Malicious Intent

MALICIOUS INTENT

By Elizabeth Dearl

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EPUB 9780228614111

Kindle 9780228614128

PDF 9780228614135

Print ISBNs

Amazon Print 9780228614142

LSI Print 9780228614159

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2nd Ed Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Dearl

Cover Art by Michelle Lee

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

AUTHOR’S NOTE

I blame my grandmother.

I blame her for raising me, for loving me, but most of all, I blame her for teaching me to read before I started kindergarten. I was reading Dr. Seuss books to myself (or aloud to my grandparents) at a time when other children were still having the books read aloud to them. By the time I started first grade, I was reading books left behind on her shelves by my father and by my older siblings. By age eight, I was reading Jane Eyre and Robinson Crusoe. I fell in love with words. And I knew, beyond any doubt, that I wanted to be a writer.

I discovered short stories, in magazines and in hardbound collections, and found myself particularly drawn to Hitchcock and Ellery Queen. I devoured Amazing Stories, as well as collections containing works which would later be transferred to the small screen as Twilight Zone and Outer Limits episodes.

I grew up and life intervened, of course. Before I could scratch the writing itch, I had to survive in the real world. I held down jobs I hated (security guard, secretary, employment counselor) and jobs I really enjoyed (police dispatcher, reserve sheriff's deputy, police officer). When I left the police force to operate a small bookstore that my husband and I had bought, I finally found time to write a story or two.

I began with short stories, because I had always loved them. And, too, I thought it would be an easier start than churning out a novel. Boy, was I wrong. Short stories, I discovered, are odd beasts unto themselves. Leaf through the submission guidelines of any magazine, in print or online, and you'll see. Word limits range from 50 (no kidding) to 15,000 words. Some pay only in copies. Others pay as little as five dollars, no matter the length. Still others pay by the word. I learned about genres and sub-genres. A mystery isn't just a mystery. It must be cozy or amateur sleuth, or funny, or frightening, or noir.

Ah, well. I wrote my stories and kept them to myself, terrified that if someone else read them, I'd hear: Well, this stinks. Or worse. Finally, one evening, I let it slip to my husband that I'd been writing at the store, between customers, and he wanted to read one. Honestly scared to death, I offered him a sample -- handwritten in pencil on a legal pad. I tried not to watch him read it. At last, he finished, looked up at me, and said: YOU wrote this?

Yes, I replied, shaking in my boots.

Wow, he said. I had no idea you could write like this. Thank you, Joe!

Thus began my journey of actually submitting my stories. I won't go into how many rejection slips I collected -- and most really are slips, you know. Does not meet our needs at this time, is the most common. I cried, I cursed, I persisted. And then, who knows why, one day the dam broke. I received my first acceptance letter. Then another. And another. Many of those early stories are included in this collection. Not only mysteries, but horror, fantasy, and even a couple of out and out romances.

I did, finally, go on to write novels, and I love that process, too (now that I've gotten over the initial dread of plotting longer works). Writing my Taylor Madison Mystery Series has brought me incredible joy. But short fiction will forever hold a special place in my heart. I hope you enjoy reading these stories as much as I enjoyed concocting them.

Elizabeth Dearl

DENSITY

There’s a hole in the boat!

Row.

But I can’t swim —

Row.

Muscles straining, I rowed. My captor sprawled across the stern, stuffing a Twinkie into his mouth with one hand. His other hand was occupied, pointing the business end of a revolver at me. A wadded handkerchief sprouted from his left shoulder like a crimson carnation.

Good goin’, Doc, he mumbled, spraying bits of yellow cake against my neck. I’m impressed. Little speck of a gal like you.

Thanks, I said sourly. Not for the first time, I regretted a lifelong compulsion to prove myself. A four-foot-eleven, ninety-pound woman doesn’t make it through the rigors and taunts of med school unless she can excel, scholastically and otherwise. However, in the present situation I would have been much better off pleading feminine frailty.

