Chesapeake Crimes: This Job Is Murder!

LUCKY IN DEATH, by E. B. Davis

“Mrs. Decker, you don’t have any sales experience.” The large, bald man looked up from my job application and leaned back in his desk chair.

Baldy had eaten too many grits and enjoyed a few too many libations around the campfire. I’d known a few like him so he didn’t faze me. Besides, after yet another dog-panting August day of trying to convince someone to hire me despite my age, I was desperate. ProTrout was the last place I wanted to work. But I was experienced in hiding the truth so Baldy would never know.

“Bet I know ProTrout’s inventory better than most of your sales help,” I replied.

“Really. How come?”

Probably not a good idea to tell him what ProTrout had done to my marriage.

“My husband drooled over every item in this store. In fact, my garage is filled with so many fishing lures, rods, reels, tackle, and accessories, I still can’t get my car inside.”

“A die-hard customer, I presume.”

“You can say that again. Joe died a year ago.”

“Wait…Decker. Are you Joe Decker’s widow?”

I nodded.

“What a shame. I couldn’t believe after years of wanting a fishing boat, he up and died after he finally bought one.”

“He didn’t just buy a boat,” I said. “He bought the whole damned package-outboard motor, GPS, fish finder, even a trailer and a boat cover. All paid for in cash. Forty thousand dollars.” Every penny I’d saved for my granddaughters’ college fund. But Baldy wouldn’t care about that any more than my no-good, long-gone son-in-law did.

“I remember,” he said. “Nice man. I’m so sorry.” He stared at the floor while he talked, subdued, almost contrite.

“Thank you,” I said. “He dropped dead the day after he bought it. And you wouldn’t take the merchandise back.”

“No, once the boat was in the water and the engine immersed, I couldn’t take it back as new. Company policy, I’m sure you understand.” Baldy looked at his shoes like a little boy confessing to soaping the neighbor’s windows. No, I hadn’t understood.

“I sold it on eBay,” I said. “Only got twelve thousand dollars.”

“I’m glad you got something from the deal.”

“Enough to pay for his funeral.”

“Joe sure was a great fisherman,” Baldy said. He looked uncomfortable, making me glad, but then his discomfort wouldn’t get me the job. And I needed the job to rebuild that college fund.

“I may not have sales experience,” I said. “But I know the merchandise, what it’s used for and how to use it. I accompanied my husband to every stream, river, gulf, and backwater around here. Who do you think baited all of those hooks?”

“Sounds like maybe you could sell, but most of our customers are men who wouldn’t take your advice about our gear.”

“I can soft sell. Offer pointers, pander to them. Let me prove myself.”

Baldy’s face looked red, and he patted his forehead with a handkerchief. I knew he didn’t want to hire me, but I also could see that his forty-thousand-dollar sale at my expense worked on his conscience.

“I guess you know our customer profile,” he said, finally. “I’ll give you a try. We’ll start you off in the ladies outdoor-clothing area. After a few weeks, if you do well, we’ll train you for inventory control and on the register. Do you have clothing that fits into our outdoor theme?”

“Of course, although some are stained. Fishing isn’t a clean hobby.”

“All you’ll really need are canvas pants and some attractive boots. We’ll supply a shirt with the ProTrout logo.”

The thought of wearing that damned leaping fish on my chest made me angry again, but I managed to smile.

“Thank you for giving me the opportunity,” I said. “You won’t be disappointed.”

He barely looked at me, so he probably didn’t realize how I was seething at having to take such a low-paid, menial job at my age.

The next day I started work. The store was busiest at night and on weekends when men were off work looking to spend their paychecks, but I started out working days in ladies clothing, the slowest department. I knew women also fished, but they didn’t often shop at ProTrout, which reeked of testosterone and pandered to all of those erogenous male ego zones-the slickest reels, the largest boat, the most powerful engine, the most expensive hunting rifles, and all those electronic gadgets like fish finders-taking the sport out of any sport.

After two weeks and register training, I rotated to fishing tackle. It wasn’t a hard sales area, and I knew the merchandise. Most of the customers were replacing lost or worn out items in their tackle boxes. The tackle manager must have reported favorably on my performance, because Baldy switched me to the higher-traffic night shift and gave me a twenty-five-cent-an-hour raise. I didn’t like the hours, but I found they passed more quickly when the store was busier.

