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M. A. De Neve
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guillotines.jpg
Art by K. J. Hannah Greenberg © 2018

GUILLOTINES CAUSE PERMANENT DISABILITY

 

By M.A. De Neve

 

       “I've figured out a way out of this job,” Ron told me.

       “You're quitting.”

       “I didn't say that.”  

       “Ron, get over here. I thought I told you to...” Jack, our boss shouted above the noise of the presses and the huge guillotine paper cutters. 

       As I watched Ron hurry over to where Jack stood, I wondered what he had in mind. He could pretend he hurt his back and collect disability.  Here in rural Michigan, tree cutting and paper-mill factory jobs offered opportunities for disabling injuries, real or imagined.  Ron wouldn't be the first person I knew who took the easy way out of a boring, low-paying job.

       If Ron got fired, he'd get unemployment checks for 26 weeks. Jack often threatened to fire Rowan, but despite Jack's gripes, Ron was a good worker. Jack was NOT going to make good on the threat, and Ron needed this job. 

       I went back to work. Jack didn't pick on me as much as he picked on Ron, but that didn't mean he wouldn't call me on the carpet or dock my pay or give me the worst job in the plant. The worst job usually belonged to Ron.  Sometimes he had to run the fearsome gigantic electronic guillotine paper cutters. These machines are as big as a small  bathroom. The wicked blades come down with the power of thousands of pounds.

       Later that day at the punch-clock, I asked Ron, “What did you mean when you said you found a way out of this job?  Are you quitting?”

       “I don't know.  I didn't say that. Did I?”

       “You need a ride home?” I asked. Waiting for the bus could take up to half an hour, and Ron took the bus.  On our wages, I was lucky I could afford a car, but then my wife works. Ron is a bachelor.

       He shook his head. He was upset. Jack had been extra mean that day, and as usual Ron got the worst of Jack's ugly moods.

       I drove to the bar down the road and ordered a beer. I wished Ron had come with me. I was worried about him. All that abuse he'd been taking from Jack was bound to hurt.  I was finishing my second beer when I heard the sirens. Looking put the window, I watched police cars and fire engines head toward the plant.

       I followed.

       Rowan stood in the parking lot. “Was the bus late?”

       “I went for a walk. There'll be another bus.”

       “What happened?” I nodded toward the plant. An ambulance had followed the police cars and emergency workers hurried inside.

       Rowan shrugged. I noticed some red stains on his shirt. Ketchup? Red ink that might have leaked from one of the presses?

       Other workers crowded around us. The parking lot was blocked off, but they found parking spaces on side streets.

       “What happened?” we asked each other.

       “We didn't have a night shift.”

       “Who's in the plant?”

       “Didn't everybody check out?

       “Jack stays late.”

       Kyle, Jack's assistant foreman, approached the building and talked to an officer. I walked up closer, so I could hear what they were saying.

       “Got us a messy accident. The guy somehow got caught in the guillotine cutter. It cut his upper body in two.”

       Other workers heard the news the same time, I did.  I heard their nervous murmurs. Our guillotine cutters used to have dozens of safeguards. Since Jack became foreman, he cared more for production than safety. Many of those safeguards had been discarded.

       “Who was it?” I asked loud enough for the officer to hear.

       “Name's Jack...” the officer took a stab at pronouncing Jack's long foreign name.

       Murmurs ran through the crowd. None of us liked Jack very much, but no one deserved to be cut in half in a guillotine paper cutter. When I turned to look at Ron, he grimaced. Was that a grimace? It looked more like a smile.

 

       The crime lab cleaned up, and all of us workers got a week of unemployment insurance while they cleaned. Back at the plant, on our next workday, Kyle called us all together.

       “First, the machine that killed Jack is gone,”  he told us.  “All the other guillotines have been serviced and they've now got safeguards on top of safeguards. If you think there's anything to be concerned about, call me over. I'll make sure the machine is closely checked out.”

       He paused and let us murmur about machine problems. “I've put in for five percent raises for everyone,” he said.

       We hurrayed and applauded and a few of us patted Kyle on the back. We'd missed chances at raises over the years because Jack didn't think we were worth squat.

       “And I want everyone to say 'hello' to the new assistant foreman. Ron.”

       Ron nodded at all of us.  He'd get an even bigger raise than the rest of us because he had the new job. And Jack was gone. He wouldn't be harassed anymore. As the others made their way to their work stations. I watched Kyle and Ron. I hadn't realized they were such good friends before.

       I remembered the day of the accident. Ron had been in the parking lot waiting for the bus, and Kyle had been in the plant with Jack. What if Ron had gone back in. What if Ron and Kyle held Jack down and...

       “How are the police handling Jack's... How are they handling what happened?” I asked.

       “They don't know how it happened. Machine probably malfunctioned,” Kyle told me.

       “Jack never ran that machine. What was he doing stretched inside it when the blade came down?”

       Kyle turned away. He didn't want to answer the question.

       “Let's get back to work,” Ron told me. “And, Buddy, forget what I said about finding a way out of the old job.  I didn't mean anything.”

 

The End






 

shellshocked.jpg
Art by K.J. Hannah Greenberg © 2019

SHELL SHOCKED

BY M.A. De Neve

 

       School isn't a good place for me. I don't like it. I don't even like recess.

       I see Trudie and Jeff talking. He's given her a ring. This seems to add to the popularity of both, though we are sixth graders and most likely their parents and our teachers don't know about the budding romance.

       Trudie likes to have things other girls don't have, like a boyfriend. She's a bit of a show-off, wearing pretty dresses and practicing to be a cheer leader. The boys notice her. I've seen Jeff take this snakelike thing out of his pants and show it to her in class. Being half hidden behind the desk, he thinks no one else noticed.

       Jeff walks away from her, and joins a group of boys. They playfully punch at each other and laugh. Trudie watches the boys.

       Jeff eats peanuts like he always does. He stuffs his pockets with them. He leaves trails of peanut shells.

       Back in the schoolroom, I glance at the calendar. There're pictures of all the presidents right up to President Eisenhower. I do like Ike. I wouldn't mind if he could run again in 1960. Some of the boys make fun of the old-time presidents' hair styles.  I Wonder if someone will one day look at our hairstyles and giggle. I've read books about some of those presidents, and they had lots of smarts under all that long hair.

       I live 1.5 miles from the school, so I have to walk home after school. I can take a short cut through the woods, but I've been bushwhacked. Jeff and his older brother have knocked me down, kicked me. This happened a few times. I've learned to avoid the paths and found my own openings in the pines. It's hard to get lost in the trees. They're bordered by a busy highway on the east and a railroad track on the west.

       Few of the other kids live down this way, but they do come into the woods. They smoke in here. Boys and girls come here. They lay down together, and I don't want to describe what they do. Maybe I'm lucky I don't have friends.

 

       Mama's still hung over from last night. The guy she's living with now is even meaner than Jeff. Mama says I gotta stay out of his way. He doesn't hang around too much, anyway.

       I make myself a peanut butter and mayonnaise sandwich. I open my math book and try to concentrate. It's too boring. I open a Zane Grey book instead. I got this one from the library. I love Zane Grey. He writes westerns.

       At 6 p.m. Bronco comes on and then Wyatt Earp. Tomorrow it's my favorite, “Wagon Train.” I daydream about my favorite cowboy heroes showing up at school and making the other kids stop bullying me. Boy, would the other kids be jealous if Hugh O'Brien, the actor who plays Wyatt Earp, was my friend.

 

       When I walk to school, I stay close enough to the path to notice a trail of peanuts. Jeff's been here. I move further away from the path. I don't want to run into him.

 

       The trees are my friends. I spend some time with them each morning before I go to school. I stand in a clump of trees and take deep breaths. I imagine them as giant protectors, warriors who will save me from the bullies.

       I’m real still. I don’t want anyone thinking I am weird. I hug a giant pine, but what’s weird about that?

       Someone’s coming. It’s Trudie. I don’t want her to see me. Trudie thinks she's better than everyone else, but especially better than me. When she talks to me, she looks at my shoes like that's where I am.

        I crawl deeper into the trees. I don’t make a sound. It’s Jeff. She smiles at him. Then their voices get loud. They are having an argument, but I can’t make out the words. They rush over me like violent ocean currents. Then they stop talking. I look up. He’s tightening her scarf. She’s leaning against him and starting to fall. He’s still tightening the scarf. I see all this, and it's like I'm watching an old silent movie.

      

       Jeff stands over Trudie. She's on the ground. He's breathing really hard. He takes a handful of peanuts from his bag and eats them. Then he turns away.

        I am too scared to move. I silently recite the names of songs in my record collection in alphabetical order. I have lots of records. I am as far as “Don't Forbid Me” by Pat Boone.

       Linda, Cheryl and Terry Johnson walk into the woods. They stop, take out cigarettes, light them up and smoke.

       “Where's Trudie?”

       “Haven't seen her.”

