CAROL IS DEAD

Marie Jones sat alone in the corner of the funeral home parlor where her mother, Carol’s body lay in repose. The chatter of the sizable crowd of neighbors and one time friends flowed over her consciousness. Her brother Harold had not come for the funeral. Harold, whose lack of love for his mother was well known, had not been home for the past five years.

Carol’s care during her long illness had left Marie almost as lifeless as Carol. At first it was not so hard. Carol could manage the care of her bodily needs. But as time and disease ravaged her body care fell to Marie. For the last three years Marie had lifted, bathed, dressed, fed and diapered her deteriorating mother.

Marie was shaken from her thoughts by David Harris, her nearest neighbor. “I am so sorry, Marie. I know it must be so hard for you to lose your mother.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“If we can do anything..”

“No”, Marie said wishing she had the courage to ask, ‘Where the hell were you when I needed help?’ “No,” she said “I’m ok.”

She closed her eyes and let her mind imagine what it would be like to go home to an empty house. Empty. But for Carol it had been empty for a long time. Her shaky relationship with Frank had fallen victim to Carol’s intrusion into their lives. Frank had given her an ultimatum. “Either she goes or I go.” Marie could not fault Frank. Had it been his mother she would have done likewise.

What should she have done? What could she have done?  Her mother had no money, nowhere to go, no one to take care of her. Carol’s hostile, demanding, unappreciative behavior had proven the end of Frank, the end of her marriage, the end of her hopes of a family of her own. And the beginning of Marie’s withering spirit and life.

One by one neighbors filed by her. “Marie, she’s in a better place.”  “”She’s not in pain anymore.”  “You took such good care of her.”

Words, words, words. Words pierced the spaces of her thoughts. “I know,” she muttered over and over.

Her mother was better off.  She was no longer in pain. Marie had seen to that. Carefully for months she had monitored and measured  pain medication, daily putting aside some until ---.  She had watched as her mother took that last dose.  Yes, her mother was in a better place.

And certainly Marie was.

THEFT AT THE FARMERS' MARKET

The farmers’ co-op was at odds with itself. Complaints equaled accolades.  Accolades  were  widely proclaimed; complaints – it was hit or miss.  Wealthier  farmers  got attention; others were not so fortunate.

So it was with Charlie who had avidly welcomed the local co-op. It gave him access to big buyers like Bush and De Monte; it eliminated the long haul and overnight stay in Knoxville.

Farmers  delivered their produce to the co-op shed  at  day’s end where it was weighed, labeled and set up on tables for the next day’s auction. Early the next day buyers arrived in their big cars; trucks arrived as did the farmers with their table number certification in hand. By noon it was over.  The trucks were loaded; contracts were signed. Checks would arrive later.  Clean and efficient.  A system that worked for most and was appreciated by most.

Charlie’s doubts and questions came intermittently.  Sometimes the produce he left behind at the end of the set up day looked different from the produce he saw the day of the auction.  Was it possible that someone was switching produce?  Knowing he was at the bottom of the pecking order he said nothing.  He watched, he noted, and he watched until he was sure. And he acted alone for he trusted no one.

On his chosen day for action he delivered  his load of green peppers. He watched as they were weighed, placed in crates and placed on the sale table. No one paid any mind to Charlie sitting near his crates on table 9 and whittling. No one noticed as Charlie scratched his initials on the sides of his crates.

Charlie arrived early the next morning. His crates had been replaced. Up and down the tables he went until he found his marked crates on table 2.  Charlie waited for the table tenant to arrive. Howard Cox from the biggest farm in Rockwood.  Charlie continued to wait until all farmers and buyers were there. He climbed up on the edge of Howard Cox’s table and yelled.  “This man stole my peppers.”  

The buzz activity stopped immediately and all eyes were on him. Charlie presented his case.  One by one all eyes moved from Charlie to Homer.  Homer watched  the farmers helped  Charlie reclaim his crates.

MARGIE'S SECRET TREASURE

This task I so confidently  accepted three weeks ago has challenged and humbled me.  It is not easy to come up with a fewer than 1000 word mystery every week.  But I will keep trying. Thus my new effort—

MARGIE’S  SECRET TREASURE.

The clutter in Harry’s barn challenged description.  Piles of magazines, stacks of books, shelves of bottles and endless rows and columns of boxed whose contents,  if truth be known, even Harry had long forgotten. What better place to hide treasures, treasures of mice, litters of stray cats, hibernating snakes and shelter seeking  wasps.

So thought Margie who for years had nagged Harry to get rid of ‘some of that junk’.  To no avail.  Harry’s stock response was ‘you never know when you might need it’.

It was the bane of Margie’s life for years.  Until Harry died.  He had been central to her life for fifty years.  Fifty years of adventure, ups and downs, tears and laughter, and most of all consuming love.

