Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 823 & 824, March/April 2010

Cleaning Up by Steven Steinbock

Steven Steinbock has done several interviews for EQMM, including 2004’s Stephen King pieces. He is also a well-known mystery reviewer and critic. His primary occupation, however, is that of religious educator. He’s a teacher and the author of several books in the field, and will soon be receiving an honorary doctorate from Hebrew Union College.

Cora Lewis chewed her lip and clenched at the cotton afghan that lay on her lap in a disordered heap. On the end table beside her, a plate held a jumble of orange peels and a kitchen knife. Over the drone of the local news coming from the television set she could hear the clop-clop of her sister-in-law’s shoes before she saw her coming up the walk. She let out a slight, nasal grunt and bit on her lip again.

Frances was going to kill her. Cora knew it. She was certain of it. If she didn’t do something about it, it would be just a matter of time.

Fran was out of sight now. She must have climbed up the steps to the landing, but from where Cora was sitting, by the living room window, the stoop was invisible.

The television weatherman was explaining warm and cold fronts that would bring thunderstorms by evening. That was all Cora needed. To be stuck in the dark with no television and who knew what kind of crazies prowling about. Instinctively she reached for the knife, dislodging some of the orange peels, and pressed it into the side of her cushion.

What was taking her so long? What does it take, even for an eighty-three- year-old woman, to walk up a few steps and open a door? Not that Cora could take the steps any longer. The arthritis had her nearly crippled, but Frances didn’t seem to care. No, Frances moved about like a cat on fire. So what was keeping her?

As she heard the key in the lock she gave a shudder.

“Hello-o,” came a singsong voice from the hall.

“In here. I hope your shoes are clean. Did you wipe them?”

“Yes, Cora. I’ll take them off if you like.”

“Never mind. Of all people, I don’t have to worry about you getting the floor dirty.”

“What do you mean by that, Cora?”

“Nothing.”

“You’d think I leave your house in a mess every time I come over, Cora. I—”

“Never mind! I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Fran entered the living room. She had a supermarket produce bag pulled over her hair, clear plastic with green lettering, forming a makeshift rain bonnet, cotton-gloved hands carrying a brown grocery bag.

A regular bag lady, Cora thought. She let her grip go on her lower lip and began gnawing at her loose bridgework. Why in God’s name her sister-in-law couldn’t spend the dollar and a half to buy a real rain bonnet was beyond her. It aggravated her to no end. It was idiotic. She knew her brother Harry had done reasonably well with his shop, even if he couldn’t keep up with the technology and was forced to sell it after his stroke. That was fifteen years ago. At least Frances had a husband well into her golden years. Cora’s husband, Bill, had passed on in ’76, just shy of his fiftieth birthday, when he tried to pass a freight train at a railroad crossing. A little hasty misjudgment had left Cora a widow for more than half of her life.

Frances was in the kitchen, now. Still wearing her raincoat, she began washing dishes. “I feel bad because you’re all alone here all day,” she said. “I just thought you’d appreciate a little company and perhaps some help with the housework. I don’t mind a little cleanup. You know me; I like to help out. To do my part. A place for everything.”

“And everything in its place. Fine. Now why are you doing my dishes? Are you going to stand there all day in your coat? You look a mess.” She put special emphasis on that last word, knowing it would stick in Fran’s craw. “Did you walk all the way here from town?”

Fran took the produce bag from her head and pushed it into her oversized purse, which she set on the floor. “I took the bus and walked the rest of the way. It’s not that far. And the streets are nice and clean along that route.”

“Enough with the clean, already. And it is far. You could get killed. Did you hear about this pervert who’s suffocating people right on the streets? How can you say the streets are clean? And on a night like this you could get hit by lightning. They’re talking about a terrible thunderstorm.”

As if on cue, there was a flash through the misted windows, followed by a startling peal of thunder. “See? You’ll walk through a storm, get hit by lightning, and you’re dead.” As if for emphasis, she added, “And I won’t go to your funeral.”