       After awhile, they put out their cigarettes. Linda trips over Trudie's body and screams. Soon the woods are filled with people running here and there. They haven't noticed me yet.

       “What happened to her?”

       “God, I don't know.”

       “Is she dead?”

        Other people come running. I crawl through the bushes.

       “There,” someone yells. I've been spotted. I get up and run. Someone grabs me by the ankles and tackles me the way Green Bay Packers tackle the other team's players on television. I go down like a cow roped and wrestled. Someone is pounding me. I smell hair grease and peanuts. Shells cascade around me. Jeff pins me down and pummels my shoulders and head. He's holding a rock or something hard.

       When I wake up, I’m in a jail cell. There’s a girl there with me. She’s older, but not very old.

       “Your old man beat the crap out of you?”

       I think I have a black eye. I can open the eye, but it feels like there’s a big sack of pus covering it.

       “I don’t have an old man.”

       “You’re a skinny one.” she observes. “What’s your name?”

       “Mandy.”

       “What did they catch you doin’?”

       “I was hiding in the bushes, and I saw Trudie Miller getting choked.”

       “You choke her?”

       “No.”

       A police officer opens the cell and motions for me to come out. He waits for me to stand outside, and then locks the cell door. I expect to be handcuffed. But he just nods toward a door to my right. 

       “Am I being arrested?”

       He doesn’t answer. I walk like a condemned convict toward the door that leads away from the cells. Beyond that, there’s a hallway with office doors, all of them closed. The officer points the way. I imagine an electric chair waiting. That’s the kind of imagination I have.

       He gently takes my arm to stop me and to settle me. He opens one of the doors. I walk inside a room. I keep my eyes on the floor. I don’t make eye contact.

       “Can you tell us what happened?” the man behind the desk asks. I look up at him or rather I look as far as a uniform and a badge. I think he’s the sheriff.

       I shake my head.

       “Do you know what happened?”  

       I know I should tell him. Maybe I have to tell him. I don’t know what to do. It's like a dust storm rages in my head. I get confused like this sometimes. I get angry and frustrated.

       He’s talking, but I am not paying much attention. I am too scared. “I want you to think about this,” he says.

       I nod. Think about what? I missed some of what he said.

       My mother comes in then. She isn’t calm like the jailer and the sheriff. “What have you done?” she demands of me.

       “Nothing, Mama.”

       “Don’t you lie to me. How did you get beat up like that?”

       “I fell down.”

       I guess the sheriff knows I’m a liar now.

       “You look like shit,” Mama says.

       “Looks like she was just at the wrong place at the wrong time,” the sheriff says.

       “Story of her life,” Mama smells like the inside of one of those bottles she drinks from. “Is she under arrest?”

       “No, but I want to talk to her again. I’m pretty sure she saw the girl's murder.”

        “Can’t stay out of trouble,” she says looking at me like I'm a useless knick-knack she meant to toss out, but that instead got busted into a mess that's too much work to clean up. 

       There’s a mob outside the jail house. They aren’t yelling, just murmuring. I hear some if their words. “Crazy girl,” and “It was only a matter of time before she did something like this.”

       The deputy says they’ll have a police car stationed outside our house. He says the sheriff already issued a statement saying I couldn’t have killed the girl. 

       “You sure of that?” Mama asks the officer.

       “Yes, ma-am. A puny thing like that couldn’t strangle a kitten.”   

       “She’s stronger than she looks, and she ain’t all there. Anyone can see that.”

       The deputy turns to me. “You all right with going home with your Mama?” I have nowhere else to go.

      

       The next day Mama's sleeping and not feeling well. I hear a knock on the door. I'm afraid to answer it. Some people still think I killed Trudie, but I look out the window. There’s a pretty lady there. She’s wearing a nice dress and pearls. She has a patent leather purse. She is tall and pretty like a Sears Catalog model. I answer the door.

       “Mama’s sick,” I tell the lady.

       “The neighbors tell me your Mama gets sick a lot.”

       I don’t see how that’s any of her business, so I don’t say anything. I just hope she doesn't notice the empty whiskey bottle on the counter.

       “You wanna take a walk?”

       “Mama won’t like it,” I say, “And I have chores to do.”

       “I’ll buy you lunch. How’s that? You can have anything you like. Cheeseburger. Fries. Ice cream. All of the above.”

       “I’m not hungry,” I lie. There isn’t any food in the house, and I was wondering how I could get some money so I could buy some, but I don’t like strangers, and I don’t know this lady.

       “I'm the sheriff’s sister,” she tells me.

       “Is he going to arrest me?”

       “No. He’s issued a statement that you definitely did not kill that girl, and he’s got a cruiser right down there, to make sure no one hurts you.” She pauses. “You’ve been hurt enough.”

       Is she talking about the swollen eye and the bruises from when Jeff tackled me?

       “You look like someone carrying lots of pain,” she says.

       I touch my eye. “It don't hurt much,” I lie.

       “The teachers call you Little Professor. They say you read books all the time, and you know about the lives of historical characters like General Lafayette and Wild Bill Hickok and lots of other people.”

       “I don’t do well in school,” I admit.

       “Why is that?”

       “It’s boring.”

       “I was the same way when I was in school. I devoured information. I learned conversational French and German before I was ten years old.”

       “You must be a genius.”

       “No,” she tells me. “I was too just bored by school to get good grades. You remind me of me.”

       “Really.”

       “Let’s have that cheeseburger.” Her smile is real nice.

 

       Large fires. Double burger. Chocolate malt. She orders for me.

       “So tell me about your classmates,” she says.

       “What do you want to know? I can tell you all their names.”

       “What else do you know about your classmates?”

       Not much, but I don't want to admit it.

       “Would you describe any of them as bullies?”

       “What do you mean?”

       “You know what a bully is,” she tells me.

       “Sure.”

       “Every school has its share of bullies. Who are the bullies in your school?”

       The food arrives, and I take a big bite of the burger. I’m real hungry. She eats her salad slowly and watches me.

       Finally she says, “I used to get bullied when I was in school. Thank heavens I had a big brother. He saved me from more than one beating.”

       Her brother is the sheriff, so I guessed that bullies had to leave her alone.

       “But you do get bullied. Don't you?”

       “I don’t want to talk about it.”

       “That because you’re hurt. You don’t have many friends and you think that’s your fault.”

       “Who says I don't have any friends?”

        “You don’t know much about your classmates, so I guess you can't be good friends.”

       “They're just kids, that's all.”

       “What was Trudie Miller like? Did she have lots of friends?”

       She dressed better than the other girls,” I say. “She had a boyfriend.”

       “Who would that have been?”

       It wouldn't be tattling if I told her Trudie liked Jeff, would it? I keep eating for a while. I know she wants me to say something. She's waiting for me to say something.

       “Mandy, I'm autistic and I think you are too. Like I told you, I was just like you when I was a kid. We’re not weird. Or maybe we are. We're different. We’re people who don’t make eye contact naturally. Is that so bad? If we find something boring, we find a way not to do it. But we’re smart and very focused. Sometimes we get blamed for things other people do. We’re often loners, so that makes us easy targets of bullies. You and me, Mandy, we’re both autistic. You’d have to be evaluated, and I can arrange that, but the sheriff noticed it right away. You reminded him of me, his autistic baby sister.”

       “Aren’t autistic people unable to function?”

        Some of us are high-functioning.”

       “You said we were weird. I thought maybe I could grow up to be rich and famous, but if I'm always going to be weird.... I don't know. How do we get people to like us?”

       “We start by you telling me who killed that girl.”

       “He’s popular. The kids don’t like me. They'll believe him, and they'll hate me for accusing him.”

       “Do you think he should get away with murder?”

       “No.”

       “He probably knows you saw him. He could come after you and Bobby, that's my brother, can't justify having a cruiser follow you around forever.”

       “He won't do anything. It'll be my word against his. He'll say I'm lying.”

       “And probably increase the bullying. Or arrange for you to have a bad accident. He already killed one girl.”

       “He doesn't think enough of me to kill me.” I finish my chocolate malt and thank her.

       I don't want Jeff to get away with this, but what can I do? The other kids hate me enough as it is. No one will believe me. They never believe me.

       I think all that food upset my stomach and then I realize, it isn't the food. I'm scared.

      

        The cruiser has left. Mama says it scares her friends away. Her friends are guys she picks up in bars. The latest boyfriend moved out. I think all that attention scared him. He might be wanted by the cops. Mama said he had a police record.

       People watch me now. They think I am even more of a freak, than they thought I was before. Someone spray painted “FREAK” across the front of our house. They spray painted KILLER on the sidewalk.

       “You can't stay out of trouble, can you, girl?” Mama said when she noticed the writings. She's pretty upset about the boyfriend moving out.

       I think about skipping school and going to the library to read, but someone will tattle on me. I walk around the woods. The trees and the paths scare me after what happened to Trudie. Suddenly Jeff is walking beside me. He gives me a shove that almost knocks me down. “Hey Fleabag,” he says.