I hadn’t been kidding about the hole in that weather-beaten shell of a boat. Frigid water lapped over my shoes as more of the rotting wood gave way.

We’re sinking!

He laughed. Guess it’s time to get out of this wreck, huh?

I told you I can’t swim. What —

Hey, take it easy. You can walk, can’t you?

The huge man eased over the side and stood, the water level just below his knees, holding the gun and two plastic sacks.

Out, he said.

I picked up my soggy medical bag and obeyed. What about the boat?

He shrugged. Let it sink.

Shivering, I watched the lake swallow my only means of escape.

We stumbled across the rocky shore and into the woods, me in the lead, a hard shove to the small of my back urging me along if I didn’t move fast enough to suit him. He’d chosen Gnat Island, named for its size, not its insect population, as his hiding place.

The tiny island, not even half an acre in land mass but studded with enormous pines, is a popular picnic spot for summer tourists. I’d spent many a warm weekend here myself. It was a good place to bring friends from Boston, come to pay a pity visit to their former college pal out in the boonies. No wonder you live here, they’d always end up saying. So peaceful. And instead of scorn for the colleague who’d chosen to cast aside big-dollar specialty medicine in order to practice as a lowly GP in a place no one had ever heard of, they’d carry a little envy back to the city.

Winter is a different story, the main shore lined with deserted summer cottages, the island abandoned.

We reached a small clearing and he sat down on a carpet of pine needles, motioning for me to do the same.

It’s getting dark, I said. Want me to find some fallen branches and build a fire?

Good try, but no thanks. Don’t want you signaling for help.

That wasn’t my intention. You brought me here to give you medical treatment, but I can’t do that in the dark.

I’ve got a flashlight.

Fine, but that doesn’t provide any heat and I’m freezing. Aren’t you?

Nah, I never get cold.

I could believe that. Fat is a great insulator, and this guy must have weighed over three hundred pounds.

Well, I do get cold, and you don’t want my hands shaking when I dig that bullet out of your shoulder.

His eyes narrowed. How’d you know it was a bullet?

Because you’re Hank Nelson. Don’t look so surprised, you’ve been all over the news. Bank robbery, two guards dead, you wounded.

Pretty smart.

Not smart enough to lock my office door when I closed up this afternoon. I was gathering twigs as I spoke. If you had let me take care of you there, you’d be back on the road by now.

Told you, I had to find a private place, lay low for awhile. Too many cops on my trail. Lucky I found that old boat when I ditched the stolen car. He thought things over. Go ahead and build your fire, Doc. I guess we’re far enough into the trees that no one will see the light.

No one would see my fire if I built it at the edge of the island, not in winter. The main shore across from us would remain abandoned until late spring, but I didn’t see the point of sharing that information. Toss me your lighter.

He reached for his pocket, then stopped. Now, how’d you know I’d have a lighter?

You’re a smoker. I can smell tobacco on your clothes.

He handed over the lighter. You oughta be a detective, Doc. Say, what’s your name, anyway?

Memory problems, Hank? You must have read the shingle outside my office, or you wouldn’t have known I was a doctor.

Yeah, Doctor Sullivan. I meant your first name.

I fanned the tiny flame, added twigs. Nunya.

Nunya? Weird. Is that short for something?

Yes, it’s short for nunyabizness. None of your business, get it?

He grabbed my wrist so hard I thought I heard a bone crack. Get this, Doc. I don’t like being messed with. If I ask you a question, you’ll damn well answer it. He showed me the revolver, blue steel gleaming in the flickering light. This makes me boss. Get it?

Got it. I hated it that my voice trembled.

Okay. Now, quit stalling and fix me up.

I rummaged through my bag, produced a syringe.

Hold on, what’s that?

It’ll numb your shoulder.

No way. You’re not shooting me up with anything. How do I know you wouldn’t drug me?

Why would I do that?

He rolled his eyes. Well, duh. So you could take my gun and run for the cops?

A pleasant idea, I admitted, but impossible. I told you, I can’t swim. How could I run anywhere, except around and around this island?

Whatever. No shots.

