Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 787 & 788, March/April 2007 Read online

  That got their interest. “No,” I said. “Not now. Crime happen five years, April ten. I know day. I visiting my cousin that day, and I see it and do nothing. Too afraid. Is how it is from Russia. Now I feel bad. I think maybe, is forgot, is long ago, but then I see on TV, the old cases — the cold, yes? I see the cold police in U.S.A. still care, so now I tell you. I saw man kill lady and bury her in yard. I tell you where.”

  I explained that back then, my cousin worked for a lady in the neighborhood, and it was so nice out, we’d gone for a walk. My cousin knew a shortcut to a small stream, and we were crossing it when we heard a noise. We didn’t know what it was, but we crept closer and saw him bury a woman. We were too afraid to say anything at the time, sure we’d be deported — or killed by the same crazy man.

  I did quite a fine shudder and stammer as I said this.

  “My cousin did not know dead lady,” I continued. “Me, of course not, how could I? But she knows man who owns house. Alexander is last name. Important man, she say.”

  They asked my name. “First name, Roazyczka,” I said. “R-o-a-z-y-c-z-” Three times, I reached that point, and the man asked me to start over. And to tell him my last name. “No, no. I can’t. I—”

  “You won’t get in trouble,” he said. “I need it for the form. And your cousin’s name, too.”

  “She goes back to Russia. Not here no more. I hang up now, mister. I am not… I am not legal. Maybe you don’t hurt me, but the INS—”

  He sighed. I knew he would. He wanted the address more than my name, and I gave it to him. “Now is flowers on top,” I said. “I have looked since then.”

  I hung up. Quick, efficient, and Roazyczka turned back into an expensively dressed, buffed, and maintained middle-aged suburbanite.

  Poor George. They got that warrant together faster than I could have imagined. There went my perennial bed, after all, but the flowers were sacrificed in the name of the sanctity of marriage.

  Of course he couldn’t say where he’d been that week. His appointment book showed no trips, and he didn’t have proof of having been away. His lifelong expertise at leaving no trail or traces was effective, though not in the way he might have wished.

  It didn’t help that they could immediately identify the human remains, because the remains of Lili Beth’s purse were there as well. As was, alas, George’s gun. The prints on it were pretty messed up at this point, but they surely weren’t mine. Garden gloves don’t leave prints.

  Turned out, others had known about the affair. Lili Beth hadn’t been discreet. This time, this wife really had been the last to know.

  The prosecution made it clear that George had had a string of women — even I was surprised by the variety of entries on the list they produced — and he’d dropped each in turn. Lili Beth was, then, one in a series, but the scenario they constructed was that she hadn’t accepted her walking papers and wasn’t about to be dropped.

  I had to admire the way the prosecution put together a story that made a lot of sense. Apparently, Lili Beth had come to the house for a confrontation when George was there alone, and then, with pressure and conflict and fear that the wife — I — would return at any moment, it became an all-too-predictable crime of passion.

  Of course George pleaded innocent. But you could almost see how happy the D.A.’s office was to have him in deep trouble — the same deep trouble most of George’s clients had been in. Unfortunately, George did not have George as his lawyer, so George was pretty much doomed.

  I was given permission to replant my perennial bed, and I must say making the garden lovely again helped me handle my tension over this terrible mess.

  Throughout the trial, I stood by my man. Humiliated as I might have been with the public revelations of George’s extramarital adventures, I remained steadfast, and the truth was, I wasn’t acting. I was sad my husband had wound up being tried, but I preferred that to my marriage being tried to its limits.

  Gina, I must say, attended the trial on its first day. That must have been enough for her, because she never came back.

  George was given a life sentence. Even if he is granted a parole in fifteen or twenty years, by then he’ll be beyond much more than wishful thinking. I will never again be the last to know, because there won’t be anything to know.

  There’s comfort in that.

  I’m sleeping better than I ever did, now that I have no worries about where and with whom my husband may have strayed.

  There’s comfort in that, too.

  These days, we understand and accept each other. That’s one of the pluses of a long and solid marriage. It came about during one of my first visits to the prison, when he insisted, as always, that he was innocent.

