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

First Dates Are Always the Tricky Ones by Marilyn Todd

A writer whom Kirkus Reviews has described as “never boring” and Mystery Scene as “wry and entertaining,” Marilyn Todd is one of our genre’s humorists, hut she has also written a number of dark tales such as this one. In addition to the many stories she has contributed to tills magazine and other publications, the British author has produced 16 historical novels.

“I’m home, Mum,” Lindsey calls upstairs. “Told you I wouldn’t be long.”

She didn’t dare hang about. Not this morning. Way too much to do.

“You wouldn’t believe how short the queues were at the checkout.” She stuffs the butter in the fridge. The rest of the shopping can wait. “Suppose the rain put people off.”

There was, of course, no reply from her mother, paralysed and unable to speak after that second stroke, and Lindsey’s throat tightens. Unless it happens to you, you can’t imagine. One minute, Kathy Raines was a carefree, loving wife and mother. The next, a widow with two of her three children dead in the same car crash that killed her husband—

Being twelve years older than the twins, Lindsey had already left home and was settled down south in London with a job, a flat, a social life. Nothing special, nothing posh, but she’d been happy, and heck, if you can’t have good times when you’re young, leggy, blond, and pretty, there’s something wrong with you. Gareth — handsome, blue-eyed, rugby-playing Gareth — was the icing on the cake.

Standing in the kitchen with water dripping off her coat and fringe, a lump blocks Lindsey’s throat. She should have known the magic wouldn’t last...

“Mitzi. Minzi.” She yanks the ring-pull on a tin of cat food. Salmon and tuna, the label reads. “Dinner.”

Sometimes, even now, she still can’t quite believe her luck, falling in love with Gareth, or the passion with which he loved her back. She’d hated dating. Absolutely dreaded every single meeting. So much effort, so much hope, for men who turned out to be boring/lazy/smelly or else bigots, tightwads, vain, and she sighs. They’d limped on for a couple of months after the accident, her and Gareth, but she couldn’t — simply couldn’t — leave Mum on her own up north. In any case, they’d needed one another, they were all the family they had left, and now, as she scrapes cat food into bowls, her stomach flips at the horror of those stretched-out, empty days.

“Once the funeral’s sorted,” she’d promised him, “I’ll move back to London, hope they’ve held my job open, and we’ll get ourselves back on track, you and me.”

But who could have predicted that bodies weren’t automatically released in complex accident investigations? Could imagine the agony of picturing your dad and little brothers lying mangled and alone in soulless fridges? Or the paralysis that comes from helplessness—?

“You can’t rush grief, Lins.” A tear rolls down her cheek as she remembers how tightly Gareth used to hold her. The way he’d stroke her hair and rock her, until the sobbing stopped. “Let nature take its course, sweetheart, then we’ll take ours.”

“Mitzi?” She rattles the fork impatiently against the can. “Minzi!”

Damn cats. Never around when you want them, but then nothing ever goes to plan, does it? Even the little things, like the bloody Co-op this morning. Horrid, poky little store. No choice, ghastly, and what little stock they carry boils down to take it or leave it. But! With her Fiesta off the road (something else she needs to sort out), it’s the only shop within walking distance, and beggars can’t be choosers, even in the rain.

All the same. She looks at the sad offerings in the carrier bag. Call that ham?

She makes no effort to remove her dripping coat. They were okay, her and Gareth, while it was just mum and daughter working through their grief. He’d drive up at weekends, and even though it wasn’t exactly a bundle of laughs, poor sod, he stepped up to the mark. Never moaned. Was helpful, supportive, caring, sweet — everything a girl could want at times like that. It was only when Mum had a stroke that things went south, but no way was she putting her in a home, no bloody way, and tears scald Lindsey’s face. Brought on by the trauma of losing a husband and two young sons at once, the doctors reckoned. Coupled with the stress of not wanting to be a burden to her only surviving child.

“You? A burden?” Lindsey sniffs into her hankie. “Never, Mum. Not ever.”

