Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 152, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 924 & 925, September/October 2018

Playground or the Rich by Jennifer Soosar

Jennifer Soosar’s first paid professional fiction publication was in EQMM’s Department of First Stories in May of 2016. Her first novel, the psychological thriller Parent Teacher Association, was released in June 2017. A Canadian writer with an excellent sense of place, she’s set this new story for EQMM at a popular Ontario vacation destination.

“Put that newspaper away,” Kent said to his wife. “It looks funny to be carrying it around.”

“It’s for reference,” Linda replied. “Lists all the hot spots. And what if I see a celebrity in the general store? Gotta have something in hand for them to autograph.”

Kent scoffed. “Last thing the famous want is Joe Public bothering them. Anyway, you wouldn’t recognize a celebrity if they crashed into you. They all dress like slobs in their downtime.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’ve seen the paparazzi photos of how they look without makeup on.”

Kent, Linda, and their son Matt were in the village of Rosseau, prime ice-cream destination of the rich.

“I want bubblegum flavor, Dad!” Matt blurted out. It was loud enough to call the attention of the affluent-looking cottagers milling around in pristine white sporting wear. Even the golden labradoodle looked over.

Kent paid — overpaid! — for three ice-cream cones. Linda wormed her way into the small crowd, the newspaper with the feature article on Muskoka still hinged under her arm. The bold headline “Playground of the Rich” faced out for all to see. Embarrassed at how obvious she looked, Kent turned his back and finished his maple walnut, hardly tasting it.

What was so wrong with Dickie Lake for their summer holiday? What the hell were they doing in Muskoka, paying triple rate for a cottage rental? A crummy cottage too. Not the grandiose multimillion-dollar showpieces Linda had drooled over in the article. Talk about a bait-and-switch. Kent knew they would all be much happier in a little shack or trailer on the grassy shores of Dickie Lake. People were friendly there, down-to-earth, could say “hi” to each other. All he got here were a bunch of strange looks which only seemed to inquire into his financial position and social status.

After the ice cream, Linda wanted to “putter” around Rosseau and “pop” into the shops, “see and be seen.” Kent left her to go crazy and took Matt down to the public dock to wait.

Forty-five minutes later, Linda returned, gabbing stupidly about the casual, yet elegant, cottage furnishings she’d seen in some shop and how she wanted to “replicate the look” for their bedroom at home. Kent tuned it out. He was satisfied with the way their bedroom looked now. His wife was always going on about changing this or that, or trying things out “just to see.” She went on as if there was something wrong with everything he provided.

They climbed into the boat that came included with the weekly rental, a basic runabout with an outboard motor. Nothing wrong with it, but compared to all the sexy, top-of-the-line powerboats and polished-to-death wooden classics moored alongside — eighty thou a pop easy, Kent figured — it was as ugly as a white bathtub.

The afternoon breeze had picked up. Out in the bay, there were white-caps and sailboats. Kent ignored the plastic-coated instruction sheet screwed to the dash for clueless renters and started up the motor. He knew how to operate a damn boat! As he untied the ropes, a red-and-black ski boat with a spiderweb pattern on the hull sped aggressively by, bouncing them up and down in its wake.

“Jerks,” Kent grumbled sourly to himself.

Strolling by on the dock, a tall, distinguished looking gentleman stopped to watch the takeoff with mild interest.

What are you looking at? Kent thought, as he eased the boat in reverse out of the mooring. Mind your own damn business, why don’t you!

Whether it was out of nervousness at being observed, or a miscalculation of big-lake conditions, Kent did not back the boat out far enough. But it was too late. As he turned the wheel and pushed forward on the throttle, the back of the boat fishtailed and made contact with the dock. There was a big thud and the creaking whine of fiberglass grinding against wood.

“Omigod!” shrieked Linda. “You’re bumping the boat!”

Instantly flustered, Kent swung his head wildly between the boat’s stern and the tall man who was staring in astonishment with eyes as wide as an owl’s. Kent corrected the boat. Alarmed, he wondered if he had caused major damage. Would he get into trouble for it? Be responsible for some exorbitant repair bill?

Once out into the privacy of open water, Kent abandoned the steering wheel to check the stern for damage. Some of the black rubber trim bumper had buckled out of its track, and there were some long scuff marks, but nothing too bad; no cracks or dents. Thank Christ! Kent slid back into the captain’s seat, still reeling from the sound of the impact, the sudden confusion, and the shrill, humiliating reprimand of Linda. Worst of all was the fact that it had been witnessed by the tall man on the dock. Kent vented his torment in a loud diatribe, not minding his mouth one bit in front of Matt. Linda knew better than to interrupt.

When it was safe, she broke the silence with, “That wind was coming in real strong. It wasn’t your fault...”