  “Yes, George,” I said calmly. I looked him in the eye. “I know that. I of all people on earth, I, your wife, absolutely, with all my heart and soul, know that you did not commit that crime.”

  He was silent for quite some time, staring at me. No more was ever said about any of it. But since then, he’s treated me with a great deal of respect.

  Our marriage has matured, and our relationship is better than it ever was. Every day, I feel a rush of joy knowing that we’re among the lucky ones, the couples who see it through and stay together, and that I’ve done my share, my part, in keeping us intact.

  I hope I’ve set a good example for my children as well.

  Life is good.

  The Day After

  by Barbara Callahan

  Copyright © 2007 by Barbara Callahan

  As this issue goes to press, the U.S. mid-term elections are only a couple of weeks behind us, which makes the following story seem timely. It’s a tale about the ruthlessness of politics in our age — and how that ruthlessness might lead to something more dangerous… Ms. Callahan has been contributing to EQMM for many years.

  ❖

  If I took a survey of victims of various calamities and asked, “What was the best day of your life?” I believe their answers might be “the day before I was viciously mugged in the park” or “the day before my lab test came back positive” or “the day before the flood waters ravaged my home.”

  The day before might have been filled with mundane chores like cleaning out the garage, catching up on paperwork, or shopping at the super-market. Yet in its ordinariness the day before glows with a luminosity that outshines every other day of one’s life, a wonderful but unappreciated time before the calamity occurred.

  I spent my day before in my office tidying up, a euphemism for routine chores like the dispensing of documents that had successfully shredded the political career of Josephine Klymer, a former candidate for governor from the New Visions party. Into the machine went legal records affirming her as a corespondent in a nasty divorce suit, as well as data on a fifteen-year-old shoplifting conviction. Since I would be taking my first real vacation in years, aside from an occasional overnight at my cabin in the mountains, it was essential that I not leave any evidence that might compromise my sources — the paralegals, administrative assistants, disgruntled employees, and computer hackers who feed the voracious appetites of those who thrive on holding on to political power.

  As an “oppo,” an opposition researcher for the Reliance Party in my state, I provided a catering service, so to speak, for the mighty. For fifteen years, I compiled information on candidates from the opposition party. The dossiers I created successfully blocked New Vision-ers from any significant offices. From my humble beginnings as an envelope-stuffing college volunteer in the senatorial reelection campaign of Will Stafford, I graduated into the exciting and well-paying world of oppos. Will Stafford himself spotted my talent after I passed along to his campaign manager the gossip that jump-started my career.

  “So you’re the pretty little thing who discovered my unworthy opponent’s sleazy activities, which just happened to get leaked to the press,” Will said.

  Blushing, I told the senator that on a date, I saw the candidate and a young woman sipping wine at Rosie’s, an
out-of-the-way bar. When they left, I thought we could have some fun by following them, which we did, to Rendez-Vous, a bar/motel favored by those whose trysts do not require romantic ambience.

  After my recitation, Will ran his index finger across his lips, a now too-familiar gesture, zippering his smile as a prelude to serious scrutiny. At that moment, I knew I was being assessed by a master appraiser, but I had to wait until after his landslide victory to know why.

  At the celebration of his win he deftly maneuvered past the crowd of the party faithful, shaking hands only when necessary to part the seas of well-wishers, and came to me.

  “Outside,” he said, nodding toward the exit leading to the parking lot and then turning toward the celebrants and selecting a recipient for a bear hug.

  Too nervous to get my coat, I obeyed and waited, shivering, next to the building, wondering why I had been jettisoned from the celebration. Thoroughly chilled after five minutes and regretting not having driven to the event, I sidled over to the nearest car, praying that it would be unlocked. As I touched its handle, a high-pitched alarm lacerated the stillness of the night. I charged back to my wall and crouched behind a trash can as light flooded the parking lot.

  Will Stafford himself strolled casually toward the Lexus and deactivated the alarm. Of all the cars in the lot, I had chosen his to break into.

