Deadly Southern Charm

Mr. Schmitt cursed after my first draft. “Makes us sound desperate. Try again.”

And after the second one, “For God’s sake, we want them begging us, not the other way around.”

He tore up my third letter and slammed his fist on the desk. “I’ll write the damn thing myself. Get out of my sight.”

I spent the afternoon designing a ceiling-mounted guillotine positioned in Frank’s shower, thoughtfully placed to take advantage of the built-in floor drain. I also researched paraquat, wondering if sprinkling the toxic liquid onto towels could transfer a lethal dose to wet skin. Everyone knows how dangerous the bathroom can be.

The next morning, I found Mr. Schmitt’s client letter on my desk. It was virtually the same as the first one I’d written the day before. My heartbeat thumped in my ears as I read entire plagiarized sentences. He also left a note ordering me to personalize the salutations by doing a mail merge and to use his signature stamp. The message ended: “AND DON’T SCREW THIS UP.”

I immediately envisioned an oversized torture device similar to a wine press. Giant screws would steadily turn to compress two metal plates, squeezing the breath out of the evil villain strapped inside.

Ruth helped me set up the mail merge with the client list. She sounded as relieved as I felt when she commented that Mr. Schmitt was out all day playing golf with clients. By early afternoon, almost a hundred letters were ready to mail.

The office was quiet for a change. Ruth and I sat and talked.

“I suspect this job isn’t what you wanted,” she said, “but I’m proud of you for trying. Frank was blindsided by the other people quitting so close together, and he’s worried about the company’s survival. I told him this might be a good time to close up shop for good. He’s on numerous heart medications, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he dropped dead at his desk one day. You should keep your eyes open for other opportunities.”

I didn’t tell her I already had an interview scheduled after work tomorrow. “Why have you stayed here so long?”

“Because Frank knows nothing about accounting and mostly leaves me alone. When times were tight, I’ve gone without being paid, but I’ll get it all back with interest.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, I’m exhausted. I told Frank I’m taking a few days off, starting tomorrow. But don’t worry, everything’s caught up. Your check will be on your desk in the morning. And you won’t have to do anything extra except answer the phone.”

That was good news, as I had no interest in learning bookkeeping. She handed over an office key and gave me the rest of the afternoon off. I left feeling sick to my stomach, realizing now I’d be stuck alone in the office with my sadistic boss.

First thing the next day, I learned I was too dumb to know the right way to apply postage. Frank pointed at the stack of envelopes in the out basket. “Dammit, you should have used stamps. Looks more personal than the postage meter. Take them to the post office anyway. And then come right back.”

After mailing the letters, I stopped by the bank to cash my paycheck. It was rejected for insufficient funds. I went straight to Mr. Schmitt when I returned.

“For God’s sake, Raw-lee. You must have misunderstood,” he said. “I’ll call them myself.”

I waited while he talked to several people at the bank, including a vice president. His hand turned white gripping the phone. His bushy eyebrows scrunched together and beads of sweat trickled out from under the toupee as he hung up.

“I don’t understand. Ruth’s been transferring funds to a numbered account in Belize. Practically cleaned us out. Did she say anything to you before she left?”

“Only that she was taking a few days off.”

He stared at me, not yelling, not saying anything. Maybe not believing what I said.

“Excuse me, Mr. Schmitt, but about my paycheck. I need rent money.”

“Take what you’re owed from petty cash. We’ll clear all this up when she returns.”

The drawers in Ruth’s desk were empty except for an unlocked metal box that held only a handful of change. I showed it to Mr. Schmitt.

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll transfer money from my personal account so you can cash your check tomorrow. We’ll get back on track soon. I’m seeing clients the rest of the week. You plan to start calling on more local accounts.”

I looked at the worthless check in my hand. I’d probably never get paid for the hours I’d already worked. “Sorry, sir, but I hereby resign.”

“Absolutely not. You can’t leave until Ruth comes back.”

“No. I’m leaving now.”

“Then don’t expect a glowing reference from me.”

“Doesn’t matter. I won’t put this job on my résumé anyway, Frank.” I started to walk away but a strange sound prompted me to look back.

The man clutched both hands to his chest, his mouth forming an “O” like a cartoonish fish gasping for air. His face was as white as his dress shirt; perspiration flowed down both cheeks. I grabbed the desk phone and dialed 9-1-1.