Your call. I put the syringe back in the bag. But this is going to hurt like hell without anesthetic.

He tapped my cheek lightly with the barrel of the gun. Better be sure you don’t make it hurt more than necessary. No games.

Hank never flinched as I worked to dislodge the bullet but sweat stood out on his forehead and his jaw tightened. When I had finished and was bandaging his shoulder, he pulled a pint of whiskey from one of the plastic bags and took a swallow.

Want some?

No.

You know, Doc, I was plenty surprised that you could row that boat like you did. How come a little thing like you is so strong?

Remembering his earlier anger, I bit back a sarcastic reply. I was on a rowing team at college. These days I work out with weights. Sometimes doctors have to lift or move patients, and I don’t want my size to interfere with my ability to do the job.

Rowing team? That’s funny, thought you couldn’t swim. He fiddled with the revolver in a way that made me very nervous.

Swimming and rowing are two different things, I said lightly.

But what if you’d fallen in?

I wore an inflatable vest. There, that’ll hold you, I added as I taped off the bandage then sat back, as far away from the gun as possible.

How come you never learned? To swim, I mean.

Why does it matter?

Just curious. You come across as being real athletic, and you don’t seem like a chicken to me. I mean, you never even screamed when I snatched you.

Of course not, I thought bitterly. Screaming was yet another feminine weakness I had overcome. Never mind that in this case it might have helped me out of a jam.

When it comes to swimming, you could call me a chicken. I tried to learn when I was seven. Problem is, I can’t float. High density.

Huh?

The more muscle in a body, the higher the density, and dense objects don’t float. I’ve always been slender, wiry, very little body fat. I sink like a rock. Memories of my father pushing me back into the water. Arms flailing, legs scissoring, struggling to the surface for a gulp of precious air . . .

I like to swim, Hank said.

Good. Did you ever take a Red Cross lifesaving course?

Me? Nah. Why?

Well, since the boat’s gone, I was just wondering how you plan to get us both off this island.

He smiled, and I knew that smile implied something I didn’t want to hear. Before he could put the thought into words, I leaned forward. Your bandage is coming loose. I’d better add some tape.

Women joke about their purses containing everything but the kitchen sink. I’m fairly sure my medical bag has a sink in there somewhere. Fully stocked, it weighs about fifteen pounds, and in one motion I brought it up and connected with the side of Hank’s thick skull.

The gun rose, wavered, tumbled from his grip. He collapsed in slow motion.

* * *

What the hell —? Slurred and bewildered, the question drifted out of the darkness to my right.

How ya doing, Hank? I was a little breathless, but not much. I can bench press nearly twice my own weight, and although Hank exceeds that limit by close to one hundred pounds, I hadn’t been forced to lift him — just to drag him a ways. Valium injection, twenty milligrams. Should have doubled it for someone your size, but what with the Hippocratic oath and all, I was trying to avoid killing you. Don’t ask me why, since you were planning to kill me. It’s a doctor’s curse.

Can’t move . . . legs, arms.

Of course not, I tied you up. Bandages.

Cold.

Thought you never got cold, Hank. My teeth were chattering despite the exercise. Guess even all that extra fat can’t keep you warm in December lake water. Sure does make you float like a cork, though. Now, shut up, I’m busy. Tightening my grip on his belt, I kept kicking toward the main shore.

LOYAL TO THE END

Could you repeat the question, Detective? Howard struggled to keep his voice steady as beads of sweat crawled like ants beneath his toupee. He combed the false hair with his fingers, hoping it wasn’t lopsided or disheveled.

Detective Reese leaned back in her chair, crossing legs that would, under other circumstances, have commanded Howard’s full concentration. Certainly, Mr. Weston. I asked where you were between 10:00 P.M. and midnight. We know that’s when your wife was murdered. Your maid turned down the bed for her just before ten and found her dead at twelve-oh-five when she delivered Mrs. Weston’s usual glass of warm milk.

But I don’t understand why you’re questioning me. Gloria’s bedroom window is broken, and her belongings are scattered all over the room. I assumed it was a burglar.