She gives a good hard blow and tells herself to pull herself together. That was fifteen years ago, and for Christ’s sake, Mum recovered, didn’t she? It was precisely because Lindsey had been on hand to spot the symptoms that her mother was in hospital within the hour, receiving treatment that literally saved her life, and yes, it was an uphill struggle at the start. But when you weigh up Mum — far too young to be stuck in some care facility, where she wouldn’t know a soul — versus Lindsey, caring for her in her own home, what was a few months out of a young woman’s life?

Except. She brings her hankie out again. Blows harder. It wasn’t just a few months, was it, eh? Mum coming home was just the first step on the long road to recovery. There was massage, physio, all the other help she’d needed to learn to walk and talk again, and of course she’d never taken driving lessons, not touched a computer in her life (like so many things, those were Dad’s department), which meant all that fell on Lindsey’s shoulders too.

And then, when Mum suffered that second stroke—

The one that left her completely helpless this time round—

“Omelette for lunch okay?”

Asking’s pointless, but if she didn’t call up, there’d be no sound in the house, and Jesus, her life was empty enough.

Oh for heaven’s sake, stop wallowing. Make yourself a cup of coffee, strong as it comes, and get over it, girl. But with the muddle of the shopping bags, wet shopping bags at that, she’s effectively blocked the kettle in. Something else that’ll have to bloody wait, and besides, water’s better for you, Lindsey Raines, so stop your moaning.

And oh, would you look at that. She needn’t have opened a fresh can, there’s still loads of cat food in the bowls. Hey ho, too late now. She rolls her eyes. Now, about that wretched omelette! She searches for the eggs in the fridge. Bugger. Knew there was something she forgot.

“Macaroni cheese, Mum.”

Microwave, even though Mum would have a fit if she knew. Hated the wretched things, didn’t trust them, said it killed every gram of goodness in the food, gave you cancer, and made everything taste like plastic, but hey, Mum’s stuck up there in bed, and Lindsey’s the one saddled with running this bloody great ramshackle of a house. Microwave it’ll have to be, and anyway, she has too much tidying up to do, make the place presentable, to go fiddling about with recipes for lunch.

“Grant,” she calls up. “My date tonight, Mum. His name’s Grant.”

And would you believe, there were butterflies in her tummy?

“Which do you reckon? The red dress” — if you’ve got it, flaunt it — “or something more low key?”

The latter. Definitely the latter. Red smacked of excitement verging on desperation, and she needed to take it slow and play it cool. First dates were tricky little buggers, and while Grant was hopefully as nervous as her, few blind dates work out well, and at times like that, a girl needs to walk away with some smattering of dignity.

It takes forever, and her heart’s in her mouth at every turn, but eventually she digs out the perfect outfit. Black trousers, pale blue blouse, bit tight but complements her eyes, with those adorable little patent kitten heels, and thank God, oh thank you God, she didn’t throw them out.

Shit.

Suppose he’s put off by the peeling paintwork on the door and knee-high grass, like her last date? Robert, Roger, Rupert, whatever his name was. It’s always a worry, when you’ve only ever spoken to someone on the phone, and Lindsey’s under no illusions when it comes to men.

Even so. She has a good, good feeling about this one...

“I should warn you,” she’d told Grant. “The house is a mess.”

Best he knew beforehand that she wasn’t up to ladder work, had no money for a handyman — who does, on a carer’s allowance? — and wasn’t, to be honest, the practical type.

“No worries.” His laugh was soft and reassuring. “I’m not the judgmental type.”

A shiver runs down her spine at the sound of his lovely soft voice. Hint of a West Country lilt unless she missed her guess, and while the microwave whirrs the macaroni cheese into inedible goo, she wonders, for the billionth time, what he looks like. The voice suggests neither tall nor short, a temperament that’s patient and slow to anger, and somehow she doesn’t see him as skinny, either. The voice also puts him around the same age as herself, though he’d probably have divorce and kids as the emotional baggage, rather than a sick, traumatized mother.

“I want a man with a slow hand,” she sings. “I want a lover with an easy touch...”

Her pulse is racing. Is it too much to hope for a fresh start, after fifteen years in the dating wilderness? Only time will tell, but he definitely sounded different from the rest, did Grant. More interested in her than in himself, which was an encouraging sign. (Especially after Roger-Robert-Rupert, who spent the entire time telling her what he intended to do, arrogant prat).