The weeks went by and daylight savings time changed to standard time. I fell into the routine of the store and took my dinner break just after sunset. Since the employee lounge was unappetizing, I ate in, or by, my car and then smoked a cigarette. I’d quit years ago, but the second after Joe died I’d lit up. Stress will kill you, they say. Down to two per day again, I enjoyed my smoke, hidden by the all-terrain vehicles showcased next to the parking lot.

Customer traffic slowed at the beginning of November. Management assured me this was the calm before the Christmas storm. One quiet night I noticed a thirty-something man over in the hunting section. Bored, I listened in on his conversation with the salesman.

“How’d you like the Arctic Cat ATV you bought?”

“Sweet. Goes anywhere. I went deer hunting last Saturday and bagged a stag.”

“Great! So what can I do for you this time?”

“One of the guys I hunt with used a crossbow. Said it was more sporting.”

“Well, it is more challenging. Maybe you should try it.” The salesman took out an expensive crossbow and demonstrated how easy it was to use. “Just attach the bow to this pulley. Reels in just like a fishing rod. Put in an arrow, aim, and release. This model uses twenty-inch arrows.”

“How much is it?”

“The bow’s $500. You can get the whole package for just $699.”

“Whew boy! My wife will kill me. The ATV set me back almost eight grand.”

“Up to you, but I don’t let my wife dictate,” the salesman said.

What a jerk! Maybe Baldy had said the same thing when he sold Joe the boat. I wondered if they shared their techniques. Coming from another guy, the remark about the wife hit home like high school peer pressure, and the male customers succumbed.

“Wrap it up,” the customer said. “If she complains, I’ll just tell her she bought my Christmas present early.”

“Great! I’ll have to tell the other guys that excuse when they come in to buy.” He made the customer’s comment sound as brilliant as Einstein’s equations.

Disgusted, I left a few minutes early for my dinner break. The weather was mild, so I pulled a beach chair from my trunk and swabbed my hands with the packaged bleach wipes I kept there. In my low chair on the edge of the ATV lot, I was practically invisible-always my preference especially when I’d heard something like tonight’s nauseating crossbow sale.

As I bit into my sandwich, I heard the customer and the salesman out back testing the new toy on our demonstration targets. The salesman fell all over himself praising his customer’s skill. Sickened by their banter, I stopped eating and lit up a cigarette. Eventually the salesman went inside, but I could still hear the thunk of the crossbow arrows hitting the target.

The headlights of a car whirled around the lot. I heard the driver pull into a spot and cut the engine. A few seconds later, the headlights blacked out, and a door slammed. The sound of high heels crossed the lot. A woman wearing a business suit emerged, walking near me. Just off work, I presumed. In the gathering dark, she didn’t spot me until she was almost on top of me. She hesitated.

Even though I was on break, out of habit, I asked, “Can I help you?”

“I doubt if anyone can help me.” Her voice sounded ragged and resigned.

“Why?”

“My lousy husband is addicted to this store. People talk about women spending money shopping, but compare women’s closets to the gear stuffed into men’s garages. They’re the shopaholics.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, honey,” I said. “My husband was a selfish bastard, too. You’d better head off yours before he spends more.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m here. I’d bet the down payment on our house he’s here looking at new hunting equipment. We’re damn close to losing the house anyway.” She looked straight ahead at the store as if assessing a battlefield.

Just then, the crossbow customer strolled across the parking lot, holding his bagged purchase and admiring the ATVs along the edge of the lot, as if the one he had bought wasn’t enough. When the woman saw him, she took off, her heels clacking with speed and intensity as she approached him.

“Evan!”

“Jackie, what are you doing here?”

“Checking up on you, that’s what.”

“Who do you think you are, my mommy?” He turned to face her.

So the crossbow customer was her husband, I surmised. Poor woman.

“I can’t believe you came back here after buying the ATV.”

“Hey, you aren’t the boss. I’ll do what I want.”

“You selfish bastard.”

She’d used my own words, making me smile, and continued her tirade.

“After wiping out our savings on a stupid ATV, you’re in here buying something else?”

“Yeah, I am. It will save us money.” The customer opened his bag and pulled out his crossbow, fresh from the target range. The sales receipt fluttered to the ground, and the woman grabbed it.

