Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 129, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 787 & 788, March/April 2007

Wheeze by Michael Z. Lewin

Copyright © 2007 by Michael Z. Lewin

Probably best known in the U.S. for his P.I. Albert Samson books, of which the most recent was Eye Opener (Five Star/’04), Michael Z. Lewin has pursued many other writing projects over the years. He’s a regular contributor of dramas to BBC radio, an author of children’s books, and someone who has toured throughout the U.S. with presentations on writing.

What happens when three very different authors are inspired by the same idea for a short story? Take “Wheeze” and the two stories that follow it in this issue, “Say That Again” and “The Old Story”; they’re proof that from a common seed distinctive fictional creations will grow. The article that set all three of these stories’ authors going appeared in the newspaper The Week (Hagen, Germany): “Pensioner gang on trial: Three geriatric criminals have gone on trial accused of carrying out a string of armed robberies across western Germany. Rudi Richter, 74, Wilfried Ackerman, 73, and Lotha Ackerman, 64, have admitted taking part in 14 robberies that earned them a total of 1.3m euros. They began robbing banks in 1988, but were forced to stop the next year when Wilfried was arrested and sent to prison for ten years. In 2000, they reformed, and reached their peak 3 years later, scooping a quarter of a million euros in five heists. Age, however, eventually caught up with them. ‘Rudi couldn’t really get up the stairs anymore and we constantly had to stop so he could go to the toilet,’ said Wilfried. At first, police assumed they were looking for younger men; they realized their mistake when a witness reported hearing the thieves wheezing.”

Georgina Bladen was up-stairs ironing. Usually she ironed downstairs when she had the house to herself, in front of the big television. But today there was a chance — just a chance — that Barry would stop home after lunch before he headed for Fraserton. His meeting with Jim Pinney was important, and Barry liked to look right when a meeting was important.

Mind you, it really depended on how long he spent lunching at Maxie’s. As well as looking right, Barry liked to feel good about himself before a meeting, and Maxie’s flattery would do that trick. Georgina had long since given up worrying about whether Barry was having a thing with Maxie. In a town the size of Roseville surely someone would have seen them and shared the observation. And, knowing the way Barry thought and operated, Georgina would only begin to worry if he stopped lunching at Maxie’s little cafe, dirty as the place was.

Georgina sighed.

With Barry’s shirts done, she thought about taking a break before going on to his undershirts and boxers. Maybe a cup of the chamomile tea that Floella brought back from her last trip out of state would be calming. Not that Georgina felt she needed calming, but it was good to experience new things. She could make the tea and then call Flo to report how she’d liked it. Yes, that would work. Downstairs making tea, she could easily hear Barry’s car if it did pull in. She could be upstairs again before he got into the house. Not as fast as he used to be, Barry.

Not that he minded her having a break or being downstairs. It was having her ironing equipment clutter up the living room in front of his High Definition that bothered him. It made no sense to Georgina but it wasn’t worth rowing about again. She switched the bedroom TV off and turned to the door.

And she heard something.

Her first, shocked, reaction was that it was Barry. But it couldn’t be, not yet. Could it? She looked at the alarm clock. No, no. So maybe it was one of those creepy creaky house sounds.

But then she heard the sound again and it was human. A wheeze.

Barry might not be as young as he liked to think he was, but he didn’t wheeze. Especially not since he’d lost weight and started going to the gym.

Still, Georgina doubted herself. How could she be hearing a wheeze? If Barry were here, in the bedroom with her, and she asked him to go downstairs, he’d tell her not to be stupid.

Was she being stupid?

And then she heard the wheeze again.

Who could it be? The house was always unlocked, as they mostly were in Roseville, but no one popped in without calling out a greeting as they came through the door.

And no one Georgina knew wheezed. It was a real puzzle. Surely it couldn’t be a burglar or anything big-city like that. And if it was, what did one do?

She picked up the iron. She went toward the bedroom door, but the iron jerked, and almost fell out of her hand. Silly Georgina. It had to be unplugged before she could hit somebody with it.

At the bottom of the stairs, iron in hand, Georgina heard more sounds, from her dining room. Or maybe they came from beyond it, in her kitchen.

“Hello?” she called. “Who’s there?”