“I know how to operate a boat, Linda,” he said curtly. “Wind or no wind. Cripes! People standing on the dock staring, you screaming your head off, calling attention... Cripes!”

“Nobody saw anything.”

“There was a man standing there looking! Looking at me like I’m some kind of idiot!”

“I think you might be overreacting,” Linda said quietly. “Just a tiny bit.”

They cruised along the shoreline, past grand cottages fashioned in the Olde Muskoka style. Matt was wowed by the inflatable water trampolines, slides, and climbers anchored in front of each place. Linda was impressed by the boathouses — their size and architecture — the cedar shingles, the copper weather vanes, the flower-filled landscaping, the painted Muskoka chairs, the drama of the granite rocks, and the towering, wind-swept white pines. Everything looked exactly like the pictures from the newspaper article! Exactly like a postcard!

Kent said nothing. He kept the motorboat steered straight for the rental cottage. In his mind, he saw the tall man’s eyes widen into two big circles in a continuous loop.

He knew what that astonished, owl-eye look meant. He’d seen it before. The first time, when he was seven or eight — Matt’s age — and came downstairs wearing a hand-me-down muscle shirt. The adults, all gathered around playing Euchre, collectively widened their eyes at the sight of him. One of them, the neighbor woman, laughed at him and pointed.

“Look, Kentie’s got arms like a sparrow’s kneecap!”

The others, happy on rum punch, laughed along. Embarrassed, Mom leapt up and whispered for him to put on another shirt.

At work, there were widened eyes whenever he dared to contribute an idea in a meeting. And also from Linda, that time on their first date when he took her behind the movie theater and showed her the door propped open for ventilation. She had looked at him in that same owl-eyed way when he said, “C’mon, I sneak in all the time... money for concessions if we do...”

Owl Man’s widened-eye look from the dock meant: You don’t belong around here. You have no experience with boats. You’re a low-class loser. Kent writhed at the thought of it. Of course he had experience with boats! He had piloted lots of boats during his youth at Dickie Lake, and the smaller Frog Lake. Piloted boats all day long, screwed local chicks in them too, Linda included!

She was nothing but a small-town rube with aspirations no higher than working cash at the Dickie Lake supermarket when he first met her. He was the sophisticated big-city guy, only in the area for the summer. Make no mistake, she latched onto him. And, thanks to his acumen, he got her enrolled in community college and pointed at something with a future — administrative work. After getting married, they moved out east to Whitby where houses were cheap and had the kid, Matthew. Life was just fine until she saw that damn newspaper article. Movie stars and television personalities and NHL players. Old money and the nouveau riche. Fine dining, trendy shops, and a plethora of watersport and recreation options all set in magnificent, unspoiled Canadian Shield splendor.

“Oh, let’s vacation there next summer,” Linda had begged. “Just to see what it’s like...”

Who was this woman lying next to him, Kent wondered in the silence of night. Those comments she had made today — “Isn’t the water in Muskoka so blue? Nothing like that dull, shallow green we’re used to, eh? It’s because these lakes are big and deep. They’re glacial lakes, you know.” It was so unlike her. Since when did she care so much about the color of lake water and about glaciers and stuff?

She was snoring, oblivious to the stinging agony he’d been in ever since the boat-dock incident. One measly inquiry at dinner into why he was being so quiet hardly qualified as caring!

The mushy mattress was uncomfortable. Kent lay awake with a stiff neck and the pressure points of his body aching. Outside the window, there was the soft hoot-hoot sound of an owl perched in a nearby tree.

Owl Man. Laughing at him, eyes wide in aghast, yet amused, disgust at the lame, subpar motorboat scraping against the dock. The sound of wood and fiberglass grinding played at full volume over and over in Kent’s mind while the owl taunted him with its incessant hoot-hooting. Kent exploded out of bed and slammed the window shut. Linda turned over and murmured.

“Cold air blowing in,” Kent whispered in a clipped tone. “Go back to sleep.”

The next day, Linda wanted to go for a day cruise on the lake to gawk at the celebrity cottages of Stephen Spielberg, Goldie Hawn, Tom Hanks, and a bunch of others. The newspaper article, of course, provided a complete “Map to the Stars.” Kent had zero desire to see celebrity cottages, and zero desire to get back into the boat.

“Noticed we’re out of charcoal briquettes,” he said, slapping a mosquito to death on his arm. Earlier that morning, Kent had dumped out a half bag of briquettes behind the cottage and covered it up with leaves in case Linda called him out. She felt the need to do that from time to time.

“Already? Didn’t we bring up a whole fresh bag?”

“Need to get more. There’s a hardware store in that town we passed through — Port Carling.”

