Shari Held

JUST LIKE OLD TIMES

By Shari Held

I hadn’t set foot in our old hangout since I retired five years ago. Not much had changed since then. Same sticky floorboards, autographed picture of John Wayne hanging lopsided on the wall, threadbare pool table. The joint smelled of stale beer and fried onions. I stopped beside the booth where I’d agreed to eliminate Jagger so Grosjean could take over his operation. It was my first job. Grosjean and I had been a good team. Over the years, the body count from our successes had reached two figures.

I found Grosjean at the U-shaped booth in back, a Bud waiting for me. Just like old times. His forehead creases were deeper, jowls longer, gut bigger, and the twinkle in his eyes had dimmed.

“Templeman, good to see you,” he said. “You okay with a post-retirement assignment?”

I shrugged and sipped my Bud.

“I need to teach an up-and-comer a lesson. Thinks he’s hot shit. Doesn’t have to kiss my ass no more.”

“Want me to rough him up?” I sounded as dubious as I felt. Those days were long behind me. Anyone with two functioning eyeballs could see that.

He gave me a familiar look. “He’ll be an example for all those young pricks. Get my drift?”

“Loud and clear.” If Grosjean wanted the kid dispatched badly enough to call me in, his control over the organization must have hit the skids.

“Double your usual pay. You in?”

I nodded.

“Good. I know I can trust you.” He wiped at a trickle of sweat rolling down the side of his cheek, passed me a folded piece of paper, and motioned to a fat manila envelope on the table between us. “Meet me here for the other half when it’s done.”

After he left. I finished my beer, then stuck the note and envelope in my jacket pocket and split.

At my condo, I read the note. Danny Hughes. I didn’t recognize the name. No reason I should, I guess, but you never know. I packed a pee cup, a coffee thermos, binoculars, my 22-caliber revolver and suppressor, and took off.

In Hughes’s neighborhood, people socialized while walking their dogs or pushing baby carriages. Upscale, but nothing swank. I drove by the house, then parked my rental car in the alley and ambled toward his tree-lined property. If anyone noticed me, all they’d see is an old man carrying one of those chairs in a bag people take to outdoor concerts. The trees provided me with privacy, and I’d still be well within my 120-foot range.

What was the kid thinking? No fence, no dogs, no security. The setup was a hitman’s wet dream.

A Mercedes SUV pulled into the drive. Two rug rats scampered out of the house. “Daddy! Daddy!” Hughes knelt and gave each a big hug. The wife, a petite little thing, waited for her turn. He gave her a kiss, then patted her on the butt.

Unbidden, Laura’s face flashed in front of me. A part of my past I thought had died years ago kicked me in the gut. What the fuck? My hand shook on the binoculars, and I released my hold on them, letting the neckband check their fall.

The family went inside but soon reappeared on the patio with dinner fixings. A cookout. The last one I’d attended, Chiggy Sanders’s head fell into the bowl of mustard potato salad, my bullet lodged in his forehead.

My target was cooking burgers. No idea that this would be his last meal—unless I plugged him before he finished grilling. The aroma of mesquite and charcoal made my stomach gurgle. I never eat before a job.

I popped a few Tums. But it wasn’t hunger pangs for burgers I felt.

The kids and wife went inside. Now was my chance. I pulled my gun out, screwed on the suppressor, adjusted the scope, and aimed at the red dot on Hughes’s white polo shirt.

The following day I met Grosjean. My beer and an envelope were waiting for me on the tabletop. I pocketed the envelope. Our routine hadn’t changed.

But I had.

This time I walked out with Grosjean as he was leaving. I waited until he got in his Porsche, then motioned for him to roll down his window. I leaned over to speak. And ran an icepick through his temple. Quick and easy.

Just like old times.

I couldn’t kill a young husband and father so some fat-assed old gangster could call the shots for a few more years. Not now.

In my car, I wiped down the icepick and tossed it in a residential trash can on my way to I-465. Maybe I’d head south. Rent a little house on the beach in Pensacola. Fish, make friends. Maybe, even, a woman friend. And try to create a semblance of the life I was never able to have with Laura.

A STINGING REBUKE

by Shari Held

Mrs. Bristow clenched and unclenched her fists as she cast her gaze on the lifeless body of the man who had made her a widow a scant two minutes ago. It was all over now. Him. Their marriage.