With a rush of clarity, Lindsey tosses low key to the winds. Red. Without doubt, the red dress for her first date with Grant.

The only question is, how stale’s the matching lipstick?

She fluffs her long blond hair and tries it out.

Beaumont Drive could be any tree-lined street dating from the thirties. Solid houses, neat front gardens, nice cars in the drive, every house pretty much indistinguishable from its neighbour, apart from the colour of the door or the style of double-glazing. In fact, the whole lot could have been mass-produced in a factory and set down in suburbia, had it not been for Number 42.

Number 42, with its gate rotted off the hinges, bricks and rubbish piled higgledy-piggledy on what used to be a lawn in the front garden, and one courageous rose, bright pink, poking through a bed of weeds and brambles.

As he switches off the engine, a flurry of red bursts out of the house.

“Hi,” he says, stepping out of the car. “I’m—”

“Early. I know, but that’s okay, Grant, I’m ready.” The flurry swirls, and he finds it hard to reconcile the wide, welcoming smile with someone who calls him by his surname. “Come on in.”

“Thanks.” He reaches for his clipboard. Quickly scans his notes. Can’t believe that this lump of a woman with bad teeth and greasy hair is still five years short of forty.

“I warned you the place was a shambles,” she laughs, then suddenly her face twists and she looks worried. “Does that put you off?”

“It’s what I’m here for,” he assures her, handing her his business card.

“Ooh. Environmental Health Officer. How exciting.”

She stretches the last word into three syllables, not even noticing that the card reads Matthew Grant, and the loneliness that’s defined her life is pulsing off in waves.

“Come in, make yourself at home.”

In the hall, he squeezes past more boxes, bin bags, humongous great piles of newspapers, linens, old clothes, rusty appliances, bits of broken furniture, empty cartons, cardboard, bottles, cans. Fifteen years of them.

“Coffee, Grant? Wine?”

“I’m fine, thanks.”

“We have whisky, if you prefer?”

“No, really.”

Used as he is to bad smells, this takes the biscuit. Mind, he’d expected as much. It’s why he’d made it his last call of the day. But that stink—

“Go on in the lounge, Grant, I won’t be a minute. Got some sausage rolls in the oven.”

Lounge? You can’t see the sofas for the junk, much less the telly, and for pity’s sake, is that a dead cat under there? The pink collar reads Mitzi, but whatever this thing used to be, it’s long past the putrefaction stage.

“The mother! Holy crap, where’s the bloody mother—?”

Fighting piles of debris on the stairs, he found the answer on the bed, hair splayed prettily on a pillow scattered with wizened rose petals. On the bedside table, clear of clutter, clear of dust, were photo frames of silver. Inside one, a couple on their wedding day. Another with that same handsome man, older now and with a little less hair, playing football on a beach with two freckle-faced boys, as alike as two peas in a pod. The third photo showed a young girl, tall and blond with legs up to her armpits, smiling broadly with her arm around her mother.

“Poor bitch,” Matt mutters, texting his contact in the police force. “You poor, poor woman, you.”

Not the remains mummifying on the bed. Lindsey. For all she’s been through, all she’s had to suffer and endure, without any psychiatric help.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing, barging in on Mum?”

A blow sends Matt flying forward on his face. He tries to lift his head. To turn.

The second thwack leaves him out of options.

“How rude.”

Lindsey drags him into the bedroom across the hall, crammed with newspapers and linens, and all the other stuff she can’t bring herself to throw away, because you never know when you might need it. Like this piece of four-by-two that fell off the garden fence awhile back.

“Honestly, Grant, I thought you were better than that, I really did.”

Since she can’t close the door, she covers him with bin liners bursting at the seams with kitchen rubbish. It’s only decent. Besides, he’ll be company for Derek from pest control, another one who took liberties on their first date, along with Robert-Roger-Rupert, that self-centred social-worker prat. Why, oh why, couldn’t more men be like Gareth?

“Looks like another night in, Mum, just the two of us.”

Lindsey works her way downstairs.

“Sausage rolls all right?”

As sirens blare, coming ever closer, she opens a tin of cat food, salmon and tuna, the label reads, and scrapes it into the bowl.

“Mitzi, Minzi... Dinner...”