“Dear, I wouldn’t expect you to come to my funeral. Especially with your arthritis.” She pronounced it “arthur-it-is,” which drove Cora crazy.

“Besides,” Frances chuckled, “I wouldn’t be there to help you push your wheelchair on the cemetery lawn.”

If a stream of toads had cascaded from Frances’s mouth, Cora wouldn’t have registered more shock. She’d heard her sister-in-law say some stupid things before, but this took the cake.

But Frances Hart took no notice of Cora’s reaction. She shook off her coat and stepped into her sister-in-law’s living room. The two women were the same age, Fran having just turned eighty-three. But Fran had a youthful energy that gave a lightness to her step, despite the effects of gravity and osteoporosis on her height and posture.

“Cora, let me take the vacuum out for a minute.”

“No.”

“But you have dust bunnies behind the television set.”

“Leave them alone.”

Fran pursed her lips in a pout. “Fine,” she said.

Cora mumbled something under her breath.

“What’s that?” Fran asked, after hooking her coat in the hall.

“Nothing. I wasn’t talking to you.” Cora eyed her sister-in-law with a mixture of suspicion and contempt.

Fran was looking around the living room. No doubt she was inventorying all the furnishings she’d be taking once she had Cora out of the way. “May I switch off the set?” Fran asked, gesturing to the television.

“No. I like having it on. I like knowing what’s happening in the world.”

“I don’t like most programs. It’s so much violence and scandal. I enjoy a good clean story.”

Cora mumbled a response.

“Pardon?”

“Never mind,” Cora said. And then, for emphasis, she pointed her bent hand to the television. “See there. Nobody is safe. This is the guy I was telling you about who has been killing lowlifes in the street.”

Fran looked at the television. “What’s ’fixyation?’” she asked.

“Ass-phyxiation. They choke to death.”

“Oh.”

“Now they’re talking about traffic. More important things, I suppose. Anyhow, it just isn’t safe anymore. It’s not smart for you to come out here by bus. You’d be a lot smarter to take a cab.” Or better yet, stay home, she thought.

“I couldn’t do that, Cora. I like the walk. And I find cabs so filthy.”

“Well, if you watched the news or read the papers, you’d know how dangerous it is in the streets.”

“That’s why I don’t like watching the television. I’m going into the kitchen. Can I fix you some tea?”

“I don’t drink tea. I get palpitations.”

“Okay. I was just asking.”

Just asking is right. Cora knew that Fran would be happy to see her have a heart attack or a stroke just to get her out of the way.

Frances returned to the living room a moment later with a glass of orange juice that she set on a napkin atop a doily. Before taking a sip, she stepped over to the television.

“My God, Fran. What are you doing now?”

Her sister-in-law was on her knees now, reaching behind the television with her backside pointed toward Cora. With the legs of Fran’s polyester pantsuit hiked up, Cora could see the knee-high nylons that Fran had cut off at the ankle. That was something else that Cora couldn’t understand; something else about Fran that drove her crazy. Her hand reached down and felt for the knife beside the cushion.

“Your reception isn’t good, Cora,” came her muffled voice. “I’m surprised you still use an antenna. I’m pretty sure I have a satellite dish and a descrambler in Harry’s workshop. If we can get Elliot to put it up, I can get it hooked up. We can get you Lifetime, the Food Channel, the Shopping Network. There’s even a Hallmark channel now.”

“I don’t want a satellite on my rooftop. And I don’t want your grandson climbing up there, either.”

She sat while her sister-in-law fiddled. It dumbfounded her. How could a woman be so cheap and idiotic, and still understand all the electronics work that Harry left behind?

She turned her attention to Frances’s purse. It was large and awkward. The wooden handles were ugly, with big copper buttons that looked more like rivets than decoration, and the clasp that held the bag closed was broken.

Cora watched, clenching and unclenching her fists. She knew that Fran kept a big purse so she could take more of Cora’s things. Cora knew that Fran wanted everything. Just because she had married her brother, worked side by side with him in their appliance shop — a shop financed by her father — Cora and Harry’s father. And did her father ever once help Bill out with his business ventures? Frances had all the fortune of good children and good health. Yet Fran wanted to take whatever Cora had away from her.