Burglars are not generally killers.

Maybe she tried to stop him. Gloria would have defended a diamond necklace with the ferocity of a mother lion guarding her cub.

Reese sighed. Where were you, Mr. Weston?

I can answer that.

Howard jumped at the sound of another voice.

Reese merely glanced up in mild surprise. Miss Boyd, I thought we asked you to remain in the kitchen.

You did, but I was so upset before that I didn’t tell you everything.

You’ll have the chance later.

It’s important, ma’am. Nora’s lower lip quivered. There’s no need to bother Mr. Weston at a time like this. The poor man just lost his wife.

It’s my job, Miss Boyd. Reese spoke gently, which didn’t surprise Howard. Nora’s sad, brown eyes brought out the protective instinct in most people. Even Gloria had been nice to her.

Seems to me it’s your job to know the truth, Nora insisted with uncharacteristic stubbornness. And the truth is that Mr. Weston was with me.

Reese’s eyebrows lifted. With you?

Nora blushed furiously at the implication. We were playing gin rummy.

Howard was grateful that Reese’s attention was focused on the maid because his jaw dropped before he could control it. By the time her gaze swung in his direction, he had snapped his mouth shut.

That’s right, Detective. Penny a point.

Why didn’t you tell me this to begin with, Mr. Weston?

I was just about to.

Reese looked from the man to the maid. I see. And did Mr. Weston ever leave the room, Miss Boyd?

"No, ma’am. Neither did I, until near midnight,

when . . ." She staggered, groping for the edge of a table to steady herself. A vase toppled, shattering on the oak floor.

Nora shrieked. She fell to her knees and began gathering fragments of porcelain. Oh, not Mrs. Weston’s favorite vase! I’ll repair it, sir, don’t worry.

Howard hurried to help the trembling maid to her feet. Hush, now, forget the vase. Go back to the kitchen and fix us both a cup of tea, Nora. And not that herbal stuff.

Nora fled the room and Howard turned to Reese. Is that all, Detective? It’s two in the morning, I’d like to get some rest.

Reese studied his face for a moment, then closed her notebook and stood up. Please let me know when you’ve made the funeral arrangements.

Why?

She shrugged. I plan to attend.

Don’t tell me your really expect the murderer to show up for the last rites. Howard couldn’t hide a smirk. I thought that was TV cop show nonsense.

I learned it from watching Kojak, she said without a trace of a smile.

Gloria’s body had been removed, along with the pillow used to smother her. Howard joined Nora at the kitchen table as the front door closed behind the last member of the forensic team.

Here’s your tea, Mr. Weston. Nora’s hand was steady as she added cream to his cup.

Howard took a sip, examining her closely over the rim of his cup. Why did you lie, Nora?

We’ve played gin rummy on many an evening, sir. It wasn’t a lie.

"But not this evening, and you know it."

Nora didn’t answer.

Do you think I’m guilty? Is that it?

Of course not! She seemed genuinely horrified at the thought. I just didn’t want that detective harassing you, you’ve been through enough. Her eyes grew moist. She asked so many prying questions, like why did you and Mrs. Weston sleep in separate bedrooms. Imagine!

What did you tell her?

She lowered her head. I told her that Mrs. Weston snored like a chain saw.

Howard laughed and took her hand. Nora, you are the most loyal person I’ve ever known. No wonder Gloria kept you on all these years.

The next morning, Nora took charge of the necessary phone calls to relatives and friends. She made arrangements for an immediate memorial service, though they’d have to wait until Gloria’s body had been released by the coroner before carrying out the cremation. Watching the maid’s whirl of activity made Howard drowsy, so he spent most of the day napping on the couch in his study.

Exquisite sunshine and a cool breeze the following morning made Howard wish he was on his way to a golf course instead of a church. Dressed in a dark gray suit, he practiced mournful expressions in the mirror as he trimmed his mustache.

