Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

School for Burglars by Melodie Campbell

He was a well-dressed burglar, Marge had to admit. The black turtleneck fit his lean body in a manner most Italian, and the jeans were unmistakably Gap. He was clean shaven, dark haired, and wore a thin black mask à la Zorro. Not a bad look at all, she mused, although on the whole, damned inconvenient at the moment.

Marge leaned against the kitchen doorframe and took a sip from her mug. He must be okay at the break-and-enter part, as Max hadn’t heard a thing. Well, if Max wouldn’t growl, she could.

“What do you want?” she said, drawling.

The burglar looked up with a start. A shiny black pistol appeared in his hand.

“Your money,” he said in a low voice.

Marge laughed. “My money? You want my money? You and a thousand others, Zorro. Take a number and get in line.” This was too much. As if the bank report hadn’t been enough for one day. What else could bloody well happen...

Marge eyed the intruder intently. Poor kid, he looked confused; this obviously hadn’t been a situation covered in course 101 at the school for burglary. Marge watched him shift from one foot to the other, while trying to steady the gun.

She nodded to it. “Where’d you get the gun?”

The burglar started. “Wot?”

“The black shiny thing in your hand. Where’d you get it?”

He looked down at the weapon. “This guy from Toronto...”

Marge snorted. “You kids, these days. Spoiled rotten. In my day, we had to go to Buffalo.” Marge took another sip. “Is it loaded?”

“Of course.”

“Then will you do me a favor? Can you aim for that chartreuse vase over there?” She pointed to a shelf in the adjoining dining room. “Ghastly thing. My mother-in-law gave it to me. Please shoot it.”

“No!”

“Then give it to me, and I’ll shoot it.” Marge set her mug down on the faded wood-grain countertop and reached for the pistol.

“Christ, no!” He appeared aghast. “It’ll make a noise!”

“Then why do you carry it if you don’t want to make a noise?”

The burglar ran a shaky left hand through his hair. “To scare you.”

“Oh,” Marge said carelessly. “Want some coffee? It’s Starbuck’s.” She reached for the pot on the counter. The burglar yelped and dropped the gun. Both hands shot up to protect his face, and just as swiftly, Marge moved forward to pick up the firearm. She held it up in her right hand and peered down the sights.

“Christ, are you crazy?” The man in black peeked through fingers.

“Crazy?” Marge looked up, startled. “Am I crazy? You’re the one who comes bursting in here with a gun you don’t even have the decency to use, asking me for money. And you think I’m crazy? Have you looked at this place? Is there anything here you’d want?”

She marched into the dining room, signaling with the gun for the intruder to follow. An ancient bulldog lay sleeping in the sun in front of the bay window. He opened one eye, then closed it and rolled over.

Marge grabbed a bowl off the fireplace mantel with one hand. “Here. Like this? Take it. I hate it. Want the ashtray? It’s ugly.” She shoved the bowl into the burglar’s arms.

“Want this picture?” Her free hand reached for it. “It’s my husband. He’s a bum. Mother was right. Don’t you hate it when your mother’s right? You don’t want it? No? Neither do I.” Marge threw the framed photo on the hardwood and stomped on it. The glass made a pretty bell-tinkle sound.

“Lady, you’re nuts!” He put the bowl carefully down on the dining table and tried to inch his way back to the kitchen. The dog lifted his head and growled. All movement stopped.

“There isn’t a damn thing in this house worth a damn thing.” Marge grumbled and glanced around. So this is what her life had come to. Entertaining a Gap-clad burglar in the shoddy remains of a faded dream home. What could she begin to offer him that was worth taking? It was embarrassing, that’s what it was. There was a time when she would have been proud to show any thief through her stylish home, and there would have been lots to interest him, oh yes. But that was then and this was now. That was before the high-tech crash, and the midlife crisis, and Bipsy or Popsy, or whoever the hell she was.

Now the shabby couch perfectly complemented the worn area rug and faded curtains. The once-trendy dusty pink and pale green color scheme screamed circa 1980. Everything in the place dated from long before the Berlin Wall came down. Funny how things that looked good twenty-five years ago had a tendency to look cheesy and unappealing today. Marge had often thought this house would be a perfect makeover project for one of those television design shows, “From Muck to Magic.” But how did one actually get on those shows? And how did one person acting alone actually manage to get rid of tacky furnishings... or cheating husbands, for that matter?

“Don’t you have any money?” The burglar spoke in a whiny voice, which didn’t fit the image at all. This guy was just not her vision of a villain. Were all men destined to disappoint her? Just where were they training burglars these days — in day-care centers?

“No money,” she said morosely. “At least not here. Apparently, it’s all in an account I didn’t know about. Oh don’t look so surprised — I only found out today.”

“Three accounts,” she continued. “We’re supposed to have three accounts. One for household, one for savings, and one for vacations to Florida. Except apparently there’s a forth account I didn’t know about. Maybe he’s been keeping it for a surprise, huh? Maybe it’s a big whacking surprise for my forty-seventh birthday next month. Yeah, and I’m Pamela Anderson’s twin sister.”