Her grip on the iron grew tighter. It was absurd to think she was in danger — not in Roseville — but you never knew. Look at all those murders they covered on those CSIs. Sometimes more than one in a show. She shivered.

“Hello?” she called again.

In the doorway between kitchen and dining room Georgina found an old woman.

The old woman wore a brown fabric coat. A little blue hat sat on her gray head. As Georgina saw the woman, the woman saw her.

“Fredericka?” the woman said.

“Who?” Georgina said.

“Fredericka? Is that you? You look so different.” Some foam appeared at the corner of the old woman’s mouth.

Georgina felt a moment of panic.

“Fredericka,” the old woman said again, but this time there was hostility in her voice, anger. “What have you done with Connie? She’s only three, you know.” And the woman began to move forward, waving the hand that wasn’t holding her floppy cloth shoulder bag.

What is wrong with her? Georgina thought. And then she realized what the problem must be. Oh, the poor thing.

But what should she do about it? Oh God. Oh God!

It was just then that Barry’s car pulled into the driveway.

The old woman peered at Georgina. “You’re not Fredericka,” she said.

“No, dear. I’m not.”

“So what are you doing in my house? Are you collecting for charity, because I’ll tell you now…” And the old woman stopped to catch her breath. “Howard gives at the office.”

With Barry about to come in to help, Georgina felt a wave of confidence and even a protective feeling about this poor old person. Like as not, Barry would call the police, or chuck the poor drooling old dear out on the street. How frightening that would be for her. Georgina sympathized.

She moved forward to put her sympathetic arm around the old lady. It was then she saw a piece of paper fastened with a safety pin to the brown coat. It read, “If you are reading this, then my wife must have gotten out of the motel room. I’m real sorry she’s been a bother. She’s no harm, but if you give me a call or drop her at the Sunset Motel on Danforth Street, Room 116, I’d be beholden.” The note finished with a phone number.

“What have you done with Fredericka?” the old woman asked.

Barry was not in a good mood. He’d been just fine as he left Maxie’s — Maxie treated a man with a bit of respect. But now, to have to make this godawful stop at the Sunset Motel on his way to see Jim Pinney… Who knew what consequences there’d be for his equilibrium, his judgment at the meeting? Never mind that the Sunset was on the very route he took to drive to Fraserton. A man had to be on his absolute tippy-tippy toes to get the better of Jim Pinney.

“Oh, please,” Georgina had said. “I’m sure I can’t handle something like this by myself. And you can just drop her at reception if you don’t want to look around for Room 116.”

Barry looked at the gray lumpy figure in the passenger seat of his nearly new low-mileage Escape. The old woman was staring straight ahead, as she had since being loaded into the car.

Oh well. As long as there wasn’t a problem getting her out. As long as 116 wasn’t empty when he knocked.

They came to the motel and Barry pulled in. For the first time his passenger turned from staring straight ahead. “Lipstick,” she said.

“What?”

The old woman turned back to stare through the windshield.

Barry pulled up in front of Room 116. No need to ask where it was — he knew the layout of the Sunset. He unhooked the old woman’s seatbelt and went around the car to the passenger door. Opening it, he prised the woman out easily. He directed her by a shoulder to the room and knocked, fully prepared to dash away if no one responded.

But a moment later the door opened and a stout, bald old man said, “Gladys! Thank God! Oh, thank you, sir, thank you.”

Barry suddenly felt he’d been needlessly petty. “Not at all,” he said. “It was on my way. Pretty much.”

“Wherever did you find her?”

“On Redfield Drive — halfway across town. She was in the house, frightened the life out of my wife.” Barry nearly mentioned the drool, but decided not to.

The old man’s eyes teared. “I’m so sorry.” He took Gladys’s hand and led her gently into the room.

“Fredrick?” Gladys said. “What’s happened to Connie?”

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” the old man said to Barry. “I just don’t know.”

Barry said, “Maybe… get some help?”

“But where?” The old man retreated into the room and the door closed.

Barry went back to his car and settled himself in the driver’s seat. He flipped the mirror down and checked his tie, and his hair. And then he checked the side of his neck.

There was, indeed, a small spot of Maxie’s lipstick.