       “My name is Mandy,”

       “Your name is dirtbag.” He shoves me again. “Don't talk back to me. You're a dirtbag. You got that? Say it. I'm a dirtbag.”

       “I'm a dirtbag.”

       “And a snoop. What were you doing watching Trudie and me? You some kind of a pervert stalker?”

       “No.”

       “I catch you snooping again, I'll ring that ugly neck of yours. You understand?”

       “Yes.” I tell him. He gives me a good shove and walks away.

       I don't think he'll kill me. I'm not worth the bother. But if I'm not worth the bother of killing, then why am I worth the bother of bullying? He knows no one will believe me. But if I do tell, he'll at least be suspected. I am a danger to him.

       The nice lady, the sheriff's sister, said Jeff might arrange for me to have a bad accident.

       I think about television. What would Wyatt Earp or Cheyenne do? Wyatt Earp locks up bullies and Cheyenne punches them until they stay down. I don't have those options.

       I think about last week's Sugarfoot episode. Sugarfoot hid in a tree and jumped on top of the bad guy.

       I'm not good at climbing. But I could do it. At least I'll be safe up in the tree tops. No, I won't be safe there either. Jeff can climb better than I can.

       I think about running fast behind him, and knocking him down.

       What good would any of that do?

       He'd just beat me up. I can't think of any way to stop Jeff or other bullies.

       I'm real scared. When I go to bed, I don't sleep. I think every noise is Jeff coming to get me.

       I have to stand up to him. I must do it where there are witnesses. I can't let him kill me or anyone else. He killed Trudie. She was mean to me. They all are, but I can't let him kill anyone else.

       In class, I'm really scared. I hate to speak up because the other kids make fun of me if I have the wrong answer. Even if I have the right answer, they make fun of me. They don't like me.

       Mrs. Stallmaster is talking about the Revolutionary War. Those Boston Sons of Liberty had little chance of winning a war against Britain, the most powerful nation on earth. I wonder if Paul Revere and Dr. Warren were scared.

       I know I have to speak up. I swallow and feel the lump in my throat. I have to go to the bathroom. It's almost recess time.

       I stand up. “If you have something to say Mandy, raise your hand,” Mrs. Stallmaster tells me.

       I stare at her. I am not sure my voice will come out.

       Jeff stands up. “Tell her to sit down, Mrs. Stallmaster,” he tells the teacher. She likes him. She'll listen to him, but not to me.

       “He…he, he,” I begin.

       “What are you a donkey or something?” Jeff asks me. The other kids giggle. 

       “He killed her,” I say. “Jeff killed Trudie.”

       “She's lying,” Jeff says.

       “I think you should sit down, Mandy.” Mrs. Stallmaster says.

       “I'll bet they found peanut shells under the body,” I say. “He's always eating peanuts. He was eating peanuts when he killed her.”

        Jeff gives me a hard push. I fall right over my desk and I hit the floor hard. He runs out the door.

       The kids are saying. “She's lying.” and “She's making it up.”

       Mrs. Stallman sends the others out to recess. “Are you making up stories, Mandy?”

       “No,”

       “Jeff is such a good boy.”

       “No. he isn't.”

       “I'll call your mother, and have her take you home.”

       “I can get home on my own,” I say.

       “You'll apologize to Jeff tomorrow in class.”

       “No,” I say. I say it louder than I intended. I walk out the door.

       Going home, I move slowly, Jeff could be hiding in trees. He could come out of nowhere and kill me. There's no one else around. I'm still scared. Just as scared as I was in the classroom.

       I think, he could be waiting for me. He could be in my house.

       I check each room. Mama's asleep in her room, but no one else is in the house. Then I call the sheriff's office. I tell the sheriff what happened. Then I sit on the couch and cry.

 

       Jeff has been arrested for Trudie's murder, and he's headed for reform school and maybe prison after that. The nice lady, the sheriff's sister, says he'll discover a whole new level of bullying there. The coroner had wondered about peanut shells on and around the body. Mystery solved. The other kids still don't like me much, but they know I told the truth. And sometimes I see expressions of respect on their faces. 


The End




thewitness.jpg
Art by Lonni Lees © 2019

THE WITNESS

by M.A. De Neve

 

“PRAIN, People Helping Animals in Need.” I told the caller. “How may I help you.” Calls to the cat rescue where I volunteer are routed to my home phone during the day.

“Yes, how are you?” the caller didn’t wait for me to answer. “I want to report animal abuse. There’s this woman who lives near me. She must have at least a dozen cats.”

“You need to report animal abuse to the police,” I told her.

“I did. They told me to call you.”

“What seems to be the problem?”

“She’s got too many cats.”

“Where does she live? Some areas don’t put restrictions on the number of animals people keep.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

“So you think this person you are calling about is a collector?”

“A what?”

“Someone who takes in more animals than she can care for. It’s what we call a collector.”

“Yes, that’s what she’s doing. She needs to be arrested.”

“We’re a rescue group,” I told her. “We rescue animals; we don’t arrest people.”

“But you can get the police involved. That’s what I need you to do.”

I sighed. “What’s the address of this lady with too many cats?”

She rattled off an address.

“Thank you for calling PRAIN,” I hung up. That caller lives across the street, and she’s been trying to get me in trouble for taking care of too many cats. Maybe she doesn't know that I work with a rescue group, but why doesn't she come over here and talk to me? Why is she always trying to get me in trouble?

Neighbors. I got up to pour myself another cup of coffee.

The PRAIN line telephone rang again.

Sergeant Lisa Patterson of the police department told me she had a complaint.

“Not my neighbor again. She keeps calling PRAIN expecting me to investigate myself.”

Lisa laughed. “Hey, we know you’re a legitimate rescue. This one’s different. A lady over on Parkview has over two dozen cats. At least that’s the complaint.”

“She’s got me beat.”

“Thought you’d like to know there’s another crazy cat lady out there. Think you can drive over there and check it out? See if you can help her?”

“Sure, give me the address.”

I put a light sweater on over my “Crazy Cat Lady’ t-shirt and walked to my car. The drive was a short one. I pulled in at the address Sergeant Lisa had given me. I rang the door bell. No answer. But I heard scurrying inside. Maybe the sound of the doorbell scared the cats. It sounded like there were several cats inside. I noticed a cat nervously peeking at me through the window. After a few minutes, I knocked instead of using the door bell. No sense disturbing the pride.

Again, I got no answer; I walked around to the backyard. A boy, seventeen or eighteen, sat at a patio table some distance from the house. He wasn’t moving. Maybe he was sleeping. “Hello,” I called. He didn’t answer.

A woman came out of the house, “Go away, just go away.”

 Are you the lady who lives here? I just wanted to talk to you about your cats.”

“I don’t have any cats.”

Through the kitchen window, several cats stared at me. They looked frightened. Something was off here. What was it? “I’m not here to judge. I rescue cats myself, so I keep several in my home. I’ve got ten now.”

“Well I do have cats, but that's none of your business, now is it?”

“I just want to see if you need any help. We can provide spay or neuter operations and shots.”

“I don’t need any of that.’

“It gets expensive, and help is out there.”

“I said I don’t need help. I have some income and Social Security. My cats are adults and they’ve all been altered. I got help from Animals And Us.”

“That’s a good rescue group,” I told her. “I know them.”

Just then the kid at the picnic table toppled over and I noticed the knife in his back. “Oh my god,” I hurried over to check his pulse. “Call 911,” I shouted.

“I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.” she said. “I found him like that this morning.”

He was dead and ice cold. I took my cell phone from my purse, and I made the call.

Sergeant Lisa Patterson showed up after the ambulance. We talked. “It's not the neighbors,” Lisa told me. “Some kids called the police several times about her cats.”

“I haven't been in the house, but the cats I've seen look well-cared for. She was working with another rescue. Her pets are up-to-date on shots and they're all spayed or neutered.” I had already called Animals And Us to check her out. She seemed to be a middle-aged cat lady like me.

“It's a case of kids trying to get an old lady in trouble.” Lisa sighed.

“Don't I know about that. What was he doing in her yard?” I nodded toward where the body had been.

“Officers are talking to the neighbors and to the boy's parents. We've just begun the investigation.”

“She wouldn't kill anyone unless she or her cats were threatened.” I said.

“And you know this because...”

“It takes a crazy cat lady to know one. But the boy looks athletic.”

“Football player on the varsity team.”

“She's probably sixty something. And where did she get the knife? It's the kind of knife a hunter or a kid would have.”

“Anyone can buy a utility knife. Check out Amazon and eBay,” Lisa said.

“But the buyers are outdoorsmen, not little old ladies.”

“Look, I don't think she did it either,” Lisa began.

“I know she didn't do it.” I told her.

“The kid was probably a bully and she felt threatened. Self-defense?”

If the kid was a bully, I wondered who else he victimized.