Linda referenced the newspaper article. “We can boat there,” she said. “Port Carling’s on the lake.”

“I’d rather drive.”

Linda looked at him. “Are you still upset about yesterday? About bumping into the dock?”

Tensing up, Kent said nothing. His hands squeezed into fists.

Linda laughed at him. “You can’t be! Oh, that’s just silliness if you are.”

In Port Carling, the small family visited the hardware store then walked across the road to get hot dogs and fries at Howard’s. After, Kent wanted to go back to the cottage and fish for rock bass off the dock. But Linda insisted they stroll up and down the busy main drag — “see and be seen” and “take in the atmosphere.”

Glumly, Kent walked along, trying to remain unnoticed. It was the smart play, he thought, keeping a low profile. The super rich all did the same thing. Who was to say he didn’t have a hundred-million bucks in the bank and, so self-assured by it, felt no need to advertise the fact to every stranger. Only posers and wannabes clamored like desperados for attention; everything brand name, everything in your face. The main drag was full of them. Kent figured they were all in fathomless amounts of debt trying so hard to look rich. He wondered how the hell they slept at night.

Linda dragged them into a décor/gift shop. As Kent reluctantly browsed the offerings, he overheard some men having a conversation about “wakeboarding camp” for their children. Listening in, if only for the grotesque hilarity of it, Kent gleaned that “wakeboarding camp” was the hot trend of the season. Apparently, if you didn’t grab a spot for your kid by last February, you were clean out of luck for the summer.

“Guess polo camp’s out this year,” Kent said sarcastically, loud enough for them to hear, and not caring if they did.

He moved away and picked up a rather handsome inlaid cutting board. It was hand crafted from various hardwoods and sanded smooth. In small letters, “Muskoka” was wood-burned along the bottom, but not in a disgusting way. Suddenly, he had the idea of buying it for Linda as a souvenir. It was a practical item, after all. Turning it over, Kent saw the price sticker — $125.

Outrageous! he thought with a jolt. What a friggin’ rip-off!

Looking sheepishly around him, he put the cutting board down, feeling the heat blooming up his neck for even considering such a frivolous item. His heart skipped a beat and he gasped.

It was Owl Man.

Standing and staring at him! Owl Man had seen Kent contemplate the cutting board, then reject it after viewing the unaffordable price.

Again, that same wide-eyed, astonished, mocking stare!

Saliva pumped into his mouth and Kent felt as if he would vomit right there. He bolted out of the store. Twenty minutes later, Linda found him skulked around the corner on a side street.

“There you are!” she said. “We were looking everywhere!”

He saw that she had bought something, saw the fancy paper shopping bag in her hand.

“What’d you buy?” he asked.

“Kent... are you all right?”

“Fine,” he answered, staring at the bag.

“It’s just a silk scarf.” She pulled a corner out of the tissue paper to show him. “Painted by a local artist.”

“How much?”

“Not expensive. Don’t ask that. I paid with my own money.”

“Our money,” he said.

They returned to the main sidewalk. Kent’s eyes darted around anxiously for Owl Man.

“Ice cream!” Matt said, pointing at the crowd of people gathered on the Moose Tracks patio across the street.

“You had a cone yesterday,” Kent said flatly.

“Oh, c’mon, it’s our vacation,” said Linda. “My treat!”

Kent reached for her arm. “I don’t want my son getting spoiled, like the brats up here who do stuff like wakeboarding.”

“What’s wakeboarding?” asked Matt.

“Something that’s beyond unimportant,” said Kent.

“I believe wakeboarding is like water skiing,” Linda said. “Maybe Matt can take a lesson while we’re up here?”

Kent glared at her. “Are you outta your freakin’ mind?” It came out louder than he intended, his voice rising above the parade of BMWs and Land Rovers inching along the main drag. Cottagers everywhere, on the sidewalk around them and over at the Moose Tracks patio, all turned to look. In the crowd of questioning, judging faces, Kent saw Owl Man. Even from afar, Kent saw the eyes widening in appalled disapproval.

“Let’s get outta here,” Kent mumbled, turning and walking briskly back to the parked car. Linda and Matt followed him at a distance behind.

“What about the ice cream?” Linda called out, but Kent ignored her.

As they crawled in the painfully slow traffic past Moose Tracks, Linda was angry, and Matt upset about missing the cone. Gripping the steering wheel, Kent kept his gaze locked forward. He did not dare look at any of the cottagers. He was certain they were all snickering at his Ford Focus wagon while they licked away like cows at their ice creams. How dare I ruin their fabulous view with my domestic vehicle, he thought with a sneer. What an eyesore it must be for them. It’s incredible they don’t slam me with a ticket for...

Linda shrieked, “Kent, STOP!”