  “You can come out now,” he said, “and legitimately get into my car.”

  Grateful for potential warmth, I climbed in.

  He drove about a mile to the duck pond in Stenton Park before speaking. “Well, now I know three things about you,” he said. “One is that you follow orders immediately no matter how uncomfortable you might get. Two, you are not above a little lawbreaking to get what you need, like seeking shelter in my car. And three, you have a nose for sniffing out garbage, like who is cheating on whom.”

  That night those three qualifications landed me the high-paying job of Director of Research for the Reliance Party.

  “Just tell your friends, Anne,” he ordered, “that you oversee research on legislation that I’ll have to vote on.”

  I never saw a piece of legislation, but I did see documents removed from the offices of psychiatrists, lawyers, and commissioners of various state departments, as well as reports submitted by our private investigators. Not all my research material, however, arrived via paper. Eve Granahan, our crack computer hacker, transferred e-mail files from unsophisticated users into my computer under the file she named Karaoke after “the amateurs that croak their hearts out to us eager hackers.”

  The amateurs skewered by Eve’s scorn were those who didn’t realize that their e-mail messages, as well as photos appended to them, did not disappear into the ether when they hit the delete key. Her latest contribution to Karaoke featured J. Robert Banning’s romp in the surf with two bikini-clad teenage boys. No matter that J. Robert was only twenty-one years old and his only elected office was that of senior class president of Masterson College. He came from a socially prominent family who had retired from New Visions state politics before Will Stafford arrived. Quite possibly, the good-looking scion might cast his political genes upon the scene in the near future. Preparing well in advance for that eventuality, we were collecting data to smudge the family album. No matter that J. Robert’s surf buddies were his nephews visiting from Ibiza. If J. Robert ever did decide to toss his hat into the ring, we would toss the photo to the media. Taken by surprise, and before he could sputter an explanation, J. Robert’s campaign volunteers would be drawing Groucho moustaches on his posters.

  Compiling dossiers on potential candidates is essential for effective, timely opposition response. It would be foolhardy for an oppo like myself to wait until a candidate is announced and thereby lose precious time scrambling for damaging material. Professionals must anticipate. In a sense, I was like obituary writers who for the sake of timeliness have researched and written up the entire lives and careers of celebrities months and years before they die.

  Although not as well endowed as our winning team, New Visions does fund a part-time oppo of their own, a high-school music teacher, a clarinetist, actually, whom I had dubbed the oppo-tune-ist. Between directing the band and teaching classes, Jeffrey Cobb didn’t have too much time to research our slate. An expensive lunch at the Salle de Fleur for his ex-girlfriend netted me the information that Jeff’s oppo dossier consisted only of a portfolio of newspaper clippings.

  Over créme brulée, Jeffrey’s ex confirmed something I had long suspected — New Visions had a dossier on me.

  Feigning shock, I watched as she removed a folder from her handbag. Expecting a meager newspaper clipping or two, I was not disappointed. I flipped past them but frowned at the single sheet of paper in the folder.

  “Read it in the privacy of your home.” She grinned. “And thanks for the lunch.”

  On the way to my condo, I thought about the possible revelations on that sheet of paper. The five parking tickets accumulated in the course of my work, paid for, of course, by the party? The time before I proved my worth to the party when I bought a three-hundred-dollar dress, tucked the tags inside, and wore it to a formal occasion before returning it to the store? My several library fines? Merely peccadilloes. I live such a blameless life that Will Stafford refers to me as Mother Superior.

  Prepared to be amused by the non-revelations, I poured myself a glass of Chardonnay and opened the folder. Several newspaper photos of me at political galas fluttered to the floor. In one, I was wearing the black organza number I returned to the store. At the time it appeared in the News, I prayed that the salesperson from Bon-Ton didn’t see it.

  The single sheet of paper, however, rested in my lap for several minutes after I read it. In a flippant style, Jeffrey Cobb wrote about me as if he were briefing a frat brother about a potential blind date.

