FALL 2006 SHORT FICTION CONTEST

HONORABLE MENTION

A Neat and Tidy Crime
by Phylis Warady

Nancy paused just inside the door of Harvey Mosher's flat. She picked a path through discarded bits of red cellophane ringing the Boston rocker. Her eyes snagged upon the rocker's seat cushion, which bore permanent indentations made by the elderly Vet's brittle bones.

Tears crowded her eyes. Mosher had been gassed in a long past war and had suffered severe bouts of asthma as a result. He'd sworn the lozenges that came wrapped in red cellophane had helped him breathe.

Last Monday though, they’d failed him. An ambulance had spirited him off to Veteran's Hospital where he'd died during the night.

Wednesday morning Nancy was dressing Josh, her wiggly toddler, when a petite woman tapped on her screen door.

"Greta Hiller?" Nancy asked.

The woman nodded curtly. She wore a tailored suit. Its violet hue matched her eyes. Nancy was glad she'd changed from her ratty terrycloth robe into a sundress.

"Come in," she invited, flinging open the door. "I half expected a call last night."

"I did get in last night," the woman admitted, "But I was too exhausted to phone. You received my wire?"

"Yes. Coffee? I was about to have a cup."

"No, thanks. I'm anxious to get into my Uncle's flat.”

Balancing Josh on her hip, Nancy slid the key off its nail and handed it to her.

Greta Hiller did not reappear until midday. Nancy was bathing Josh.

"Will you be free soon? I've been going through my Uncle's personal effects and have questions."

"The screen doors unlatched. Come on in. As soon as I put Josh down for a nap, I'll fix lunch."

"Oh, I couldn't impose."

"There's no place to eat nearby."

"Very well then."

Greta's eyes inventoried the cramped kitchen in a manner that made Nancy feel as if she lived in a hovel. Stuffing beefsteak tomatoes with white tuna, she found herself wishing they didn't have to eat off the kitchen table.

Her guest sat rigidly erect on a straight-backed chair.
"Tell me, Nancy, where did my Uncle keep his money?"

"His money?" The question stunned her. "I really don't…he did have a coin purse. He kept it in his sweater pocket."

"A coin purse? I don't mean his loose change. I mean his money." She said money as if each letter were capitalized.

"He lived on a pension. There would not be much left over after he paid rent and bought groceries."

The violet eyes darkened as though a storm threatened. "I'm not stupid, Nancy. You had a key. I don't want trouble. If you tell me where he hid his money, I'll even give you a reward."

"How dare you?" Nancy’s temper smoldered. "His doctor insisted I have a key.
Someone had to check to make sure your uncle wasn't having an asthma attack.
Someone had to call an ambulance when he got sick. Someone had to send you a telegram."

Totally unruffled, Greta Hiller said, "I don't mean to upset you. But if you didn't go through Uncle's papers, how did you know how to contact me?"

Mosher's niece didn't believe her. Nancy felt sick to her stomach.

"Mrs. Hiller, I cleaned out his fridge and washed his bedding.
His sheets are in the dryer if you want them. I did not snoop. I got your address off a Christmas postcard lying on the table beside his rocker."

The nerve of the woman!

"Nancy, I'm not accusing you of anything. Uncle distrusted banks, so if he had any money, it had to be in his apartment. Perhaps you're right though. I went through all his junk with a fine-toothed comb."

She set her fork on her empty plate. "I had counted on finding his stash. Ah well, here's the key. I'm booked on the night flight."

Nancy stared at the key resting on the plastic tablecloth.
"What about funeral arrangements?"

"Money doesn't grow on trees. It'd be different if he'd left me something.
As it is, I'm out my travel expenses."

"But you're all the family he had."

Greta Hiller shrugged. "He was a Veteran. Let the government bury him."

"And his personal things?"

"That trash? Take what you want; burn the rest."

After Greta Hiller left, Nancy decided to fold Mr. Mosher's bedding before Josh woke from his nap.

She sneezed as she pulled the Vet's pillow from the dryer. Darn it! One of its seams must have popped. Too bad she hadn't noticed before she'd tossed it in. Now she'd have a mess of feathers to clean. And his sheets were too thin to be of use, even as rags. Nancy tossed the bedding in the incinerator and lit a match.

When Josh woke, they went for their daily walk. Coming home through the alley, she was still keyed up. It taxed her patience whenever her curious toddler paused to examine something. As they reached the incinerator, Josh broke free from her grasp and scooped up a scrap of paper off the ground.

"Don't you dare put that in your mouth!"

Catching hold of him, Nancy straightened his fingers one by one. Ignoring his wail of protest, she opened the iron incinerator door, intending to toss in the scrap. But a curious crackle stayed her hand. Faint recognition set cogs spinning. She smoothed the disreputable-looking scrap. A crisp twenty-dollar bill!

Dazed, she put Josh in his fenced-in yard. Thoughts rising and falling like a roller coaster track, she began to laugh. Her laughter held a touch of hysteria. Mr. Mosher had stashed some money. Inside his pillow of all places! And she'd inadvertently burnt it up.

"Take what you want, burn the rest," Greta Hiller had said.

Nancy stared at the twenty-dollar bill. Then, as slowly, as magically, as dawn breaking on a new day, her face lightened. It was just enough to buy flowers for the old Vet's grave.

Phylis Warady began writing with three children under the age of five to save her sanity. Her award-winning short fiction appears regularly in anthologies, literary journals, magazines and periodicals in the USA and Canada.