When I went into the house to talk to the cat lady who lived there, I saw a girl of about 15 scooping poop from a large litter pan. “Do you live here?” I asked her.

“No, but I like Mrs, Avery, and I like her cats. My dad won't let me have another cat after I lost my Rizzo. She was so pretty, a calico. So I come over here and help Mrs. Avery's cats.

“Did you know the victim?”

“You mean Bobby? He goes to the same school that I do.”

“He was a nice-looking young man. I bet a lot of girls liked him.”

“Not me. I don't like anyone who hates cats.”

“How do you know he hated cats?”

“He did things to cats. Tormented them. Hurt them.”

“That's awful. Did you witness some of the things he did?”

“He'd show off. He'd show us videos of cats he hurt. He...He...” Tears flooded her eyes, and she couldn't say more.

“You should have reported him.”

“I did. His parents laughed and said, 'boys will be boys.' Lot of good talking to them did.”

“You could have gone to the police,” I told her. But I realized that if he was torturing cats and video taping it, he wouldn't have been showing the pictures to parents or police. “I'm sorry,” I said. “Seeing those pictures must have been awful. And the cats...” I could barely think about what that boy might have done to different cats.

The girl shrugged. “Is Mrs. Avery going to be arrested?” she asked.

“I don't think so. You knew this boy, this Bobby, from school. Do you know anyone—besides cat lovers—who might have wanted to hurt him?
“He's popular. The other kids like him.”

“Then, they didn't know what he did to neighborhood cats?”

“He's popular and good looking. People like that get away with things. He was giving Mrs. Avery a tough time about her cats. He wanted to get her in trouble.”

“Did he do things like that to other people?”

“You mean, did he cause trouble?”

I nodded.

“He said he had my cat Rizzo. She ran away, and and...” the girl sobbed. “He had this video... and... So this morning, one of Mrs. Avery's cats was out on the lawn and Bobby...Bobby was going to... I couldn't let him do it.” She sobbed. “He hurt my Rizzo and I couldn't let him hurt another cat.”

I didn't ask her if she killed him. I didn't have to. I couldn't imagine what seeing a video of her beloved cat being tortured might have done to her. And if he was threatening another cat...

“Are you going to tell?” she asked me.

“No,” I said. I hoped Mrs. Avery wouldn't tell either. I was sure she wouldn't. We crazy cat ladies are not the kind of people who get other people in trouble.

We aren't tattle tales.

THE END








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Art by Ann Marie Rhiel © 2019

ORDER UP: ONE ALIBI TO GO

 

By M.A. De Neve

 

 

 

          My customers at Country Kitchen Cafe wear their business name on the backs of shirts and jackets. First names are embroidered above the pocket on the front of the shirt. I start learning about them as soon as I meet them. Joe from the heating and cooling company has three kids. He shows me their school pictures. Debbie is substitute teacher and Weight Watcher. Bill is a retired cop. Amy works at Subway. 

          Susie is a widow. She needs to get out more, do things and meet new people.  She tells me everywhere she goes, she’s reminded of her husband Denny. “We used to do so many things together.”

          “He wouldn’t want you sitting at home every night watching television,” I tell her.

          “There are just too many reminders everywhere,” she signs and looks into her coffee cup as if she can see her late husband in there.

          “You need to get far away. Go on an exotic vacation to Africa or China.”

          She laughs. “Don’t I wish I could afford it.”

          I’m the waitress. I like my customers; I talk to them, draw them out, find out as much as I can about what’s going on in their lives. We’re family. 

          One day this expensive woman came in.  I don’t know much about purse and shoe designers, but I know quality and this woman was wearing expensive everything. Her nails were a pale pink, but perfectly shaped; her hair was an auburn halo. She must go to those salons that charge hundreds of dollars for haircuts.

          “Someone must have struck the lottery,” Barb, the other waitress whispered.

          I nodded. We have a few professional women customers. They rely on easier styles, and wear comfortable clothes.  Unless they work in sales, they don’t walk around on five-inch heels all day.  Betty, the sales lady, takes off her heels and wears sneakers in here. Maybe this woman didn’t win the lottery, but she’d either been born into great wealth or she married money.  I decided she must be married to a king or something.

          This is a working-class cafe. The lady stood out. But why was she here? 

          She ignored Barb whose turn it was to take a customer; she used her index finger to summon me to her table. I hate it when people do that. She ordered coffee and then after I brought it to her table, she told me to sit down.

          What am I? A dog? I figured I’d get a good tip, so I sat down opposite her.

          She asked me questions about me. How long had I worked there?  Did I like waitressing? Did I have a family living close by? Did I have a roommate? Strange. Few customers are interested in the waitress. Usually they don’t even want to know my name unless they want to complain.

          But she got my name, age and educational background, all before she took a sip of the coffee. I was surprised she didn’t ask for my Social Security numbers.

          “Do you have a boyfriend?” she asked.

          It was time to turn the conversation. “You know somebody?”

          “I know lots of people. I’m looking to hire a smart girl.  Someone like you to come work for me.”

          “To do what?”

          “Travel. Make some money.”

          “I’ll need more of a job description?”

          She handed me a business card, the fancy kind in two bold colors orange and black - and with raised letters. “I want you to be there tomorrow. What time do you get off work here?”

          “I need to know a little more before I make appointments.  Just what are you inviting me into here?”

          “I can use you.”

          “I don’t doubt you can - use me.” People use each other all the time. It’s a fact of life.  “It says here you’re an entertainment specialist. What kind of entertainment? It isn’t what they call adult entertainment, is it? Kinky?”

          She laughed. “No, this is not so-called adult entertainment or anything so crass. I work with rock bands. Actors. Movie stars.”

          “And what would I be doing with all these rock bands and movie stars?”

          “You’d be making money.” she told me. She left a hundred-dollar bill on the table and left.  She hadn’t finished her coffee and the bill didn’t even come a whole five dollars. I paid for her coffee from my tips. I pocketed the hundred and the business card. Her name was Luella Janice Thurman. On my way home from work, I stopped at the library and looked her up.

Interesting.  No wonder she could afford such great-looking, expensive clothes. She might make a good employer. But why me?  I figured I’d play along for a while. What did I have to lose?

 

          I wasn’t sure what to expect when I went to her office the next day.  She was just exiting the building when I arrived. “My car’s over here,” she said. “We have some appointments.”

          She walked toward a new black Mercedes. I stood on the sidewalk staring.

          “Mrs. Thurman…” I began

           “Oh get in.” she said. “We’ve got work to do. And call me Lou.”

          “What exactly do you want me to do?”

          “Get in the car, and I’ll tell you.”

          An hour later I still had no idea what she wanted me for, but I was having a great time. She drove me to a beauty parlor. A shampoo girl whose only job was to shampoo rich ladies’ hair massaged my scalp with something that smelled like apricots. Then I was getting a fresh color rinsed in my hair and a cut. I looked great when they were finished.  I looked as good as Mrs. Thurman - Lou.

          At the next stop I got a pedicure and a manicure.  This was decadent. Surely she wasn’t still tipping me for the coffee that she didn’t even drink.

          “Why are you doing this?” I asked Lou as she paid my bill and generously tipped the nail stylist.  I still hadn’t gotten any answers.  “Isn’t it obvious? You need the right look if you are going to work for me.”

          She drove me a cosmetic shop and bought me new makeup. “Honestly, what is this about?” I asked.

          “We’ll go to my apartment next. You can wear my clothes.”

          “I can? Why? For what?”

          When we got to her apartment, she threw open the doors to a long walk in closet. You’re going on a Caribbean Cruise.”

          “I am?”

          “Pick out what you want to bring with you.”

          “I need to know more about what I’m getting into,” I said. “What is this about?”

          “We’re about the same height and very close in weight. Now our hair is almost exactly the same color and it has the same cut. You could pass for me.” She explained.

          “Why would I want to?”

          “Famous people have doubles.” she said. “You will be my double.”

          “Why do you need a double?”

          “All sorts of reasons. Are you in or not?”

          “I’m not an actress.”

          “You don’t need to be. People don’t scrutinize me that much. I’m wealthy and outside of my profession, I am not famous. Smile, be courteous and remember that you are me.”

          “That’s all I have to do is smile and be courteous?”

          “Basically.”

          I wasn’t sure I wanted to go on this cruise, but I picked out a few items from her wardrobe just for the fun of it. I could always give them back. Trying things on was fun. She handed me a package bulging with new bras, nylon stockings  and panties.  “These should fit,” she told me.

          “Victoria’s Secret?”

          “That bra,” she nodded toward my chest,  “doesn’t do much for you.”

          Darn, it was one of the more expensive bras at the dollar store, and I always thought I looked good in it.  (If you’ve never been to a dollar store, you might not know that some items cost more than a dollar.  I buy bras at Big Dollar on Maple and actually pay up to five dollars.  I’m a big spender.)