  Subject: Anne McGill

  Age: 37

  Marital Status: Single, married to the job

  Current Romantic Status: Dead in the water. Ongoing 24/7 platonic relationships with Will Stafford and his cronies. Although attractive in an evil Mary Poppins sort of way (doles out spoonfuls of sugar to our side when she’s really knifing us in the back), she isn’t actively trolling for a relationship. I know that for a fact because I came on to her at a Stafford appearance at my high school in my Tom Cruise persona, which has never failed me yet, but she blew me off.

  I sipped my wine and conjured up the memory of Jeff Cobb flashing his orthodontist’s expertise at me as I passed out the senator’s leaflets to the Political Science Club. Who is this guy grinning like an idiot, I thought. Did I know him from somewhere, and if so, how could I forget his radioactive smile? I read on.

  Education: Somerton Girls High, valedictorian, 1986; Everett College, 1990; GPA: 3.8; Major: Political Science.

  Work Career: Recruited immediately after college by Will (in-at-the-Kill) Stafford as Research Director (a.k.a. Oppo). Affectionately known throughout the state as Machiavellian Mama.

  Success Rate: 100 %. Need I tell you guys that we haven’t won a local, state, or national election since she took the job.

  Skeletons in Closet: Not even a knuckle. Boring, middle-class suburban upbringing. Mom, Dad (now deceased), and herself. A dog named Pooch (now deceased, how thorough I am!) who did bite the mailman. Hey, maybe we can do a work-up on Pooch. Interview the neighbors and their pets and all the postal workers who delivered to her house.

  Extracurricular Activities like Travel to Hot Singles Getaways: Forget it! She has a cozy little cabin in the mountains that she inherited from her parents. Goes there about once or twice a year to renew acquaintances with squirrels and pine trees.

  Conclusion: I’ll keep trying. Hey, I’m an underpaid history teacher, band director, and clarinetist (who often does creative riffs so don’t count me out). I thank you for the oppo-tunity to serve the party and get paid for it. Never fear. I’ll find something to put her out of business. Your obedient oppo, Jeffrey Cobb.

  I
crumpled the paper and threw it across the room, mumbling, “Don’t bet on it, Frat Boy, you’re not cool enough to outwit the Machiavellian Mama.” In need of a refill, I went to the fridge and poured more wine while thinking that I’d skewer that creep. “Jeffrey Cobb, you’re shish-kebab,” I said aloud. Amused, I repeated the silly rhyme all the way back to the sofa until I sank onto the cushions and started to cry.

  Okay, I chose my job, knowing full well the land mines I’d have to set to destroy our enemies. For the most part, I believe I have done the public a service, saving them from some really toxic types, but I also admit that I deprived the public of some really deserving types by magnifying their transgressions or making some up. What Jeffrey Cobb doesn’t know, however, is that I have on occasion refused to deliver the dirt on a sympathetic person, such as Matt Myers, who was running for a municipal judgeship. Sure I knew that Myers was seeing his secretary away from work, but I also knew that his wife was a paraplegic to whom Matt had devoted almost his entire life. Myers lost, but not because of me. So, Jeff, you rude dude, I am not a heartless monster.

  The phone rang, shattering the maudlin moment. It was Will with his usual terse message: “Tomorrow, eight-thirty, same place.”

  Although it’s doubtful that any opponent would have been so foolhardy as to tap Will’s phone, the senator kept his calls short, believing, perhaps, that a network of spies was being paid by the word by the mysterious “They” that dogged him. The command to go to the same place meant the duck pond at Stenton Park.

  He arrived before I did, which allowed me to watch him toss breadcrumbs to the ducks, his affection for them his most, and possibly his only, endearing trait. Although charisma-deprived, the sixty-five-year-old senator, short in stature and long in craftiness, had won four elections by presenting himself as Silent Will, a man of few words who could be trusted like his hero Silent Cal Coolidge. Aware that this Duck Pond Summit meant a new assignment, I hesitated by the weeping willow tree, still stung by Jeffrey Cobb’s write-up. After a few seconds, I pulled myself together and approached the senator. Unhappy at being tailgated, Will emptied the bag of breadcrumbs and barked, “You’re late.”