, head cocked.

  “Just sayin’,” Walker shrugged. “Something’s not right.”

  The whole thing was going sideways. Malkin had to mollify Hector.

  “I don’t know what this guy’s problem is,” he said to his host. “I’m a gambler. Like you. I wanted a chance to get even again. You won.”

  Navarro seemed to be working the situation though in his mind. Yes, he got to keep Malkin’s $10,000, and he also got a marker that may or may not be worth $20,000. But there was more to the story if Malkin was trying to pass the marker off to him on purpose.

  “Then you don’t have a problem with me seeing your losing hand.”

  Navarro leaned forward, extended his hand to the muck pile, and began turning the top cards over, one by one. While Navarro’s attention was focused on the cards, Walker turned to Malkin and spoke softly.

  “Did I mention I’d been retained by Cliff Holder? Victor’s brother.”

  Victor Holder. Former client, killed in the car with his friend, the target. Collateral damage.

  “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a long time, waiting for the right opportunity.” Walker continued quietly. “I tailed you to Arnold’s, and it wasn’t too hard to find out from Sully you’d bought Kaplan’s marker. When you started looking for somewhere to unload itand I realized what you were up toit took just a phone call or two to steer you here.”

  Navarro, oblivious to this exchange, flipped the last card of Malkin’s mucked hand.

  “What game do you think you’re playing with me?” Navarro exploded. “I invite you into my club, and this is what you do? You cheat in order to lose? You do not cheat me.”

  A handgun materialized from beneath the table in front of Navarro. Walker kept his gaze on Malkin and smiled.

  “Meet your enemy,” he said.

  THE END

  MEET KEN ISAACSON

  Ken Isaacson has been a practicing attorney for almost thirty-five years. Born and raised in Perth Amboy, New Jersey, he grew up reading Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, and any other science fiction writer he could get his hands on. The US space program was in full swing during his childhood, and his fascination with space travel led him to attend the Massachusetts Institute of Technology upon graduation from Perth Amboy High School in 1971.

  But as the famed philosopher John Lennon said “Life is what happens while you're busy making other plans,” and for reasons still unclear to him, he decided to become a lawyer instead. So instead of heading for the stars, he went to New York and Columbia Law School. He began his legal career at a major Wall Street firm, and continues to practice law today as in-house general counsel to an international transportation company.

  Lawyers write for a living, and many people think they write fiction for a living. One day, he decided to abandon all pretenses and write something that he could readily admit was completely made up. So now, he writes crime fiction.

  Ken is a member of the Mystery Writers of America and International Thriller Writers. After a number of terms on the Board of Directors of MWA's New York chapter, he received that organization's Silver Noose Award for his dedicated service. Ken chairs the chapter's Communications Committee, serves on its Mentor Committee, and is a moderator of the chapter's online discussion forum. He is also a contributing editor of ITW's magazine, The Big Thrill.

  He lives in Sarasota with his two dogs, Toby and Lily, and his cat, Cleopatra. He rides a Harley.

  Ken’s Author Site http://kenisaacson.com

  SETTLING ACCOUNTS

  by

  ARTHUR KERNS

  Hortense Honeycutt shifted her patio chair to the right, to avoid looking directly into Gayle Parker's face. Then she said, “I'm surprised the guard at the gatehouse didn't call me to let you in.”

  “Oh, he knows me by now,” Gayle said. “What with all the times I’ve visited here.” She carefully spread out her pleated white skirt and shifted herself in the blue-striped cushioned chair.

  Hortense hoped to discern what was going on behind her guest's gray eyes. Gayle had a slightly lazy eye. Men warmed up to her when she gave them “that look.” Certainly, Hortense's husband, Todd, did. When he was alive.

  “The view of the lake is so lovely from your patio,” Gayle said. “I just love sitting here. Look at these flowers and shrubs. You're so good with your plants, Hortense.”

  She began calling Portense by her actual name three years ago when they all joined the Cactus Country Club. Since grammar school, friends had called her “Hortsy.” When Gayle insisted using her full name at the club, Hortense had supposed kindness on her part, so those biddies wouldn't tease her in the locker room. She came to learn it had more to do with the growing formality in their relationship, along with Todd always being matched with Gayle in the golf tournaments. And all along she had felt bad for Gayle that she'd never married.

  Three peach-faced lovebirds flew down from the grapefruit tree and landed on the lip of the bubbling fountain. Others chattered noisily up in the tree.

  “Oh look!” Gayle exclaimed. “What beautiful birds!”

  “They're Todd's birds,” Hortense said. “At least, that's what I always say.”

  “Todd’s? They can’t be natives of Arizona, can they?”

  “No. They’re from Africa, I believe.”

  Gayle’s gray eyes studied her for a second, then she straightened a pleat on her skirt. Managing a smile, she said, “What gorgeous colors. Their undersides are almost turquoise.” She sighed. “How happy they seem.”

  “Todd told me perhaps about a dozen live in nearby palm trees. Some people call them parrots.” Hortense looked out onto the lake. “I suppose Todd might have mentioned that to you when the two of you . . .” She smiled tightly, “. . . golfed.”