She gasped and said, “$700. How will spending $700 save us money?”

“We can save on groceries when I bag more deer.”

“You idiot! The kids won’t even eat venison. How can you even try to justify spending money on yourself when we barely have money to buy Christmas presents for the kids?”

“You don’t have to buy me a gift now. Let me show you how it works.” He loaded an arrow and wound the pulley to ready the bow for firing, but his wife ignored his demonstration.

“Buy you a gift? Let me give you a reality check, Evan. I hadn’t planned to give you a gift. We just have enough to buy a few clothes for the kids. We’re behind on our mortgage payments. Give me that thing. I’m taking it back right now.”

“The hell you are!”

They struggled, and she succeeded in pulling the crossbow out of her husband’s hands. Unsteady from its weight, she turned it around to balance it. The arrow shot out of the crossbow and hit her husband in the chest. He immediately crumpled to the ground.

She reared back and blinked. I ran over and yanked the crossbow from her hands.

“Oh, my God, is he dead?” She stared at him, frozen.

I leaned over and checked his pulse. “Looks like the arrow went right through his heart. He’s not breathing.”

“I didn’t mean to kill him. It just went off.” She put her hands over her eyes, as if she couldn’t bear seeing him. Her shoulders heaved, and her breathing came in gulps.

Putting my free hand on her shoulder, I told her the truth. “Doesn’t matter, honey. A jury will decide whether you meant to kill him or not. His ATV purchase could be reason enough for them to convict you when they realize you’re behind on your mortgage payments. Money’s a common motive for murder. Now get out of here. No one will know.”

She looked at me in disbelief. “You’re kidding?”

“I’m dead serious. With your husband gone, your children will need you more than ever, so go on. Get!” I knew because my daughter was now a struggling single mother.

She hesitated. “You’ll cover for me?”

“Honey, I’ve been in your shoes and feel your pain. Now get out of here. Don’t speed. Just get in your car, go home to your children, and wait for the police to call you. You weren’t here and will be shocked to hear about your husband’s accident. Don’t volunteer anything. If they question the accident, reluctantly claim that he was upset and despondent about your finances.”

Narrowing her eyes, she focused, clearly understood my reasoning, and then looked around the parking lot and at the storefront. Both were empty. “Thank you,” she said, and left.

I watched her car disappear down the road, then scurried to open my car trunk and put on the gloves I kept there. I grabbed the package of bleach wipes and obliterated any fingerprints on the crossbow.

Looking around, I hurried back to the husband. The lot was still empty. This would work. Once the husband loaded the arrow, he could have turned the crossbow around and hit the pulley release accidentally. Or even on purpose. I bent down and placed the crossbow backward into the man’s hands, pressing his lifeless fingers around the bow and on the pulley release so he looked like the total idiot he was.

I stashed my gloves and wipes in my trunk, then repositioned my beach chair between the cars so I had no view of the ATVs. When the police arrived, I could easily say I didn’t see anything.

When Joe died, I was lucky. I told his doctor how he grabbed his left arm before keeling over. Given Joe’s heart condition, which his physician had been treating, attributing Joe’s death to a heart attack was no problem. After his physician said Joe’s heart attack wasn’t surprising, the authorities hadn’t performed an autopsy.

Joe had no remorse about wiping out my grandchildren’s college fund, so I’d had no remorse about lacing his nightly bourbon and soda with some extra doses of his heart medication. If they had done an autopsy, I’d have blamed his suicidal overdose on his ProTrout spending spree. I was prepared to tell them how distraught he’d become about his inability to control his spending. But I was lucky. I didn’t need those explanations. Passing on my luck to that young mother, who had also reeled in a dud for a husband, seemed like the right thing to do.

And this time, without Joe, my college-savings plan for my granddaughters would work.

An author and beach bum of note, E. B. Davis writes short stories and novels in the mystery and paranormal-mystery genres. After graduating with a master’s degree from George Washington University, she continued to degrade her writing skills working as a government-contractor analyst and as a construction manager. When she is not writing or blogging, she can be found at the beach, the setting for many of her stories. She is a member of the Short Mystery Fiction Society and Sisters in Crime. She blogs at http://writerswhokill.blogspot.com. Look for another of her stories, “Daddy’s Little Girl,” at http://voicesfromthegarage.com/story/daddys-little-girl.