Cora pulled herself up from the chair and bent forward to catch a better look at what was in her sister-in-law’s bag. It astounded her that a woman so fussy about neatness and cleanliness would carry around such a motley mess. She noted a ratty old collapsible umbrella, a billfold, several more plastic supermarket bags just like the one she wore on her head, and a wad of paper towels — not the kind that come in rolls, but the kind taken from dispensers in public restrooms, probably stolen. Then again, when had Cora ever known her sister-in-law to use a public restroom. Too dirty for her, of course.

“What are you looking for?” asked Fran.

“Don’t scare me like that, Frances. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Of course not.”

“Frances, why do you have a TV remote in your purse?”

Brad Skinner was just about to pee when he heard the footsteps. He stifled the warm stream and shoved his johnson back in his pants. He remembered to clasp his belt but after struggling with the fly for a second or two, he decided not to bother. No matter.

Skinner took in a silent breath. He blinked and patted his jacket pockets and nodded his head with each clip-clop of the footsteps. He tightened his fists and released them again, then edged to the corner to peer around a wall.

As soon as he saw her, he smiled. It was an old lady with a plain raincoat the color of puke. She had a plastic bag on top of her head for a rain hat. He’d take her purse, grab the cash, the cards, the social-security check, and get off to Gerber’s place to score.

He stepped out of the doorway and asked her, “Do you have the time, lady?”

He looked again at the makeshift rain bonnet and wondered if maybe she was a street person. She better have enough to make his score or he’d be doubly pissed. But her face didn’t look like that of a street person.

“It’s a quarter of eight,” said the old woman, looking up at him. She was about four feet away from Skinner. Her washed-out yellow hair was curly beneath its plastic covering. She had a big round nose that together with the hair made him think of one of those Marx Brothers, the weird one that never talked.

He felt himself grinning, and felt a rush of excitement in his groin. Or maybe it was just the piss he was still holding in. The old lady didn’t look scared. That was good. Ladies who thought they were safe carried more money, he figured.

“Lemme have your bag, lady.” He loved saying that. It made him feel strong. Bag lady, he thought. She’s a real bag lady with that thing on her head. But then again, a real bag lady wouldn’t have anything worth stealing so she couldn’t be a real bag lady after all.

“Are you going to rob me?” she asked.

“Hunh-y-yeah,” he chuckled, although it came out like a nervous shiver. He reached for her now and stood in her path so she’d have to turn around to get away from him. When she tried, he’d trip her.

“Hand it over or I’ll have to hurt you, lady.”

She grasped her oversized purse in both hands. For a second, Brad Skinner thought she was going to throw it at him. It was big and looked heavy. But she didn’t throw it. She held it toward him, still gripping it at the sides with both hands. The top of the purse wasn’t closed all the way. Kind of like his zipper. Jeez, the bitch has got nerve, he thought.

He stretched his right hand out and reached for the purse.

He looked in the lady’s eyes. Damn, she didn’t look scared or anything. She did have nerve. Then, suddenly, the woman dropped the purse.

Skinner looked down at it, his arm still suspended midair. Some of the purse’s contents — a wallet, a hairbrush, and several plastic bags — fell onto the sidewalk.

Before he could look back up at the old lady, something bit at his wrist.

It felt like something was grabbing his hand. He was surprised at how much effort it took to shift his glance from the sidewalk to his arm.

The old lady was holding something in her hand. It looked like an old TV remote, with just a couple of buttons. He started to reach for the thing. But he wasn’t moving fast enough. The lady held it toward him and pressed it into his shoulder. He felt the bite again, but this time it was duller. He felt like he was shaking. He thought of some bad speed he took once, but this was faster, more violent. It was like a gorilla had him by the shoulder and was shaking him faster than light.

What the hell! he wanted to scream. But his jaw wasn’t working. He was numb all over, from his arm down to his feet. He dropped down to his knees. His thighs became suddenly warm and damp. I’m bleeding, he thought. But it was his bladder let loose.