Harry’s enthusiasm for life knew no end, no end until he met his end, the victim of a drunken driver, leaving behind his wife, his barn, the storehouse of his  life.

Margie met  her loss, alternating between despondent inertia and frenetic activity.

Sort, donate, trash.   Organize, give, toss.  Day after day, month  after month.

At the back of a three tiered stack of boxes she found the wooden trunk, stored unexamined, in the barn after Harry’s mother died. The trunk cleared of dust, mouse drippings, dead lady bugs and abandoned snake skins spoke of another time.  With apprehension, hope and wonder Margie opened the trunk. Fragile crumpled newspaper cradled  hidden items  which Margie eyed with wonder and handled with care. She picked up the first item, carefully removed it the newspaper—The Philadelphia Inquirer, Jan 1925.

Margie rowed up twelve unwrapped  coffee/tea cups and eleven matching  saucers deep enough to be considered bowls. A jingling Clabber Girl Baking Powder resisted her attempts to open it. Margie shook it gently, then vigorously producing the sound of cheap castanets . Tapped gently with the wooden end of a screwdriver,  squirted  liberally with WD-40 the lid yielded.  Inside the can were marbles – aggies and cats eyes. When Margie dumped the marbles into her hand small pieces of marbles slipped through her fingers onto the barn floor. Margie picked up one of the pieces – no color, no evenness. These were not marble shards.  They were – she dared not think that.

‘Oh my God,’ she whispered to the barn walls. ‘I am rich.’  She returned the Clabber Girl can contents, refitted the lid and replaced it in the trunk. One by one she rewrapped and carefully positioned  the cups and saucers atop her treasure. She  re-stacked the boxes above the trunk.  No one need know she was rich.

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO'S GOT THE BUTTOM

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON

Characters:

 Jane:   Emma,  Jane’s younger sister:    Sandra: Emma’s daughter :   Thomas and David, Jane’s sons:

Carolyn, Thomas’ wife:    Jennifer, David’s wife

The button had been in the family for a hundred or more years,  proposed to be a button from the coat of Theodore Roosevelt, attested to by a reputable museum in the Midwest, confirmed by a Smithsonian anthropologist.  It was a cherished relic handed down from mother to daughter.  Until  Jane produced two sons and no daughter.  Jane’s sister, Emma proposed the button be given to her daughter, Sandra. Thereby keeping it in the maternal line.  Jane refused, leaving it to her oldest son, Thomas.

Years passed! Sandra, an avid antique researcher and would-be collector, discovered the value of the button.  She set out to get it. Always clever with her sewing projects she took up purse making. Purses from old denim jeans, upholstery remnants, discarded tote bags.  All of which needed buttons for closure.

Buttons she requested from Thomas’ wife, Carolyn.  Carolyn,  more interested in her watercolor than purse craft, readily produced a small collection of buttons.  Greedily examining the scanty collection Sandra said, “I’m looking for old or old looking buttons for my period purses . You have any idea what happened to Aunt Jane’s buttons?”

Carolyn shook her head. “I think we gave all those buttons—a cookie tin full—to David’s wife for some kind of crafts project in her after school day care.”

Mess, activity, exuberance of a dozen of children welcomed Sandra at Jennifer’s after school program. “Good lord,” Jennifer said, “I have no idea where the buttons are or when we used them. Maybe to make Thanksgiving table decorations.  Or valentines.  Who knows?   Can’t you just buy some buttons? That thrift store over near Walmart has them in a box, near the door.  You can scoop out a handful that cost you nearly nothing.”

“My problem is,” Sandra said, “I am making a purse for a woman who wishes to remain anonymous. She requested a special button which she said Aunt Jane used to have,”

Jennifer broke into  laughter . “That old button  she kept on a card. I know which one you mean.” Sandra felt relieved until Jennifer added, “It’s the one we gave to the theater group at the community college. They needed it to repair a turn of the century jacket for a play.”

“When?”

“Jennifer shrugged, “Two or three years ago, I think.” Sandra’s spirits sagged.

BUTTON, BUTTON, WHO’S GOT THE BUTTON?

A BOMB IN THE SCHOOL

Hendricks High School was on alert. Under the appearance of routine nerves were on edge. Under pretended control chaos reigned.

Today a special pep rally was scheduled to send the boys basketball team off to the finals of the state tournament.  A day of abandoned celebration for students; a day of trepidation for staff and faculty.

The day began  badly—with an unscheduled faculty meeting—short and to the point. Principal Carol Collins presided with more than her usual officiousness.  “Coach Bilbrey had  found a note in his mailbox this morning stating a bomb will go off during the pep rally.”

From the back of the room someone called. “Ms Collins, we will cancel. Won’t we?”