  Gayle took a deep breath and continued to stare at the birds. In a way, Hortense thought, this woman appeared almost relieved that her affair with Todd had come out in the open. Then Gayle seemed to sidestep the confrontation. Instead, she said, “What bright colors they have. I see green, don't you?” Then not waiting for an answer, she snickered, “Lot's of babies come from lovebirds, I suppose.”

  “Yes, Todd said a pair probably escaped from some home or pet store years ago. Now you see them flying all around here.” Hortense looked at the brown sack Gayle had placed on the wrought iron table and wondered what kind of sweets were inside. The last thing she needed was more calories.

  “I heard Todd say before he died he wanted to come back as one of those birds.” Gayle gave a nasty giggle. “A lovebird.”

  Right, Hortense remembered. She wondered under what circumstances he'd given her that little bit of information. Trying to control her now high-pitched voice, she said, “Those sweet little creatures are quite loyal to one another and don't screw around all the time.” She paused. “Unlike some people we know.”

  Gayle smiled briefly, then reached over the table, opened the bag, and said, “I baked something just for us. Carrot cake muffins. The carrots are special. Right from my garden.” Then she added, eyes fixed on Hortense, “I know you love muffins. Todd always said you did.”

  Hortense's eyes
narrowed. “Did he now?” Her husband wouldn’t have known a muffin from a biscuit. Gayle presented a muffin from the bag, her left eyebrow slightly raised. Never saw that little gesture before.

  “These will go wonderfully with one of your special teas, don’t you think?” Gayle said, her smile placid as she turned the picture perfect muffin in her fingers.

  Hortense reviewed in her mind the short list of things that would make this an ever-so-special “tea”. “I'll get the water boiling. Just sit and enjoy the fountain and the birds.” Hortense rose and reached for the bag. “I'll put these on a plate.”

  “Just bring out a plate, dear,” Gayle said, taking the bag. “I can put them out.”

  In her kitchen, Hortense filled the water kettle. She arranged her mother's Limoges tea service on the silver tray. Todd had banged the teapot against the dining room table last Thanksgiving dinner when she'd said something sarcastic about Gayle. At that moment she'd known about them. She made a fist and hit the counter, then composed herself.

  She chose pekoe tea, filled the sugar bowl and creamer. Pausing, she took a deep breath, then opened the drawer and took out the small white envelope containing the seeds she’d emptied into it that morning. All that was needed was boiling water. She put the envelope back in the drawer. Taking a deep breath she straightened her dress and returned to the patio.

  “Sorry. I couldn’t wait. I took a bite of my muffin,” Gayle mumbled, brushing a crumb from her mouth.

  Quite unlike dear little polite, perfect Gayle to help herself before I joined her. Hortense set the serving plate on the table and Gayle handed her a muffin. Large and puffy, it was one of Gayle's usual carrot cake creations. She broke it in half and found whitish slivers along with the orange carrots. Some new variation. “You've added something, Gayle. You must share your recipe.”

  Gayle turned and appeared to study the lovebirds, darting and sipping from the fountain. She cut off a quarter of her muffin, and then took a nibble. “It’s a daikon radish. Gives a nice little bite.”

  “I must remember that. The hot water will be ready momentarily.”

  “That’s fine. We have plenty of time.” Gayle had that odd smile again.

  Their eyes followed the birds as they flew back and forth from the fountain, taking turns drinking, flying in and out of the spray.

  For days Hortense had practiced what she would say to Gayle when she came for tea, but she needed an opening for what she had planned. Then the words boiled out. “You and Todd were . . . friendly. Very close, weren't you?”

  Gayle swallowed, then said, again with that arched eyebrow, “Good Lord! You know we got along quite well. Especially . . . on the golf course.”

  Now Hortense had her chance. As she was about to say, And in the backseat of your Range Rover, the kettle screamed. She jumped up and hurried to the kitchen.

  From behind, Gayle called, in a near shout, “I adored your husband.”

  Hortense twisted the gas knob to Off and banged the kettle on the counter. Breathing in gasps, she muttered, “Grab a hold of yourself.” She placed the tea leaves in the mesh basket, put it in the pot, then poured in the steaming water. The lid slid on the pot with the familiar click of china on china. A pleasant aroma drifted up from the tea.

  Now came the tricky part. She retrieved the envelope from the drawer and with a trembling hand sprinkled the coarsely crushed red seeds into one of the cups. What a strange, incongruous name for them. Rosary peas. Ingested, it would take two hours for them to take effect. No known antidote. As the tea steeped, she ground the seeds in the bottom of the cup with a silver spoon until a powder formed. The color of the brew finally darkened to her liking.

  She jumped when Gayle called from the patio, asking if she needed help. “No,” she shouted, a little too loud. She gathered herself and then poured tea in both cups and carried the tray out to the patio.

  “I took the liberty of pouring the first cups.” She placed the tray on the table, then handed a cup to Gayle. “This is a special tea from Ceylon. Well, Sri Lanka now.

  Gayle looked up. “Lovely,” she said. “Don’t forget your muffin, dear.”