While combing his toupee, he noticed that it was beginning to peel loose from his scalp. He searched for the tube of strong, special glue he used to keep the hairpiece securely on his head but couldn’t find it anywhere. Without the glue, there’s no way the toupee would stay in place on such a windy day.

Howard never appeared in public without his hair, but today he simply had no choice. Irritated, he donned a hat to cover his bald pate, and hurried down to the rented limo. It didn’t really matter, did it? After the will was read, he planned to leave this town behind for good.

True to her word, Detective Reese waited on the church steps. Howard gave her a curt nod as he approached the double doors, Nora clinging to his arm.

Your hat, sir, the maid whispered.

Oh. Howard vaguely recalled that women were allowed hats in church, while men were not. As he whisked it off, he heard a gasp behind him and turned around.

Detective Reese was gazing at his head. Where’s your hair?

Howard’s eyes widened. What a rude question.

You wear a wig? I had no idea!

It’s called a toupee, he informed her stiffly. And it’s not intended to be obvious.

Guess it fooled a lot of people. We spent yesterday interviewing your wife’s friends and relatives, and we got quite an earful about her new husband. Hmm, let’s see, we heard ‘whiny,’ ‘selfish,’ ‘spendthrift’ and even ‘vain,’ but no one mentioned ‘bald.’

I don’t advertise my baldness, detective, especially not to pompous, boring snobs like those. Gloria is the only one who knew, and although she let me down in every other facet of our life together, she managed to keep that particular secret. I doubt it was out of kindness; it probably just embarrassed her.

Reese nodded thoughtfully. Howard Weston, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife. You have the right to remain silent . . .

Are you crazy?

Refusing to explain further until her duty was completed, Reese calmly finished reading his rights.

We found strands of hair clutched in the victim’s hands, she told him, then. The lab results came back this morning. Manmade fibers. We’ll compare them to your toupee, and I’m pretty sure they’ll match.

Howard’s shoulders slumped in defeat as he remembered Gloria clawing blindly at his head while he held the pillow over her face. I imagine they will.

I don’t get it, Weston. With all your money, you could have at least bought a wig made of human hair.

My wife was the wealthy one, not me. She barely gave me enough for pocket money, much less expensive hairpieces. He sighed. I thought that was all about to change.

What was?

Howard snorted. My financial situation, of course. I stood to inherit a couple of million.

Reese shook her head. If that had been the case, we would have pursued you harder as a suspect from the beginning. We located your wife’s will in her wall safe, Mr. Weston, and you weren’t named as her heir. Miss Boyd was.

Howard felt the color drain from his face. You’re lying!

Not at all. I believe it read: ‘For years of loyal service.’ And Miss Boyd is certainly loyal, isn’t she?

Nora, who had watched the entire process without a word, raised a hand to her mouth as a crowd of somberly clad mourners gathered around her.

Reese actually grinned a little as she handcuffed Howard. Looks like you picked the wrong day to leave your wig at home.

I couldn’t find my hair glue, he mumbled.

Nora stepped forward. That little green tube on your dresser was hair glue?

"Yeah. You mean you took it?"

It was the only glue I could find in the house, she said, clearly trying not to laugh. While you were napping yesterday, I used it to repair Mrs. Weston’s favorite vase.

Howard stared at her. I told you not to worry about that stupid vase, Nora.

I had to, sir. Mrs. Weston always said she wanted her ashes kept in it.

SAME OLD HENRY

Clay Garrison gave a yelp of pain as another thorny vine wrapped around his ankle. If people think getting out of a mental institution is tough, he muttered, hoisting himself over the top of the twelve-foot wall, they should try breaking into one.

Clay had only been released from prison a few hours earlier; his parole officer would be less than thrilled to learn that he was already involved in criminal activity. Just trespassing, though, he assured himself as he eased down the inside of the wall. Not theft. He wasn’t planning to steal anything, only to acquire what was rightfully his.

The building formed a dark hulk against the midnight sky; light burned from a couple of windows. Clay’s former partner, Henry, slept behind one of the dozens of darkened windows.