Ollie Cornbach was late for work. He leapt out of his car, pausing only to straighten his tie and his jacket. He headed into the Sheriff’s Department. Debbie Fry didn’t speak as she passed him going the other way. Stuck-up bitch, Ollie thought.

She was such a sore loser. Not his fault if she hadn’t actually asked him if he was married before she hopped into the sack with him. In fact he’d probably helped her out, in the long run. She’d know in the future not to try to sleep her way to a promotion in the first week of a new job. She’d know next time to wait awhile, wait till she knew how the guys in the hierarchy were fixed. Till she knew the lay of the land, so to speak.

The lay of the land. That was good. Ollie would try to remember to tell it to Lou in the diner mid-shift. Lou, his best friend from Roseville High. He’d gone away for a while, Lou. But now he was back. And maybe when his convictions had expired Ollie could get him onto the force. Maybe in Debbie’s place, if the stuck-up bitch held on to the job for that long before transferring to pastures new.

Ollie strode into the deputy’s office. “Sorry, sorry, Wayne. Last-minute emergency at home.”

“So last-minute you forgot to zip up afterward?”

Ollie looked down and checked his fly.

“Gotcha,” Wayne said, rising from behind the desk. “But I think you just told me more than I want to know about why you were late.”

“A man’s gotta do…” Ollie said with a grin.

“Well, a man’s gotta do a lotta paperwork tonight,” Wayne said.

“Yeah? What’s happened?”

“Crime wave.”

Ollie perked up. Was it his chance to crack a big one at last? He had ambitions to work for the state police, but without a degree he’d be stuck in the slow lane forever unless he could crack a big one.

“Mrs. Parriton had her jewelry box emptied this morning.”

“Mrs. who?”

“And the Larovics lost cash and some kinda old Indian artefaction.”

“The who?”

“And John Baker came home to find some Olde English figurines gone, and his jade cufflinks missing, and a gold Mexican dish vanished. What’s a gold dish? D’ya know?”

Ollie was frowning. “What’s going on?”

“We’ve had fourteen reports of thefts today.”

“But we don’t get that many in a month.” He considered. “In a year, most years.”

“Well, we got it today. I processed six of the reports but the other eight are awaiting your personal attention.”

“Hell’s bells.” Maybe no visit to Lou at the diner tonight after all.

“While you were out in town today,” Wayne asked, “you didn’t see a gang of bikers or anything, did you?” The phone began to ring. “That’s probably another one, Deputy Cornbach.” Wayne slipped his jacket on. “Have fun.”

“No,” Ollie said, about the bikers. He had been out in town, but he hadn’t seen a damn thing out of the ordinary. He dropped into the seat at the desk. “I didn’t see a damn thing.” He picked up the phone. “Roseville Sheriff’s Office.”

“She nearly got caught,” Frank said to Beverley.

“Shut up and drive,” Margaret said sharply. But something caught in her throat and in trying to clear it she began to wheeze.

“I’m just saying,” Frank said.

“Well, I had an easy time,” Beverley said. She was short, round, and wore her graying hair long and straight.

“What do you think the pickings will come to today?” Margaret asked, her breathing under control again.

“You should have seen her, though, Bev,” Frank said with a smile. “When she got returned to the room she looked great. How did you do that drool, Marg? The guy who brought you in was really spooked.”

“Natural talent,” Margaret said. “You know, I was thinking…”

“There’s a first,” Frank said. “Just kidding.”

“I was thinking that what we are doing is really a contribution to homeland security. All these small-town people leave their doors open, their cars running when they go to the drugstore for a lotto ticket. They have no attitude of alertness. What would happen if al-Qaeda came to Roseville? Security is all about vigilance.”

“Yeah, right,” Bev said. “Justify it however you want, sweetie. But we’re making money for ourselves.”

“That too,” Margaret said. “I was just saying.” She coughed, and stifled a wheeze. There was a chance if it got too bad, Frank and Bev would make her be the one to stay in the motel room while they went out, despite the fact that old women at the money end were less risky because they were less threatening.

“Well,” Frank said, “it’s my grandson’s birthday next month. And you know what greedy little beggars kids are these days because of the TV they watch.”

The women chimed, “Amen.”

“So,” he said, “where’s next? Who’s got the map?”