          She handed me a copy of her driver’s license, a copy of her passport, and a credit card. “There’s a thousand-dollar limit on it,” she explained. “Don’t overdo the shopping.”

          “I won’t need to buy anything.”

          “I want you to buy some things. The credit card receipts establish location.”

          Establish location?

          Here’s the deal she offered me. I was going on a Caribbean cruise, all expenses paid. I was to be seen only enough to establish my presence or rather her presence. I’d get five thousand dollars cash before I went and another five thousand when the job was done.

          “Don’t call attention to yourself,” she instructed.  “Just be there. Order room service and sign for it. Use my name. We’ll practice my signature, Wear sunglasses as much as you can when you are outdoors. Our eyes are different.”

          “Why am I doing this?”

          “That’s my business,” she told me.

          “It’s my business if… if…. You aren’t doing anything illegal are you?”

          “Of course not. All famous people have doubles.  It lets us go incognito sometimes. It’ll give me freedom.”

          I wanted to remind her that she wasn’t famous, but I decided to play along. I needed a vacation.  As far as staying in my room and doing little more than making my presence known with small purchases, I wasn’t going to do that.  She wanted me to establish location. That’s what I’d do.

          I bought a new iPhone with some of my advance money, not that I had anyone I wanted to call.  I was interested in its camera.

          I had a blast. I met the captain and as many other passengers as I could. I kept my real driver’s license and a credit card with my real name on it sewed inside one of my new bras.         

          Back home I unloaded my purchases in my real apartment. I barely got in the door and my phone was ringing. “Very good job,” Mrs. Thurman said. “You made enough purchases to establish my identity. Very good. I take it you kept a low profile.”

          “Absolutely.”  How did she define low profile? I hadn’t put a lamp on my head or danced naked on the tables. As far as I knew she had no reason to complain about my performance. I’d already returned the credit card and copies of the driver’s license and passport per her instructions.

          “You’ll find a money order for five thousand dollars cash in your mailbox,” she told me.  “I know I can count on your discretion.”

          “Of course,” I agreed. I didn’t add that my discretion depended on what she’d been up to while I was gone.

          When I went back to work at the restaurant, my customers asked how I’d liked visiting my family. I don’t have a family; I’m divorced and I haven’t seen my ex-husband in over five years; my parents were killed in an automobile accident when I was still a teenager. But a home visit had been my excuse for taking two weeks off.

          When I got my break, I found a discarded tabloid magazine someone had left behind. Johnny Mick the rock singer was dead, murdered, shot to death inside his apartment. I opened the magazine and started reading the details. He must have known his killer. He’d let someone inside the apartment. There were no signs of a struggle.

          After I finished reading the article, I folded the magazine and placed it under the counter. We had an unusually busy lunch rush that day, but Barb and I managed to get everyone served.

          When Bill, the retired cop, came in, I sat at the counter beside him. “I have a story to tell you,” I began. “I was involved in Johnny Mick’s murder.”

          “I assassinated JFK,” he said. “I stood at that window at the school book depository building and I …”

          “I’m serious,” I pulled out the tabloid magazine and pointed to the article on Johnny Mick. “His marriage was on the rocks. He was getting a divorce.”

          “You read this trash?”

          “It’s all true. His wife, Louella Thurman, would be a suspect, but she was on a Caribbean cruise.”

          “If she was on a cruise, she got an alibi. Of course, she could have hired the job out.”

          “She hired the job out, all right.  She hired me.” I took out my iPhone and showed him my pictures. “Here’s me putt-putting at a miniature golf course on the ship. Here’s me at Guy’s Burgers. Here’s me…” I showed him picture after picture. I showed him the picture of Johnny’s Mick’s wife in the tabloid. “She looks like me. Notice the manicure. I held my hands in front of him. “She paid for this.”

          “So what,” Bill said. “You look like Johnny Mick’s wife. Nice haircut, by the way. You went on a cruise the same time she did.”

          “It’s quite a coincidence, isn’t it? I wasn’t supposed to do anything in my own name, but I didn’t follow orders. I made credit card purchases, a dozen of them using my own card. It’s called ‘establishing location.’ ” I had transferred some of the cash she gave me into my account before I left.

          “It still don’t prove she wasn’t on the cruise with you.”

          “No, but someone else was on the cruise with me.”

          At that moment Susie came in. I’d called her and asked her to come to the restaurant.  I showed Bill my pictures again. Susie, the widow from a few blocks over, was there with me in several photos.

          Susie came over and sat with us. “We had such a good time.  She’s been after me to go out and have fun again. Thank you, for paying my way,” Susie smiled.

          Bill took us to the police station and we talked to detectives. Mrs. Thurman or should I say Mrs. Mick denied my charges, but I knew the captain’s name. She didn’t. She really should have researched better. I also had Susie my witness who’d been with me for the entire cruise. She had watched me sign Louella Thurman’s name to receipts for room service and for small purchases. Lou Thurman Mick hadn’t specified that I take no one with me. And I really did keep a low profile. I did the same things other cruisers did.

          Susie was grateful. She met a nice businessman on the trip and they’re engaged to be married now. He’s offered me a job working for his company. I’ll make over twice as much as I did as a waitress.

          I got to keep all the money and the clothes Mrs. Thurman gave me and all the purchases I’d made. I also got money from the tabloids for telling my story.

           Crime does pay.  At least it did for me and Susie.

THE END


NEIGHBORS

 

By M.A. De Neve

 

 

          Sheila’s computer was an old, cheap unit that her neighbor Ronnie had rescued from a recycle bin. He had restored most of its abilities and he was teaching her how to use it. When she needed Internet, she used the WiFi password from the coffee shop down the street. Ronnie's parents lived next door, she could access their wireless network when she needed to. The computer made her feel connected. She joined the Neighbor’s website, and she loved this convenient wonderful way to connect with people who lived close by.

          Thank heavens for the Internet. It took her mind off her troubles. Her husband Don, ten years older than she was, had a degenerative heart disease. His health deteriorated rapidly.  Then Don started forgetting things. He had Alzheimer’s. Sheila stopped taking him to the doctor. Medicare didn't cover much of the expenses. They couldn’t afford the medical bills, and the doctors didn't help. When it often came down to choices between prescriptions and groceries, groceries won out.

          Aaron, Don’s son from his first marriage, had moved in with them after he lost his job.  Aaron took over Don’s debit card and bank statements. He said Sheila spent too much money, and that he had to protect his dad from her overspending. What overspending? She made macaroni and cheese from boxes or peanut butter sandwiches on stale bread. She hadn't had any new or second-hand clothing in over ten years. But Aaron could always afford his beer. That's mostly what he spent Don's money on. But he had somehow convinced his dad that Sheila was the problem.

          Sheila scrolled down the news page at the Neighbors website. Aaron, who seldom took care of his dad, was in the bedroom with Don.  That night he volunteered to give Don his medications. Sheila wondered if she should be in there. She feared Aaron would end his dad’s endless suffering by putting a pillow over Don’s head. Or maybe he'd shake too many pills into Don's coffee. She shook her head to ward off these disturbing thoughts and turned back to her computer screen. Surely Aaron wasn’t that desperate. What was taking him so long? Finally, he exited his dad’s bedroom.

          “He’s dead.” Aaron said. “My dad’s dead.”  He said it simply like he was reading off the numbers from a clock. No emotion. He had never been close to his dad.

          Sheila picked up the phone.

          “What are you doing?” he asked.

          “Calling an ambulance.”

          “What for? He’s dead.”

          “We have to call somebody.”

          “Are you stupid? Dad’s Social Security is the only income we have.”

          “You need to get a job,” she told him.

          “That’d be nice,” he admitted. “Then I can kick you the hell out of here, old lady.”

          “What’s left of his Social Security is mine,” she reminded him.

          “Like you’ve ever worked anywhere.” It was true, she’d never had a job. Wasn’t keeping house enough?  Don had never done any of the housework, and Aaron certainly wasn't going to do it.

          Even the house wasn't hers. Half of it had belonged to Don's first wife, Aaron's mother. When Katherine died, she'd willed her half of the house to Aaron. Sheila assumed she'd get Don's half of the house, but she wasn't sure. Would Aaron kick her out? She didn't think she could find a job, not at her age.

          Sheila started to dial.  Aaron grabbed the phone from her. “We don’t report he’s dead. The full-amount Social Security checks keep coming.”

          “We could go to jail for that.”

          He began pacing the hallway.

          “What are we going to do with… with the body?” she asked.

          “Dispose of it.”

          At midnight Sheila helped Aaron drag Don’s body from the bedroom through the kitchen and into the attached garage. They hadn’t dared turn on any lights. Don’s fat body dragged along the hallway and then through the kitchen. He was too heavy for Sheila to hold onto for long. She’d drop him.  Aaron cursed. They managed to drag the body into the garage.

          Behind the house in the neighbor's yard, a dog barked frantically. Sheila had almost forgotten about that dog. She needed to tell Aaron...