Carol Collins resented not being called Dr. Collins since she had finally gotten the DED from the local University. “Indeed not,”  she said curtly.  “That is exactly what whoever did this dastardly act wants. We will not give in to this. All faculty and staff will be on duty, checking students as they enter the gym, collecting backpacks and checking loose clothing . Planning period teachers will report to the gym to help in a thorough search of the premises.”

The faculty was of three minds: those into school spirit agreed;  those scared of the consequences questioned;  those few resenting lost time from their academic classed objected.

When the meeting was over,  teachers , most adamantly opposed stood near the  back of the library. Three of the most vocal were:   Ellie Harris, AP Chemistry,  Carl Jones, AP Calculus , and Susan Morrison, AP English. “Much as I detest this pep rally tomfoolery, “ Ellie said, “I can’t see going so far as a bomb threat.  And making one is stupid. If you get caught it’s jail.”

“You never know what motivates them. Ever since Columbine they are more common. And every time it’s some disaffected or mentally disturbed person.” Susan said.  “Who knows what kind of sick person is out there.” She shrugged.” Or should I say in here?”

Carl Jones raised an eyebrow. A faint smile appeared. “Maybe he or she or you or me is not sick at all. Maybe just the sanest.”

MURDER IN A ROMAN LAUNDRY

MURDER IN THE LAUNDRY (Rome)

Scene: Rome 102 A D

In front of Didius’s Fullonica on a narrow side street off the Vicus Sacra a sizeable crowd had amassed. Three Vigiliae kept the crowd well back from the entrance.  All laundry activity was suspended.

Behind the laundry were two tomb-size vats.  One half full of urine.  At any hour of the day from well before dawn until long after sundown men lined up to relieve their full bladders. The other vat was nearly full of days old urine, turned to ammonia, ready for transfer to laundry tubs.  Also in that vat was the body of Didius.

Didius, the proprietor, owned the laundry and the slaves who did the work—carrying pails of cured urine from the vat to tubs, diluting it with water. After which they agitated clothes by stomping on them, as if crushing grapes, before stretching them over racks under the bleaching sun.

Didius’s business was good, twice and three times the volume of other laundries. Partly because of its location, mostly because of Didius promotion genius.

Slave workers were lined up, questioned gently at first, then under torture. To no event.

Attention turned to personal and professional enemies of whom there were many. Part of Didius’s business genius rested in his unscrupulous treatment of family, friends, enemies and employees. Notable among those who without pangs of conscience would have killed Didius:  His wife, Flora, resentful of what she considered theft of her personal wealth and known for her preference of younger more virile men:  Clivus , the weaver whose business faced failure from what he claimed was Didius’s improper cleaning:  Flaucus, an ex- slave who had surreptitiously bought his freedom through a third party and set up a competing  Fullonica.

Flora was dismissed as too short, too thin and too weak.  Clivius produced proof of an out-of-town trip to buy yarn.  Flaucus with no alibi and much motive was chief suspect and might have been tried had not Fortune intervened.

Two Vigiliae, breaking the monotony of their night shift, entered the bar near Didius’s laundry. Mucius, the young son of  Senator Tertius boasted of dumping an officious man in a water trough. Goaded by the Vigiliae,  Mucius regaled the patrons of the bar with an account of the evil pleasure of the night marauding  activities of  the idle young  nobles.

As justice unfolded Flaucus was cleared of any wrong doing; as injustice unfolded Young Mucius and his gang were surrendered to their noble parents.

Fights for Survival

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura stood by the body. Peeper spoke, "This man called Patrick lacked courage; he lacked rectitude: he lacked responsibility. He deserves nothing from us."

"Without accountability he did immeasurable harm not only to us but to all the residents of the world. Justice has been done."

"We tell no one of our part in this." Peeper breathed in, breathed out, filling the bubble in his throat. "Swear on your lives," he said, "Swear on your very lives that no word of how this evil man met his end will ever be made known."

A universal "We swear!"

One by one they left the bank of the pond on which Patrick's inert body lay, face down in the backwaters free of flora and fauna-- a result of his chemical farm practices.

Patrick's death was investigated, and re-investigated, and determined an accident. His one hundred acres were willed to his nephew, Carlos. (Patrick had no children; Patrick deserved no children or no child deserved Patrick). Carlos like his uncle saw his legacy in terms of DOLLARS, as profit. He sought the advice of a local land developer. Advice -- "Get rid of the mosquitoes! Build high end houses, and you're looking at a nice profit."

Peeper, Jakie, Ranie and Anura met.

"Carlos must go." Peepers said.
"Carlos must go,' the others chanted.

Two days later Carlos's inert body, face down in the pond's breakwater was found.

Investigation said, "Death by accident."

Croaks filled the night air. Peeper, Ranie, Jakie and Aunra dared dream of the future.