The EMT’s hooked him up to an oxygen tank and heart monitor before wheeling him out. I watched them drive away, siren blaring. And then I was alone.

My eyes landed on the trio of bonsai trees. I imagined leaves and branches flying from flashing blades as I took my revenge. But the plants would likely dry up and die soon anyway. I left the clippers on Frank’s desk, unused.

I retrieved my purse and desk lamp and left the Schmitt Agency, dropping the key back through the mail slot. I now had enough time before my interview to run home and change into my favorite wrap dress.

I landed the new job with a regional magazine, which provided connections leading to my first published novel and then five sequels. The original uncashed Schmitt Agency check still hangs framed over my writing desk. And though Frank passed away many years ago, I’ll continue to acknowledge him in every book for inspiring me to create interesting ways to die.

After all, murder should be memorable.

JUST LIKE JIMINY CRICKET, by Ronald Sterling

After my husband passed away from cancer, I saw my sister’s family more often. My only daughter lived in Seattle and my only son in New York. My sister, Emily (née O’Farrell), her husband, Peter Coffee, and their four grown kids all lived in and around Richmond, Virginia. They thought I was lonely, and I let them think that because I enjoyed being included in the family get-togethers.

Emily was my only sibling and eight years my senior. Eight years is enough to bypass any of the common rivalries between sisters of contemporary ages. I never knew anything other than kindness from her. She and her husband Peter started dating in high school and married young, about one month after graduating from college in 1974. Emily found employment as a math teacher in a junior high school in Richmond, and Peter began law school. Several years later, an old Richmond law firm hired Peter and they began their family.

My brother-in-law had engaged the Boathouse at Sunday Park, a charming lakeside restaurant in Chesterfield County, for a sixty-fifth birthday luncheon for Emily. Armed with a well-wrapped engraved silver bowl, I drove the twenty-odd miles from Richmond. It was a very enjoyable luncheon and when the time came to sing the birthday song, the entire wait staff joined us, bearing a three-tiered cake with lighted candles and a bunch of colored balloons. While eating the birthday cake and enjoying the rich coffee, my niece Rosemary slid in beside me. Still slim at thirty-four, despite having given birth to three, her dark tresses hung to her shoulders.

“Aunt Ruth, after this big meal, we’re just going to have leftovers tonight for dinner, but I would very much like you to join us. I’m worried about something and need your advice. About seven, okay?”

“Fine, I’ll be there.”

Rosemary was Emily’s third child, and when I was twenty-three, I stood as godmother to her.

The Italians and the

Irish share Roman Catholicism, but little else. To the Italians, being a godmother is a lifelong commitment often extending sixty or more years. The duties of an Irish godmother are limited to driving the family and the baby to the church, taking them home after the baptism, and not drinking too much at the Christening party which follows. However, Rosemary and I have always been very close from the time she learned to talk, due to her vibrancy and charm.

True to her word, Rosemary, now dressed in blue jeans and a sweatshirt reading Cloverleaf Middle School, placed a platter of cold sliced ham, turkey, and cheese on the table along with leftover bowls of baked beans and macaroni salad, jugs of mustard and mayonnaise, and a loaf of rye bread. Her husband, Jack, opened two bottles of Corona beer and handed me one. Her three children were, as usual, animated and talkative. It was, for the second time that day, an enjoyable meal dampened only by the foreknowledge that something was worrying Rosemary.

Dinner completed, Rosemary and I adjourned to the den, leaving Jack and the kids to clear the table and wash the dishes.

“You might have noticed that my gift to Mom today was a set of pewter candlesticks. That was not what I’d planned to give her. You know how Mom and Dad like to travel.”

“I do.”

“Two months ago, they went down to the Outer Banks for the weekend and left me to check on the house and feed the cat. I used that opportunity to rifle through the family pictures. You probably know that Mom is averse to picture albums. She keeps all the pictures in old shoeboxes, labeled 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, and 2000s. There were also two boxes dedicated to the O’Farrells and the Coffees taken before Mom and Dad were married.”

“Yes, I’ve seen her bring out some of those boxes. Why is that significant?”

“My idea for a gift was to pick out those photographs taken on their various trips over the years. The one that keyed me up on the idea was taken of the two of them on a senior class trip standing in front of the White House.”

“I remember that shot. They’re both grinning ear to ear.”