          He was busy pulling tools from the shelves.

          “About the dog,”

          “What about the dog?”

          “Nothing.”

          She glanced back at the body. Don wore blue pajama bottoms, stinky. He’d soiled himself in his last moments before death, and the odor drifted up towards her, causing her to gag.  But she choked that down. His t-shirt, front and back, bore an emblem of the plumbers' union. Don had belonged to the union for over forty years.

          Aaron put heavy black garbage bags on the windows. Sheila hurried into the house. After a few minutes, a light went on in the garage. When she heard the sound of an electric saw, she ran into the bathroom and vomited.  How could he do that to his dad?

          Sheila hadn’t had much of a marriage. They had stopped caring about each other years ago. Yet she’d done the best she could to help her husband as he became more and more helpless. She wondered what would become of her now.

          Sheila hadn’t worked even before her marriage. She hadn’t seen the necessity. She’d been pretty once. She’d lived with a series of guys, and for the most part they treated her well until they tired of her. Don had stayed longer than most. Then he married her, and they’d been happy for a while. Long ago he’d tired of her, but they were both getting older by then and they clung to each other like old rags.

          Old rags reminded her of the clothes Don wore when they dragged him into the garage.          

          She turned on the computer and typed in the address of the Neighbors website.  Sheila scrolled down the page.  It took her mind off what was happening in the garage. She didn’t get her nails done anymore, so she didn’t need five percent off on the service. Someone needed a child or pet gate. She didn’t have one to sell or give away. Ronnie, the neighbor who'd gotten her the computer, offered computer lessons at reasonable rates. He'd been teaching her for free. She loved that kid.

          Doris Nelson who lived several houses down the next street had again organized a group of local singers to walk around the neighborhood singing Christmas carols. What was new about that? Doris brought her singers around every year. It was always a real nuisance to get Don up and dressed so he could listen.  She’d told Doris that Don needed his rest.  But Doris had reminded Sheila and Aaron about how happy Don had been while he listened to them sing.  What would she and Aaron do if the singers came around again this year?

          Aaron came back into the house and asked for more plastic bags.

          “We’re out,” she told him.

          “Go buy some.”

          “I don’t have any money.”

He handed her a five, his hands bloody from the work he'd been doing in the garage.  She grabbed the money by its edges and took a paper towel to clean it.

          “This won’t buy many bags.”

          He handed her a few ones and some change.

          She looked at the clock; it was after two a.m. “I don’t know what’s open.”

          “The gas station down the street. They sell groceries and garbage bags. Get a couple boxes and get some bleach too.” She grabbed her car keys and left.

          The clerk wished her happy holidays. “Surprised to see you out so late,” he said. “I see you joined the Neighbor’s site.”

          She placed the bags and the bleach on the counter.

          “Don’t tell me you’re cleaning this late at night.  Guess when you’re retired, you do things on your own schedule. How’s Don?”

          “Same,” she said. It wasn't a lie.  He was just as dead now as when she’d left the house.

          But Don was in pieces now. Aaron had taken an electric saw and...

          When she came home, the kitchen table was covered with items from the freezer.

          “You’re putting him in there?” she trembled as she asked. “In the freezer?”  She’d never be able to put food in there again. Not that it mattered much to her. The freezer was used for deer meat after Aaron and his friends went hunting each year. Sheila hated the taste of venison, but sometimes she got so hungry, she’d eat anything.

          “Got any better ideas?”

          “What are we going to do with all this deer meat?”

          “There's a big dog in the yard behind us. Toss the meat over the fence. That might keep him quiet.”

          “Not a good idea. That dog belongs to a cop,” she told him.

          “Bob's not a cop.”

          “His new girlfriend is. And I think her dog’s a canine officer.”

          Aaron swore and then he took the bags and disappeared back in the garage.  “We'll have to throw out the venison.”

 

          The next night Sheila drove Aaron and a trunk full of plastic bags around the county. Thank heavens he didn't expect her to help dig the holes.

          While Aaron busied himself with the shovel, she brought up the Neighbor's website on her iPod.  Actually, it was Ronnie's old iPod. He'd given it to her. The Pleashette's posted pictures of their Christmas decorations.  Joan Lankford posted homemade gifts for sale.  That woman was always crafty.  Bob posted pictures of Connie, his new girlfriend and her dog.

          Aaron buried a bag in an ex-girlfriend's yard.  He buried a bag in his old boss’s yard. He buried bags in several local parks including the one five blocks down the street.

          Burying pieces of a dead person is hard work. The pieces must be buried deep, so they’d never be found. When Aaron ran out of places, he dropped Sheila off at home, and took the rest of the bags to  a friend’s hunting camp. Deep in the woods he buried the remaining pieces.

          The Social Security checks went into direct deposit. As Don’s wife, Sheila’s name was on the account, but Aaron had long ago added his own name.  Sheila thought about finding a job, but she was 68 years old and she had never worked. She didn’t know how to start looking.  Mr. Opolka down the street was looking for a cleaning lady one day a week. Maybe she could do that. Wouldn't she have to keep up the myth of staying home and caring for her husband? If only Aaron would get a job. But then he'd probably kick her out.        

          Bob Wixom, the neighbor whose yard sat directly behind theirs, posted pictures of himself and his fiancé, Connie Sanders. She was a police officer, and along with her picture, Bob posted several photos of her dog, Axe of the canine unit.

          The news hit her hard and suddenly. POLICE. DOG. CANINE UNIT. She'd seen all those words before. Suddenly they screamed at her. She remembered the dog  barking the night  Don died. She couldn't remember if she'd told Aaron about the police dog.

          She'd seen the huge German shepherd playing in Bob's yard.  God help us, she thought. There’s two cops living behind us. At least she hadn’t given the dog the meat from the freezer like Aaron told her to. That would have been a big mistake.

          She showed Aaron the post.

          “Don’t panic,” he told her.

          “It’s a police dog. He’ll smell the blood. He’ll know something bad happened here.”

          “People die all over the place. Even if the dog can figure out something, you think a dog can talk? Worst he could do is bark in front of our house.”

          A few days later when Connie walked Axe past the house, Sheila was outside getting the mail and Aaron was cleaning out the trunk of his car. Connie introduced herself. The dog barked furiously and jerked toward the car. Aaron swore.

          “He’s not dangerous, is he?” Aaron asked.

          “He’s very well-trained.” Connie squinted as if the sun were in her eyes.

          “Tell him to stay away from me and the car.”  Aaron ordered.  Aaron wanted to slam the trunk lid closed shut, but hesitated. Would closing the trunk look suspicious?

           “You don’t have drugs in there do you?” Connie smiled a clearly fake smile.

          “Ha. Ha,” Aaron clutched his beer bottle. “Just keep that dog away from my property. I don’t like dogs.”

          “Is he one of those dogs who sniffs drugs?” Sheila asked.

          “No. He’s a cadaver dog. He finds bodies.”

          Aaron choked on his beer in mid-swallow.

          “We live right behind you,” Connie said. “I just moved in with Bob. We're going to be married.”

          “I read Bob's post in the Neighbors website, and I've seen your dog in Bob's yard.”  Sheila tried to smile.

          Axe strained at his leash.

          “I don't like living next to a dangerous animal,” Aaron said.

          “Axe shouldn’t bother you.” Connie smiled, “Actually Axe is quite the hero. He’s the one who found that body in the trunk on the car in the long-term parking lot at the airport. He helped us solve a very difficult murder case, didn’t you, boy?” she patted Axe’s forehead. “He's worked earthquakes and fires. He does a terrific job.  He's probably one of the best cadaver-sniffing dogs in the world.”

          Axe strained to get at Aaron’s car. “I don’t know what’s gotten into him. He’s usually not like this.”  Connie moved closer to the car like she wanted to see what was in the trunk. She strained to handle the dog. “The real estate agent told me an older couple lived here with their son.”

          “My husband’s ill,” Sheila said. “This is my stepson. Aaron's Don’s son from his first marriage.”

          “I’d like to talk to your husband sometime,” Connie said. “I like to get to know all the neighbors.”

          “He’s real sick. He don’t see visitors anymore.”

          Connie moved on.

          Axe became a local celebrity when the newspaper ran an article about the canine unit.

         

          “Hi, Mrs. Herbert. Ready for your computer lesson?”   It was Ronnie, the neighborhood nerd, who'd helped her so much with the computer.

          “Can we skip the lesson today?” she asked. “I've got a splitting headache.”

          “Sure. Mom made some lemon bars, and she'll bring them over later. They're  your husband's favorite.”

          “Yes, they are. But he's sleeping now.  Tell your mom that she doesn't have to bake for Don. He barely... He hardly...  So...”  Ronnie's mom would want to see Don. She'd want to talk to him.  And Sheila couldn't even finish sentences anymore when it came to talking about Don. Why hadn't she reported it when he died? How had he died? She still wasn't sure that Aaron hadn't killed his dad, and now Don was buried in pieces all over town.  If anyone found him, they'd think he'd been murdered.