She removed his rugged black farm jacket, straightened his shirt, patted down his hair, and closed his eyes. She’d been mucking out the milk barn and her hands stank of manure. Didn’t matter now. Even if he were alive, it wouldn’t matter. He’d lost his sense of smell—anosmia they called it—years ago. She untied the pink-checked apron she wore over her faded dress and laid it across his face. Then she retreated to the farmhouse to call the sheriff, her shoulders stiff as the jacket she carried with her.

The telltale plume of dust on the unpaved road arrived on the horizon minutes before Sheriff Hogan and the coroner. They parked the car in the middle of the winding gravel driveway near the body, not far from Mrs. Bristow’s apiary and herb garden.

She watched behind pristine lace curtains as the coroner lifted the apron from her husband’s face, then stood beside the sheriff and studied Joe’s body for a few minutes. As Sheriff Hogan headed toward the house, she went to the kitchen, returning to the front parlor with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on a tray.

The sheriff took off his hat as he entered. “Sorry for your loss, ma’am. Joe was a good man, well-respected around town.

Mrs. Bristow didn’t trust herself to speak, so she silently motioned for him to sit on the sofa while she poured the lemonade. She wondered what the protocol was in a situation like this. Should she begin the conversation or wait to be questioned? She decided to leave it to the sheriff. The less said, the better.

He took a sip and cleared his throat. “Mrs. Bristow, you’re a bee expert. Raised them for years. What do you think happened?”

“Well, he was deathly allergic.”

The sheriff pursed his lips. “Then why would he allow you to have a yard filled with hives?”

“Joe and I never had any children. And he knew I loved caring for those bees. Did you know that more than three-quarters of all the earth’s flowering plants need pollination to bloom? On the practical side, the sale of honey and beeswax supplemented our income. You know how hard it is to make a living farming these days.” She bowed her head, grabbed the tea towel from the lemonade tray, and buried her face in it.

After a minute, she raised her head, her eyes red-rimmed and overflowing with tears. “It’s all my fault Joe’s dead. I was trying to attract swarms of bees to grow my hives. Have more honey to sell. A swarm must have appeared while he was near the hives. If he flapped his arms and tried to scare them away, they would have attacked and stung him relentlessly.”

“Wouldn’t he know better than to do that after living around your bees?”

“He would. But with hundreds of bees swarming about, I think he forgot and reacted on instinct.”

“Yes, you’re probably right.” He looked out the window and saw the coroner writing in his notebook. “Excuse me, ma’am. I need to talk to the coroner. I’ll be right back.”

“So, what’s your call, Dave? You ruling this an accidental death?”

The coroner stood up. “Not necessarily, Sheriff.”

“No? Why not? Wasn’t he killed by an allergic reaction?”

“That’s the cause of death. But I’m not so sure it was accidental.” The coroner pointed to the body. “Take a closer look. Tell me what you see.”

“I see a man covered with bee stings, his face swollen and red.”

“Yep. You see that distorted face and you don’t look any further.” He covered the victim’s face. “Now, look again. What do you notice?”

The sheriff’s gaze traveled from the dead man’s neck down to his arms. “He’s wearing a short-sleeved shirt, but he doesn’t have a bee sting anywhere on his arms. What the heck?”

“Exactly. I’d say he was wearing a jacket that covered his arms and torso. And for whatever reason, someone—he looked toward the house—removed his jacket before we arrived.”

“Now, why would she do that?” The sheriff paced the area a bit, while he conjured up and discarded different scenarios. He ended up in the herb garden, his eyes focused on the patch of lemongrass. “Unless. . .”

The sheriff marched to the house and knocked on the door. It took Mrs. Bristow a few minutes to open it.

“Sorry, Sheriff. I was about to sort the laundry. Life goes on, you know.”

“I’d like to see that laundry, if you don’t mind.”

For the first time since he’d been there an emotion flitted across her face. Fear.

“What? I . . .I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you do. Tell me. Didn’t your husband suffer from a permanent loss of smell?”

She nodded.

“And isn’t it true that a spray containing lemongrass, an herb you grow in your garden, is often used to attract swarming bees? If I go to the laundry room, will I find your husband’s jacket? And will it stink to high heaven of lemongrass?”

