100 Malicious Little Mysteries

An Insignificant Crime by Maxine O’Callaghan

When the shop bell rang, I looked up from the account books and groaned. I had enough trouble managing the old man lately without that woman coming around to ruin things completely.

He watched her grimly, his mouth thinned to a tight, self-righteous line — judge, jury, and executioner. I closed the books and hurried to the end of the counter.

“Father, please,” I said.

“Please, nothing. I meant what I said. If that woman steals something today, I’ll turn her over to the authorities.”

I kept my voice low, but his was rising in agitation. “Let’s go back into the office and talk,” I urged quietly. A glassed-in area lay directly behind the counter where it was possible to work and watch the aisles at the same time. He hung back stubbornly, but I coaxed him in and closed the door.

“There’s no reason to discuss it,” he said.

“There’s every reason. Her father has a lot of influence in this town. If you think you can humiliate him without reprisal, you’re dangerously mistaken. If she takes something, why can’t you simply charge it to his account as you’ve done in the past?”

“Because it’s wrong, that’s why. I’ve compromised my principles long enough.”

I began to sweat. The room was oppressively hot, but that was only partly the reason. I was shaking with inner rage. The old fool couldn’t see beyond the end of his thin quivering nose. He would sacrifice the business and our future, his daughter’s and mine, and feel smugly sanctimonious. And for what? An insignificant little crime that would hurt nobody.

“You mustn’t judge the poor woman,” I said, trying to think of a way to avoid the clash that was sure to come. “Her father says it’s a sickness.”

“Rubbish. She’s a thief, and worse, she makes no attempt to hide it.” His jaw set obstinately. There was not a drop of perspiration on that cold forehead. “I tell you I have my principles, though your generation wouldn’t understand that. AH you value is the dollar.”

You should talk, I thought grimly. I’ve worked for him long enough to know how he cheats his customers. Nothing big or obvious — just a niggling penny here and there or merchandise a bit substandard. My one comfort was that he could not live forever. My wife was his only child, born late. If I hung on, the store would eventually be mine — a starting point for the ideas and plans that churned impatiently inside my head. I couldn’t allow him to throw everything away because of his single-minded morality.

He kept watch like a hangman waiting on the scaffold, but I began to feel a little hope. She walked up and down the aisles fingering things and dropping them back in the bins. Perhaps the whole thing would blow over. She didn’t always steal. It’s the weather, I told myself. For weeks the heat had clamped down like the lid on a boiling pot, shredding nerves and stroking tempers. Go away, I pleaded silently; make your purchase and get out of here.

It was too late for prayers. Her plump fingers had chosen their prize for the day, bold as brass. The old man sucked in his breath sharply and prepared to charge out of the office, but I grabbed him.

“I won’t let you do this,” I said.

“You can’t stop me.” He tried to shake me off, but I hung on tenaciously. “This is my store. I know you’re waiting anxiously for me to die so you can get your hands on it, but at present I am very much alive and I’ll do as I please.”

“Go ahead then,” I said recklessly, “but listen carefully. If you do this, I’m leaving. You spend a lot of time belittling me, but you’re not a stupid man. You’re crafty enough to recognize the amount of work I put into this store. The truth is, you can no longer handle the business alone.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snapped, but he hesitated.

“I have another opportunity.” It was a blatant lie, but I was desperate. “I’ll take it tomorrow. You’ll lose not only my help but your daughter and grandson as well.”

He licked his lips, but I could read nothing in those hooded, fish-gray eyes. It took every ounce of my will power to fold my arms and lean casually against a desk, to pretend I could breathe the hot soggy air.

“Well,” I said. “Exactly how much are your principles worth to you?”

He didn’t answer, just turned his back on me and went out to the counter where the woman waited with a few pennies’ worth of nails to legitimatize her visit. I thought his walk seemed slower than usual and his shoulders drooped, but I couldn’t be certain. I followed him with my heart thudding painfully against my ribs, convinced that I had made a ghastly mistake and ruined my future.

He accepted payment without a word or a look at her large shopping basket where the hatchet handle was plainly visible. He even managed a stiff nod and a “Good afternoon. Miss Lizzie,” while I breathed a shaky, victorious sigh and made a note to charge the stolen ax to Mr. Borden’s account.