          “It's okay,” Ronnie said. “We can have a computer lesson tomorrow. I wanna go to the park anyway. Something's happening down there. Jeffie said that police dog, the one that lives back there,” he nodded toward Bob's yard, “found some pieces of a body buried there by the swings.  Scary stuff, huh?”

          “It sure is, Ronnie. It sure is.”

          As soon as Ronnie left, she pulled up the website and read the posts.

          Comment: “What's happening at the park? There's police cars all over and yellow crime tape.”

          Comment: “I don't know, but there's dogs there too. Police dogs.”

          Comment: Did someone call Bob? Maybe he knows what's happening. His girlfriend's got one of those police dogs. She's probably there with that big dog of hers.”

          Comment: “Her dog's just for sniffing corpses. You don't think there's a body buried there, do you?”

          Comment: “I heard that's exactly what it is. A body in the park.”

          Comment: “Maybe they found Jimmy Hoffa.”

           Late that afternoon the newspaper arrived. Sheila stole it from Bette's driveway.  She'd put it back before Betty got home from work.

          The news story was too new. She didn't expect much. But the story was there.

           BODY FOUND IN PARK. “Axe, one of our community's canine officers and his handler Connie Sanders made a surprising discovery in Memorial Park.  While Sanders was off duty and walking her canine partner, Axe started barking uncontrollably and then dug up parts of a body.”

          Aaron was furious. “That damn dog. Someone needs to shoot him.”

          “What are we going to do?”

          “What can we do?”

          “Do we have enough money to move?”

          Aaron didn't answer. Was he thinking about leaving her here with this mess?   She hurried to return the newspaper. Aaron went out to open the garage door. He’d have to keep their car locked inside from now on.

          “Deck the halls with boughs of holly.” Doris Nelson’s choral group had arrived. Damn. Sheila meant to call Doris and make sure she skipped Don’s house this year. She'd forgotten, but it was too late now.

          “Get rid of them,” Aaron whispered.

          “They sing so nice, and we don’t want them to get suspicious.”

          “Just get rid of them.”

          Sheila clapping her hands. “Bravo. Bravo. That was lovely. You should all be professionals.”  She hoped her smile looked real.

          “You look so tired, poor dear.” Doris said. Then she turned to her singers. ‘Let’s go inside and cheer Don up.”

          Sheila barred the way. “He’s napping,” she lied. “The doctor left several medications. They knock him right out.”

          “Is he in pain?”

          “He wasn’t, but now you’ve probably woke him up.”

          “I’ll go in and apologize.”

          “No,” Aaron and Sheila both shouted. Aaron moved over to help Sheila block the doorway.

          “We could sing a few more songs. He'll hear them better if we're all in the house. Goodness it's cold out here.” Doris folded her arms across her chest and feigned a shiver.

          “No. No. Thank you. He shouldn’t be disturbed.”

          Doris shook her head. “What’s gotten into you, Sheila? You always let us sing for Don before. And now you're jumpy, and you don't look well.”

          Just then three police cars pulled up. Connie was in uniform today, and Axe barked like a puppy.

          “Sheila Herbert, we have a warrant to search your car, house and garage.”

          “What’s this about?” Aaron asked as if he didn’t know.

          An older male officer answered. “The body Axe dug up included part of a t-shirt with a local plumbers unit logo on it. Mrs. Herbert, your husband belonged to the union.”

          “So what?” Aaron said. “Lots of men belonged to that union. They all have t-shirts.”

          The officer pointed at the dog straining at his leash.  “Axe seems to think the body he found came from here.”

          “What the heck does that stupid dog know about anything?”     

          Axe bounded through the open garage door with Connie and another officer right behind him.  Axe came back seconds later with a bloody rag in his mouth.  “Good boy,” Connie patted him. “You knew someone died violently here.”

          She turned back to Sheila. He never barks the way he did around you and your car, unless there's been a corpse in there recently.”  With a gloved hand, she pulled the rag from Axe's mouth. The Plumbers' Union logo was clear despite the blood stains.

          “We didn’t kill him,” Sheila said.

          Aaron told her to shut up, but she didn’t stop.

          “He died, and we needed the Social Security checks.” Her hands were being forced behind her, handcuffs bit into her wrists, and someone read her her rights. Aaron struggled with the officers, but they quickly put him down and cuffed him too.  The singers stepped back, wide eyed and some of them open-mouthed. Doris wondered if they should sing another song. It might relieve some of the tension.

 

          Sheila got to use a better computer in the prison library.  She was able to keep up with events in her old neighborhood by signing into their website.

          Connie often posted pictures of her canine partner. Axe had been awarded a gold star and had been named Police Dog of the Year. His ability to sniff out blood and other evidence of violent death placed him among the world’s most trusted canine officers.

MADS



DESIGNATED DRIVER

 

By M.A. De Neve

 

 

 

          Sheila couldn’t find her keys. Damn.

          Why hadn’t the designated driver waited until she was inside the house before he took off?  She decided she’d give him a bad online review and call Lyft the next time she decided to go partying. After a night on the town she was in no condition to drive. At least she had gotten home.

          Her purse clattered to the sidewalk. Lipstick, wallet, iPhone, Kleenex, glasses case, all tumbled out. Some items rolled away. She dropped to her knees and started gathering things up, but she couldn’t see much in the dark. She found her flashlight and flicked the switch. It didn’t work. She must have forgotten to buy batteries again. She stumbled forward. Her keys were a tangled mess. She couldn’t find the right one in the dark. But the bedroom window was open. She hadn’t left it that way. Maybe she had. She kicked some object in the dark. Whatever it was, she had missed it when she gathered material from her spilled purse; she’d get it in the morning. She stumbled toward the window, climbed inside, snagging her panty hose on the window latch. It was dark inside, but she managed to crawl to the bed.  She fell asleep.

          Scream.

          “Stop,” Sheila moaned. Her mouth was dry; her head hurt. The woman who had screamed stood in the bedroom doorway. She was probably thirty-something, but looked fifty. Her hair was pulled back into a bun; her features distorted with anger. “Get out of my son’s bed.”

          Sheila rolled over. A wide-eyed teenage boy lay beside her, his hair ruffled. He too had just awakened.

          “Bobby?” Sheila recognized one of her students.

          “Get out,” the woman screamed. “You whore.”

          “God, I must be in the wrong house.”

          “Miss Grayson,” the boy, Bobby Benson, looked surprised. His mother pulled a cell phone from her pocket and called the police. Sheila got up quickly. Should she rush to the window and try to escape or try to explain? She chose the latter. “I went out last night, and I had too many drinks. The designated driver I hired… I…He…He must have dropped me off at the wrong address, the wrong house. I didn’t notice in the dark.”

          She couldn’t find her purse. She hoped she hadn’t left it on the lawn. She turned back to face Bobby. “I’m sorry.”

          He grinned.

          His mother shouted, “I’ll have you arrested for this.”

          “It was just a misunderstanding. The designated driver…”

          “Bobby, I hope you know you’re grounded for the next hundred years.”

          “Me?” the boy said. “I didn’t do anything.”

          “It was all my fault or rather the designated driver’s fault. He dropped me off at the wrong house.” She caught a glimpse of herself in the dresser mirror. Her mascara was smeared; it looked like she had two black eyes. Her hair so carefully styled the night before now stuck out at odd angles.

          “Get out of my house,” the woman shouted.

          “Yes, of course. Could I call a cab? I can’t find my cell phone.”

          “Out.” Bobby’s mother somehow found Sheila’s purse and flung it at her. More contents spilled out. Sheila was on the lawn looking for her cell phone when a police car pulled up.

          Mrs. Benson ran to greet the officers. “She slept with my son last night.”

          “No, I didn’t. I just got in the wrong bed. I didn’t touch him. He didn’t touch me. At least I don’t think he did.”        

          “She’s his teacher; I want her arrested.”

          After being fired from her teaching position, Sheila drove a cab. She had looked for another teaching job and attempted to straighten out the misunderstanding with Bobby’s mom and with the school board, but so far, people preferred to believe the worst about her. Bobby bragged to his friends about the night he spent with his teacher.

          Sheila couldn’t even get a job as a substitute.

          Winter brought freezing temperatures and slippery roads. Driving a cab was a hell of a way to make a living.

          She usually didn’t work the midnight shift, but the regular driver had called in sick, and she needed the money. She had pepper spray in her purse. She knew how to use it.

          Of course, she got calls from the bars when they closed. She preferred not to think about her own last evening in the bars. The hangover had been terrible, and the police questioned her for hours. Bobby’s mom insisted she was a sex offender, and wanted her listed as such. After all, Bobby was just fifteen. Mrs. Benson wanted her sent to prison.

          She pulled up in front of the tavern door, turned off the music on her iPod down and studied the man who got into her car.