The institution’s alarm system was old and easily defeated. Within minutes, Clay slipped through a ground floor window. If the prison’s security had been this lax, he would have been a free man months ago.

He crept down the hall. A heavyset woman in a stained uniform slouched behind a counter, immersed in a thick romance novel. Clay abandoned his shoes and padded past her. She never moved.

A few yards farther along the corridor, Clay spotted a large clipboard hanging from a hook on the wall. He took it and thumbed through the papers. Patient’s charts; perfect. They were alphabetized, so it didn’t take him long to find Drummond, Henry.

Henry’s room number was prominent on the first page, but Clay couldn’t resist scanning the rest of his pal’s chart.

Prone to violence, read one notation. Interactive skills poor, stated another. Clay snickered. Same old Henry. The most interesting entry described an incident which had taken place that very afternoon. It seems Henry had attacked a fellow inmate when the man changed channels on the lounge TV. Henry lost the battle, along with the tip of his nose and skin from both cheeks, when the other patient retaliated by shoving him face-first into an oscillating fan.

Clay ducked inside a supply closet for a moment to escape the notice of a roaming attendant, then set off to locate room 115.

The metal door of Henry’s room had a grill set into it at eye-level. Clay peered inside, making sure his old chum rated private accommodations. He did. The room contained two beds, but only one was occupied.

The lock was even less complicated than the alarm system had been. Clay picked it effortlessly.

Remembering that Henry tended to lash out when awakened suddenly, Clay stood well outside the reach of the other man’s arms.

C’mon, partner, wake up!

When the urgent whisper finally penetrated Henry’s slumber, he rolled over and shot a fist into the air.

Clay grinned. Same old Henry.

Who’s there? White bandages covered Henry’s face, and his question was muffled.

It’s Clay.

No kidding? Henry tilted his bandaged head, peering into the gloom. Come closer, I can’t see you.

Only if you’re good and awake. Clay sat down on the bed beside his partner.

You come to bust me out of here? Henry asked hopefully.

Sure did, Clay lied. We’ve both served enough time, don’t you think?

And how. Henry groaned. Don’t know why I ever let that stupid lawyer talk me into trading prison for this place. He made it sound cushy. It ain’t. Besides the rotten food and the shock treatments, the other guys here are nuts! He pointed to his face. Look what one did to me!

This is a nut house, Henry.

Har, har. So, what are we waiting for? Let’s get going.

Not so fast. Clay came up with another lie. I got here right at shift change, and all the employees are milling around. We’d better give it about thirty minutes.

Good idea. You’re smart, buddy, I’ve always said so.

That sounded like an excellent opening to Clay. You’re pretty smart yourself, Henry. I’ll bet you found just the right place to stash our money, didn’t you?

You’d win that bet. Don’t worry, it’s safe.

Clay leaned back a little, trying to sound nonchalant. All fifty thousand?

Yep.

Clay couldn’t tell if Henry’s expression had changed, but his voice hadn’t. It held no trace of suspicion. He drew a deep breath, telling himself to be very careful. Henry’s bread wasn’t toasted on both sides anymore, but he was far from stupid. I used to play a little game in prison — you know, to pass the time?

Henry’s mummy-wrapped head nodded. Been there, done that.

I tried to guess all the places you might have hidden that cash, Clay went on. Of course, I couldn’t win the game, since I never knew if I guessed right.

Like those darn crossword puzzle books with no answers in the back, Henry agreed.

Yeah, just like that. It about drove me crazy.

Don’t say that too loud around here, they’ll stick you in a straitjacket.

Clay chuckled. So, play along, Henry. Tell you what. Every time I guess wrong, I’ll add a thousand to your share of the take. If I guess right, you owe me a grand.

Yeah? Clay didn’t have to see Henry’s face to know that the older man’s addiction to gambling had kicked into high gear. It’s a deal. Start guessing.

Same old Henry.

Angie’s apartment. Angie was Henry’s long-time girlfriend.

Wrong! Henry crowed. That’s a grand for me.