  “It'll go perfectly with the tea.” Hortense cut her muffin in two and took a bite. It was moist and tasted rich in an odd way. The radish did give it an interesting tang. “Hm. So you adored my husband?” She took a sip of her tea. “Just how much did you adore my husband?”

  Gayle drank from her cup, looked into it for a moment, then reached over and poured more tea in her cup. She motioned to Portense if she wanted more.

  “No, thank you.” With a wave of the hand, Hortense popped another carrot cake morsel into her mouth and waited for an answer. Gayle hadn't complained about the taste of the tea, thank goodness.

  “When he died,” Gayle said, tears forming in her eyes, “I felt as if something was ripped from my heart.”

  “My dear, you've always been so theatrical. Even back in high school.” She adjusted the eyeglasses on her nose and then pounced. “You two were lovers!”

  The reaction was not what Hortense expected: perhaps shock at her directness, a blush, a looking away, wide eyes registering surprise. None of that. It was that peculiarly arched eyebrow again. Grimness twisted her mouth.

  Gayle clinked her cup in the saucer. Not from a nervous hand, but as one about to issue a proclamation She stared at Portense. “So what?”

  Hortense sat back in the chair and tried to laugh, but couldn't. “What brass! You little slut! You had an affair with my husband and you say, ‘So what?'”

  “It wasn’t just an affair. We loved each other. For quite some time.” Gayle finished the last of her tea, this time dropping the cup on the saucer. “You’ve known about it for a while now. And we knew, you knew.”

  “I suspected.”

  “You knew!” Gayle started to get up then settled back down. “Before I leave, let’s get to the matter I wanted to discuss.” She paused, then carefully asked, “Todd’s death. It struck a lot of people as being very, very suspicious.”

  Hortense felt a sharp pain in the middle of her chest. Heartburn from the muffin? No, it was the surprise turn in the conversation. “Besides you, who are these ‘lot of people?'”

  “People who knew both of you.”

  “Since when did the two of you . .?” Besides the pain, Hortense was overcome with fear of losing control of the confrontation. Also, fear of not what this woman knew—for that didn't matter now—but for what her friends might suspect.

  “You should see the look on your face. Have I surprised you? Well here’s another surprise.” Gayle’s lips tightened. “I’ve been talking with your friend, Raymond. You know the club’s gardener. Aside from good gardening tips, he mentioned that you two talked a lot about poisonous plants, like the monkshood plant . . . among others.”

  “He must have me mistaken for someone else,” Hortense said in an unemotional tone of voice.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t mistake you, dear. Especially since the two of you had a thing going, until six months ago.” Gayle smiled.

  Shocked, Hortense managed to say, “How?”

  “Your betrayal hurt Todd.” Gayle’s lip curled upward. “He didn’t like the idea of his wife carrying on with the garden guy.” A hollow laugh. “Everybody at the club knew. Laughed behind your back. But I was there for him. And everybody at the club knew that, too.”

  “Why, you lumpy, stringy haired . . . bitch . . .” The realization that her fellow members of the country club must all know that this loser, who never managed to get her colors coordinated, had an ongoing affair with her husband seized her. A hard knot swelled in her chest and her breathing became difficult.

  Gayle blinked her eyes and took a few deep breaths herself, before she managed to say, “There’s a lot more I’d like to say, but . . .” A thin layer of perspiration appeared on her forehead. “Did you really hate Todd that much? Did you poison him because of me?” She struggled to get up.

  Hortense straightened. Good Go
d, the tart wasn't going to collapse right here and now, was she? And make a big mess. She'd accomplished everything she wanted. Now to get this person out of her home and out of her life. Permanently.

  “Yes. I'm glad he's dead. Now I've evened the score. Now go. I can't stand the sight of you.” Hortense rose and pointed to the patio gate leading out to the street. As she did her vision blurred. “My goodness. All this excitement appears to have been too much for me,” she scowled.

  Gayle stood, leaned down to get her purse, took a deep breath, then strode to the gate. Undoing the latch, she turned and snarled, “Todd cherished me. He despised you.” She yanked the gate closed behind her.

  “You never got a wedding ring!” Hortense shouted at the slammed gate.

  The lovebirds scattered from the fountain, some rose, heading off to the trees in the adjoining yards, others off into the blue desert sky. One large bird returned and quietly landed on the top of the fountain. It turned toward Hortense.

  Through the fence, Hortense watched her rival stumble, then once again as she climbed into her Range Rover. The car moved erratically down the street.

  Hortense managed to make her way back to the patio table. Her legs had a strange ache and she had trouble walking. The remnants of her muffin lay on the plate. She sat, crossed her legs, thinking about how things went, and then finished off the muffin.

  She was certain Gayle would make it home. It wasn't far. After an hour or so the spasms would start and the whole process of death would begin. Hortense had sat there on the patio while Todd died before her eyes. But dear Gayle would be home all alone. Maybe she would be thinking about Hortense. How perfect.

  After another cup of tea now cooled and lacking the flavor of the excellent Ceylon tea when hot, she examined the delicate china cup. The side plate on which her muffin had rested still had crumbs and pieces of shaved carrot and the daikon radish . . . She looked again. Stared. Oh God! No! It wasn’t a radish at all! The monkshood plant.