          “Where’s your car?” she asked.

          “Home.”

          “Think we can make it there without you messing up my back seat?”

          He stared at her and swayed some more. “You want the address.”  He slurred his words, but she managed to understand.

          She glanced back at him from time to time as she drove. “How you doin’ back there, Greg?”

          “You know my name.”

          “We’ve met before.”

          Instead of driving him home, she drove him far into the country to a rest stop in a national forest.

          “Where am I?  This ain’t home.”

          “No, Greg, it isn’t, and you didn’t drive me home either when you were the designated driver. She opened the car’s back car door. He fell onto the pavement.

          “I’ll freeze to death.”

          “That’s the idea.” 

THE END

 

 

 

Gatophobia

 

by M.A. De Neve

 

 

          My husband’s body lay on the carpet. I hadn’t moved him. The oaf weighed at least three hundred pounds.

Detective Story arrived and almost tripped over one of my cats.

          “I like cats,” I told him.

          “How many do you have?”

          “Eleven here in the apartment. There’s more upstairs in the cattery. I run a foundation that finds homes for homeless felines. At times I might have up to a hundred cats. When my husband collapsed, I got as many as I could into the cattery. Can’t have them in the way now, can we?”

          “In the way?”

          “He obviously needs to be moved.” I nodded toward the body.

          The detective looked around at the assortment of cat trees, scratching posts, cat beds and feeders. “I admire the work you do with homeless cats. I’ve read about it.”

          “They aren’t all homeless. Many are pets, and all of them have a home with me.”

          We watched as the coroner’s staff got ready to lift the corpse. It wasn’t going to be easy. A big guy like that. I wished they’d hurry up.

           When I led the detective into the living room, cats scattered off the couch. My chairs and sofa are all covered in water-resistant fabric. We sat down. A few cat hairs never bothered me. I hoped the officer wouldn’t worry about his cheap suit.

          “What happened?” he asked.

          “Appears he had a heart attack.”

          “You been married long?”

“Not long. He just got out of prison this morning.”

          “How did you meet?”

          “Is that important?”

          “I’m curious. You’re wealthy and your husband…”  A cat landed on his lap. He smiled and petted little Fur Fuss.

          “My husband was a drug dealer, a thug, and a convicted murderer. I married him when he was on death row.”

          “It must have been a surprise for you when he got out of prison this morning.”

          I knew it was coming.

          One of the cats climbed a cat tree, and another shook an interactive feeder for her dinner. Yet another cat chased a cloth mouse across the carpet. We heard a meow and a hiss, and the sound of a toy rattling across the floor.

          “Make sure none of the cats get out,” I told the coroner’s assistants.

          “Do you stand to gain from his death?” the detective asked.

          “You can’t insure the life of a death row inmate.”

          “Of course not,” he agreed.

          “I gain nothing financially from his death.”

          “But you get your freedom. Surely you didn’t want to stay married to this guy?”

          “My attorney already drew up the divorce papers.”

          “Did you get a restraining order?”

          “No need. I paid for the appeal. I didn’t expect him to get out, though.”

          “Why did you marry a death row inmate?”

          “My dad’s will. It says I had to be married before my 21st birthday to inherit.”

          “And the will let you marry a convict?”

          “I married Mr. Gordon, the deceased, three days before my birthday, and five months before his scheduled execution.”

          “But he got out.”

          “Some loophole. They wouldn’t have found it, but I had to hire a good lawyer. It was my part of the marriage agreement. I had to give him something.” A cat crawled onto my lap. I gently petted the purring animal. “Such a sweet fur ball.”

          The detective got up, brushed cat hair from his suit.

          “My husband died of a heart attack,” I told the detective.

When my husband walked into my apartment, he got quite a shock. The cats ran right over to him, and one even tried to climb his leg. He had a heart attack.

          My late husband had an irrational fear of cats. It’s called Gatophobia. Poor man.  But like I told the detective, there was no need for a restraining order.

          I guess I maybe should have told him about the cats, though.

 

 

 




        

SHOPLIFTING LESSONS

 

by M.A. De Neve

 

 

          At least three CD’s disappeared from the shelf at Denny’s Stop and Go.  Denny hadn’t sold any mini bottles of wine, but  the bin was definitely lighter. A bottle of Maker’s Mark had found its way off the shelf. Even cat food and razors disappeared.

          Denny pushed his John Lennon glasses up closer to his forehead and started a list of the missing items and totaled the losses.

          “I got me a shop lifter,” he told Tony who came in for coffee each day and always stopped for a while to chat with Denny.

          Tony was short and fat; he wore loose clothing thinking it hid the rolls of fat.  As he talked to Denny, he grabbed a candy bar and munched on it. “It’s those dames with the big purses. That and kids with backpacks. I saw a special on TV about it. It’s old ladies and teens who are the shoplifters.”

          Tony was still leaning against the counter munching a second or third candy bar when the old woman came in. “She’s definitely someone to watch,” he whispered.

          “What’s an old broad like her doing with a backpack,” Denny whispered back.  “I thought just school kids used them for books.”

          “Backpacks? They got other uses. And notice the big purse.  She can stick wine bottles

in there.”

          The two men watched the woman as she walked up and down the aisles.  “Can I help you find something?”  Denny asked.

          “Just looking. Thank you, very much.”

          “Bag Lady,” Denny whispered. Tony nodded.

          She bought a bottle of mineral water and left.

          “She knew we were watching her,” Tony said. “That’s why she didn’t take anything.”

          But then Denny noticed two bottles of Dogfish Head, the craft beer, missing.

          Whenever the old woman came into the store Denny watched her closely. He didn’t notice her taking anything, but afterwards, he’d find several candy bars and a bottle of expensive wine missing. She was good at it. He’d give her that. Usually he didn’t notice the missing bottles of wine or whiskey until she’d been gone for awhile.

 

          Louise Martin had been widowed for just over a year.  A retired school teacher, she had adequate income and she had always lived simply. She and her husband had saved when they were both teaching. Now she had their savings and her Social Security. The schools offered good pension plans and health insurance. She lived comfortably.

          She didn’t have a car. Didn’t need one. She walked to the UPS office and got her mail including second-hand books from Amazon. She shopped mostly on line. A delivery service, delivered the groceries and the household items she couldn’t or didn’t want to carry home with her.   Her clothes weren’t new or expensive. She was retired. She didn’t need to impress anyone. Now that she was no longer teaching, she liked comfortable loose clothing. 

          After walking to UPS and putting her books in her backpack, she’d walk back home and stop at the convenience store in the gas station. The store had the most interesting things. Ear buds for listening to music, beer and wine, candy, crackers, cat food, dog treats and soda. They carried just about everything. Usually she just brought a water and maybe some lifesavers, but mostly she liked to just look around the store. She particularly liked all the interesting labels on the liquor bottles.  The store sold more liquor than anything.  They even had a whole room full of craft beers and she often stopped to admire them.

 

          “You caught her at it yet?” Tony asked when he stopped by.  He picked up a candy bar and started peeling away the wrapper.

          “Can’t understand it, I watch real close and yet every time she leaves, I'll find something missing.”

          Tony had even followed her around the store, being real careful not to be too conspicuous. That wasn’t easy, Tony being the fat man he was.

          Tony was a good customer. He’d always stop to talk for awhile. If Denny had to use the rest room, Tony would watch the counter.

 

          Louise liked the gas station/food and liquor mart. The manager was so nice. He watched her so closely when she was in the store. He must be thinking of her safety. She pushed a gray hair from her eyes and smiled back at him.  Such a nice man. And the heavy-set man who was always there seemed nice too. He watched her too, but didn’t seem to want her to notice.

          Maybe he’d be embarrassed if she thanked him for being so nice.        Older women were sometimes unsteady on their feet. But she wasn't one of them. She walked every day.

 

          “The old hag did it again,” Denny cursed the next time the old woman left the store. “She no sooner left and there’s a carton of cigarettes missing.”

          Tony nodded sympathetically.

          “She don’t look like no smoker.”       

          “Them street people all smoke.”

          “What makes you think she’s a street person?”

          “She ain’t got no car. She walks everywhere with a backpack and a big purse.”

          “She’s a kleptomaniac. You know what that is. One of those people who can’t help but steal. It’s like an illness.”

 

          Tony walked into the parking lot. He hadn’t paid for his coffee; he usually didn’t but if Denny said anything, he’d just say he forgot. He got into his car and started the motor. Before he left he pulled a carton of cigarettes and a bottle of Knob Creek from inside his jacket. He smiled thinking how closely Denny watched the old woman while he was free to help himself.  Tony drove out of the parking lot looking forward to the evening and the bourbon.

 

THE END

M.A. DeNeve is a retired college instructor, crazy cat lady, tree hugger and bag lady.  Her short stories appeared in Over My Dead Body, Yellow Mama, Everyday Fiction  and Mysterical -E. Her novels are available on Amazon.




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