“You want my bag, young man? Shame on you.”

He had the urge to scream, but his lungs wouldn’t work.

The old lady bent down with surprising agility and scooped the wallet and hairbrush back into her purse, along with the thing she’d zapped him with. He couldn’t remember what it was called. It wasn’t a TV remote. He couldn’t remember. He had to concentrate on his breathing.

His efforts to stay upright were useless. Already down on his haunches, he tipped over, falling like an empty beer bottle, like a tree — a drunken tree.

“This is a good city,” the old lady said, “and these are good streets. There’s a place for everything, and everything in its place. This is no place for dope and gangs, or for hurting good people. You should be ashamed of yourself.”

He thought he was screaming, but no sound came out. He wanted to punch the lady, but he couldn’t move. His jaw was stiff. His eyes closed for a moment and when he opened them again, he saw the woman holding her closed hand toward him. She was pushing something into his mouth. A bag. A plastic bag like the one on her head. Like what Skinner had seen a thousand times at the market. She was pushing it into his mouth.

He felt his throat constrict in a gag. He tried to inhale. He groaned and retched and solid chunks of vomit lodged in his sinuses and dripped from his nose. His eyes were burning from tears.

“I hope you’ve learned something today, young man. This is not a place for anything ugly or unpleasant. Everything has a place, but not that.”

She looked down at the stream of urine glistening on the sidewalk. “Oh, look at that.”

Skinner stared, unbelieving. From the way the old lady was looking at the puddle at his feet, he thought she was actually thinking about scrubbing it with disinfectant. Why would he think of that? He thought of his own mother as blackness rose from his chest. His eyes bulged, barely seeing. But he saw the woman take the bag from atop her head. Consciousness faded, but not fast enough. In his last, gurgling silent scream he watched the translucent plastic being pulled over his face.

For a moment he watched in shock as the bag quivered and filled with steam from his own nostrils. The bag’s green lettering covered one eye. It was a large letter C from a supermarket logo. The printed symbol and the cloudiness of the faded bag gave a twisted, disorienting view of the figure that stood above him.

The last thing he saw was that large letter C. With his last breath, he made the sound “Ccccc,” almost, Frances thought, as though he was trying to utter the other half, “clean.”

It was time to draw a bath. Frances Hart set her purse on the glass end table, pulled off her cotton gloves, and kicked off her shoes. She stepped into a pair of white slip-on house slippers with a nylon rose on top.

She took a roll of grocery produce bags from under the kitchen sink and tore off five or six. She separated them and folded them neatly, and placed them in a pocket inside her purse. The stunner was still disconnected from the electrodes on the purse handles, so she took it out — it was a simple one that Harry had designed — and put it back on its charger. One must always be ready for the unexpected.

She walked into the bathroom and, after giving the tub a quick rinse, set the plug and began to draw her bath.

It had been a long day. A good day, but a long one. She was tired, and feeling a little dirty. Now it was time to clean up.

The following morning, Cora Lewis made her way from one end of the kitchen to the other. She was furious. A slice of toast was getting cold on the kitchen table. A grapefruit sat on the cutting board beside the sink.

On her ever-present television, a local newscaster said, “Last night, a twenty-four-year-old man was found dead on the corner of High Street and Sweeney, another apparent victim of the Bell Town Strangler. Police are not disclosing the name of the victim and the details of his death. But sources tell us that the victim died of asphyxiation in a manner similar to that of five other men in the same vicinity over the past three months...”

“Damn her,” said Cora, not listening to the television, her mind on the grapefruit waiting to be sliced, as she frantically searched the countertops. “If Fran took my knife, we’ll see if I let her in my house again. I know she took it. That was part of a set we got for our anniversary. Frances and her damn purse.”

A place for everything, she thought angrily. And everything in its place.

She didn’t think to look at the side of her easy-chair cushion, where it had lain since Fran’s visit, its blade still sticky with the juice of yesterday’s orange.