Blinking back to reality, Kent hit the break for the people jaywalking in front of his car to get across to Moose Tracks.

His jaw set firmly in place, teeth grinding together, Kent felt a trembling sense of insult. Spoiled brats in such a rush for their damn ice cream, he thought. Acting like they’re so cool, too! Cripes, the longer we hang around this place, the more Matt will start thinking this twilight zone is normal!

With the break in traffic, more people stepped out in front of Kent’s car with its bug-splattered windshield, rusted wheel wells, and side dents. He sat motionlessly watching all Muskoka take a leisurely walk in front of them. As he was about to take his foot off the brake to catch up into the gap, Linda cried, “WAIT!”

A man.

Owl Man.

Stepping out in front of the car, head turned, eyes wide. Clear recognition from the boat dock smash-up and the decor shop. Eyes wide, and widening!

Kent felt like he was being strangled by a giant, invisible hand. The lump in his throat hardened into a gagging rock, his own eyes widening in panic and rage.

“Okay,” Linda said cheerfully. “Go, before any more people cross,” and then, “Don’t worry, Matt, we’ll go get you an ice cream in Rosseau later this aft.”

They took the boat out to Rosseau. Kent decided he would protest no more. Easy sailing from now on. For the rest of the trip, he decided, they would hear no more from him. Feed the kid a whole bucket of ice cream for all he cared. Sign him up to learn a useless skill for the price of two months’ worth of groceries too. Why the hell not? No, they would not hear another peep from him for the rest of this asinine “vacation.”

Linda took Matt up the hill to the general store while Kent stayed back at the dock, looking at the spot where he’d screwed up yesterday. He had reviewed it in his mind hundreds of times and saw the extraordinary stupidity of his mistake. If he had only reversed the boat a little more! But with all those fancy-ass ski boats moored every which way — lined up like damn Lamborghinis! — he had been afraid of getting too close, scratching one of them, attracting attention, ire, and a fantastic repair bill.

“Boat okay?” a voice said from behind.

“Huh?” he said, turning, recognizing the face, the widening eyes.

Owl Man.

“Hard bump yesterday. Chipped off part of the dock. See?”

Kent looked over the side of the dock and saw where the wood was missing.

“You feel superior pointing that out?” Kent growled. “Make you feel good?”

“You’re a renter, right?” said Owl Man. “Not used to boats.”

Kent studied the man: the wide circle of white around his pupils, the superior smirk on his lips, the quality of his golf shirt.

“Think I can’t run a boat?” asked Kent. “Get in. Let me take you out for a little spin.”

“No need to prove anything to me,” Owl Man said.

“Get in,” demanded Kent. “Before my wife comes back. I’ll show you what I can do.”

“Alrighty.” Owl Man stepped into the boat. Kent sneered at the fact that he was wearing leather moccasins with no socks. Linda had once tried to push that so-called trend in men’s fashion on him, which he had gladly rejected. His sneakers and sports socks were plenty fine.

Kent started up the motor, untied the ropes, and backed out of the spot with confidence, not bothering to look how close he was to the bow of the ski boat behind.

“Impressive,” said Owl Man. “If you’d only have done that yesterday, you’d have saved your small family so much humiliation.”

“Shut up,” Kent said, throttling full thrust to plane the boat. “I been running boats all my life. Worked at Dickie Lake Marina every summer I was a kid. Yeah, a job. Ever hear of a summer job? Working? No sissy summers bouncing on a water trampoline or learning how to—”

“This is rather fast,” Owl Man shouted.

The boat was at full speed, skimming over the top of the water. It shook over the hard, rippling water, vibrating and pounding. Suddenly, Kent swerved the boat one way and then the other. The motorboat cut wildly through the water, threatening to flip over. Kent spun the wheel, keeping tight control, and the boat slammed up and down over its own wake.

“Tell me I can’t run a boat now!” Kent screamed. “Stop freaking out, Owl Man — can’t handle a little fun in the ‘playground of the rich’?”

And then, out in the open part of the big lake, he saw the white lighthouse standing tall atop an outcropping of rocks. Kent coursed straight for it, ignoring Owl Man’s desperate cries.

Full throttle ahead.

Flying over whitecaps.

Kent’s skull and teeth chattering.

Straight into the lighthouse.

The engine tore off like a loose chip of paint on the outer rocks. The hull shred apart, the wreck careening into the side of the lighthouse in a horrific flash. The impact obliterated Kent.

A fatal boating accident in Muskoka, the newspaper reported a day later. The sole victim, a thirty-five-year-old office clerk named Kent Shrimpton, was renting a cottage with his family for the week. He was unfamiliar with Lake Rosseau and inexperienced in the proper operation of a pleasure craft.