Sounds of snuffling and shuffling came from the backdoor mat. Max lurched up from his position on the floor, wandered over to the man in black, sniffed one leg (“Argh!”), then the other (“Don’t do that!”), and then ambled into the kitchen. He stopped right at the back door, blocking it, and flopped down on the mat.

Marge continued to stare at the black firearm in her hand. “You married?” she asked finally.

The burglar shook his head in earnest. It seemed to calm the shaking of the rest of his body.

“Don’t. Not worth it. I used to dream about getting married when I was a girl. No kidding, I’d dress up my Barbie dolls and spend hours rehearsing just the perfect wedding ceremony. ‘Barbie, do you take Ken to be your lawfully wedded husband,’ et cetera. You know, that sort of thing. And then Ken would kiss Barbie, and her little legs would fling right off the ground. Like this.” Marge used the gun to demonstrate.

“But mostly I dreamed about wearing a long, frilly white dress and opening all those presents. Lovely big boxes wrapped in silvery paper with great big bows, and inside, all those wonderful surprises. That’s the best part of getting married. From then on, it’s downhill all the way. About as exciting as Bohemian lead crystal goblets on a shelf. Twenty-four ninety-nine a set and available in nice stores everywhere. That’s what my marriage has been like. Empty wine glasses. Cheap ones. As a matter of fact... since you’re here...”

Marge walked over to the china cabinet and reached inside with her left hand. “Take this china, will you? It was a wedding gift. What a mistake; the china and the wedding. You want it? It’s Doulton.”

Marge held out a plate. The burglar shook his head.

“Then stand back. I’m going to smash it.”

Marge heaved the plate against the wall, then another and another. That felt good. Rather fitting how they all split in two, just like the marriage they were supposed to celebrate. Too bad this Zorro-guy was such a wimp. If only he’d stop yelping...

“This is fun. Heeeeyahh—” Marge continued heaving plates and making karate noises. “Wanna help?”

“Goddamn looney!” The burglar muttered and yelped from behind the table barricade.

“Gawd that feels better,” Marge said. “And a lot cheaper than my therapist. Want a cigarette?” She pointed to a pack on the dining room table.

The burglar shook his head violently.

“Mind if I smoke?”

The man in black blanched. “What, are you trying to kill me?”

Marge groaned. “Oh glory. A New Age burglar. Probably a health nut too. How did I get so lucky? I’ll bet you even jog.”

The burglar nodded.

“Vegetarian? Yogurt and wheat germ and all that?”

“No yogurt. That’s dairy.”

Marge almost choked. “I’ve just got to say it: You’re from Vancouver, right?”

He nodded apologetically.

Very polite people, the West Coasters. This poor kid, he wouldn’t last a month in Toronto. Marge frowned. “You know, I thought you outlaws were supposed to lead depraved and exciting lives, full of drugs and alcohol and wild sex. I mean, isn’t that supposed to be the point of it all? I don’t mean to be rude, but your life sounds about as exciting as a yoga class.”

“I like yoga.”

Oh dear. He was starting to sound defensive. Marge tried to be more understanding. “Frankly, I think you should lighten up a bit. Have a few laughs. For a yoga nut, you look awfully tense. Man in your line of work... must be stressful. You need to let it all hang out. Go wild for a bit. Sure you don’t want a coffee?”

“Caffeine.” He shrugged apologetically.

“Oh right. Well, I tell ya — this plate throwing zaps the tension out of you. I feel much better. Sure you don’t want to try — wait a minute... why don’t we use the gun? Here, you hold the plate, and I’ll aim for the middle of it—”

“Argh!” screamed the burglar. He careened around the table, tore down the front hall, and flung open the far door. It opened to a small den.

“Wait,” yelled Marge, running after him. “Wait! Don’t go in there—”

A middle-aged man lay slouched on the ancient couch. He appeared overstuffed, as did the couch.

“Jeeze,” the burglar gasped, “is he dead?”

“No, just a teensy bit sedated. I was thinking a pillow, but,” Marge looked lovingly down at the pistol in her right hand, “this might be perfect.” She lifted the gun, lined up the sights, and fired. The body on the couch shuddered slightly, then relaxed into the pillows for a long snooze. A crimson bib bubbled up from under the chin.

“How do you like that? First try, even. What a neat little thing.”

“Holy shit,” yelled the burglar. “Holy, holy shit!” As Marge turned, he dodged forward and grabbed the gun from her hand.

“Silly. I wasn’t going to kill you.” Her smile beamed. “The way I see it, we have two options. You can help me get rid of the body, or... I can call the cops. ‘Officer, a burglar broke into my house today, and he had a gun! I just got in from shopping to find the backdoor glass shattered, and my husband lying in a pool of’... Hey, wait!”

The front door slammed. Marge stood by herself in the empty home and shook her head.

“Burglars these days. Where the hell are they training them?” She reached for the phone.