Mrs. Bristow turned as white as her lace curtains.

That was all he needed. “Mrs. Bristow, I’m arresting you for the murder of your husband.” He read her the rights, then retrieved the jacket, reeking of lemongrass, from the laundry room as well as the tea towel she’d used earlier. It contained a slice of cut onion tied into one corner. So much for her widow’s tears.

“Why’d you do it, Mrs. Bristow?”

She gave him a look as venomous as the bees that had killed her husband. “He wasn’t the model citizen everyone thought he was. Always belittled me in a million little ways. This morning he ragged at me for burning his toast. I got tired of it.”

She shrugged.

“It was one stinging rebuke too many.”

The Audition

by Shari Held

The first person I saw when I walked through the studio door for the callback audition was Kandis Craig. Good. I had hoped she would be here. She and I have been rivals since our twenties. Back then, when we were nubile Hollywood star wannabees, we competed for B roles—the sister of the bride, the girlfriend who gets dumped, the loyal secretary. If Hollywood stars were golden, we were silver.

When we reached our late thirties, early forties, the competition became stiffer. We entered that no-woman’s land where Hollywood didn’t know what to do with us. We were passed up for the roles we used to compete for. Kandis snagged a leading role on a TV sitcom playing a mother of four. I landed a few minor parts on the big screen. We still had our toe in show business, but that’s about all. When Kandis’s sitcom was cancelled, we butted heads again.

She saw me and nodded. I nodded back and gave her a cheery smile. She patted the chair next to hers. We were here to see how we interacted with the other cast members. Whichever one of us clicks with them wins the part. I scanned the room to see if I recognized a friendly face. No such luck.

“Jane, I wondered if I’d run into you here,” Kandis said, rising as I joined her. “Looks like we’re competing for the same role once again. This time it’s a grandmother. The traditional kind.” She wrinkled her nose. “All the exciting roles go to Jane Fonda, Helen Mirren, and Judy Dench. They’re still stars.”

“I know,” I replied. “I’d love to have been cast in MobLand opposite Pierce Brosnan or 1923 opposite Harrison Ford. Or to have been M, in the James Bond movies.” I sighed. “Now I play crazy old ladies, older relatives with dementia, or grandmothers.”

“Me, too, but we’ve seen it all, haven’t we? Kandis said. “We’ve seen others come and go but we survived in the business.”

“Survived, yes. Thrived, not to the heights we had dreamed of, but we didn’t do bad.”

“We had our fun, though,” Kandis said, with a hint of her girlish smile. “Remember when you put itching powder in my costume on the set of that horrible movie set in a girls’ school?”

Now I was the one smiling. “I do. It could have been worse. I thought about putting it in your bathing suit on the beach movie set.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Kandis squealed, as they called her name and told her she was up in ten minutes.

I should have, I thought, as I recalled the “joke” she’d played on me. She’d kidnapped Bootsie, my sweet little Shih Tzu, and hid him in her dressing room. Claimed he barked too much. While there, he ate some fried chicken leftovers and choked on a bone. Kandis later claimed it was a good-natured prank gone wrong. Putting itching powder in a costume is a prank. Killing Bootsie wasn’t. I’d never forgiven her, although no one would know that. I’m an actress, after all. And a damned good one.

Kandis rummaged through her bag. I knew what she was looking for. She always used a cough drop or a mint to soothe her voice before auditioning.

“Here, have one of mine,” I said, opening my bag wide and pointing it in her direction. “They’re cherry flavored. Hope that works for you.”

She nodded, grabbed one, unwrapped it, and plopped it in her mouth.

“Thank you.” She stood and smoothed her dress and hair. “I guess we can’t wish each other good luck, since we’re competing. How about, may the best grandma win?”

Her portrayal of the grandmother was pitch-perfect. Then, she staggered and clutched her heart. If she had been acting, her performance would have been Oscar-worthy. But she wasn’t.

My belladonna-laced cough drops did the trick faster than I had planned. I later heard that her already weakened heart couldn’t take the strain of the belladonna-induced rapid heartbeat. I won the part, but better than that, I finally got my revenge.

It was my best audition ever.