Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Never Too Good — To Die by J. Simmons Scheb

No one can die twice, she told herself. And then, seeking the tight, mad look in his face... Or — can they?

Myra Saunders was irritated that afternoon. She flicked on the windshield wiper and the headlights, glanced into the rearview mirror and pushed at her dark brown hair.

“Damn!” she said aloud. The one time Antoine had done a halfway decent job, it had to pour down rain before she could get home.

Anyway, she thought as she pulled the car under the carport, she’d remembered to close the windows in the house. Nothing there would be wet if Charles hadn’t been home some time during the day and opened them again.

She switched off the motor and heaved herself out from under the wheel. Myra was a big, bulky woman of thirty-eight in a bright scarlet suit that strained at the seams as she gathered up her packages and clicked her way over to the side door of her house.

The key wasn’t under the mat, but when she tried the door it opened, and she made a mental note to speak to Charles about that. His carelessness was inexcusable,

Immediately, however, she knew it hadn’t been Charles. Her kitchen was a mess. Every cupboard door was flung wide; half-open drawers spilled out dish towels, potholders, recipes. One of her favorite cups lay broken on the floor.

“Is someone here?” she shouted. “Is somebody in my house?”

Angrily, she marched across the kitchen and laid her packages on the counter. Then suddenly, fear swept over her. Somebody could be in her house. She spun around, and there he was, crouching behind the open door.

At first he seemed to be all shoulders, just one big pair of shoulders in a wrinkled, dirty trench coat.

He made no sound. He simply crouched there, staring, holding her yellow-handled carving knife in his enormous gloved right hand.

Myra couldn’t move. Her legs were paralyzed, her feet riveted to the floor. “Who—?” she demanded. “What—?”

He took one step, forward, and she saw beady little eyes peering from beneath a battered rain hat, the blue-black stubble of a beard on fatty jowls, the thin, pale line that had to be his lips. She opened her mouth to scream but he rushed at her. A slash of sudden pain shot through her body, and as she slumped forward on to the floor, she heard her scream come out a moan.

He hesitated. She could see his big, ugly work shoes, planted inches from her face, and she could hear his heavy breathing, but the knife had fallen under her and he made no attempt to get it. Instead, he must have panicked, because the shoes turned suddenly and pounded away, and the side door slammed so violently that the whole house seemed to shake. She could hear his foot steps fade as he ran across the carport.

A long time later, Myra stirred and heard the living room clock strike five. She raised her head. The pain in her side was excruciating and she found that her legs refused to obey. Tears rushed to her eyes. Sweat broke out on her forehead. Panic rose in her throat.

Myra laid her head down on her arms. Think! she told herself. Think!

It would be at least an hour and a half before Charles got home, and she wasn’t at all sure she could last that long. The pool of blood beneath her was getting bigger with every heartbeat. Instinctively, she knew that life was draining out of her.

The phone was across the kitchen, high up on the wall. She judged the distance at about eight feet. Too far, but she had to try. Forcing herself up onto her elbows, she started edging towards it, dragging her legs behind. In the middle of the floor she collapsed, her elbows crumpling under her and her head bumping hard on the cold and unyielding stone. Tears came to her eyes again and streamed down the sides of her face.

“Why?” she demanded of the empty room. “Why should this happen to me?”

Her frustration turned to anger. A thousand times she had told Charles it was stupid to keep a key underneath the mat. Why hadn’t he listened? After fifteen years of marriage, why couldn’t he just once—

Someone was knocking at the front door. “Come!” Myra tried to shout. But the shout was really a groan, not much more than a whisper. “Come!” she said again, but her voice was even weaker.

She waited. It would be Mrs. Armstrong, from across the street, coming to borrow something. Mrs. Armstrong was a withered, bony little woman who was none too bright, but at least she would know enough to call an ambulance.

Myra’s lips moved. “Come in, Mrs. Armstrong. Come on in and borrow anything you want. I’m sorry I said that last night. I don’t care if you never get organized. Just come in and save my life!”

The knocking stopped. Minutes passed, and Myra waited for footsteps to come around the side of the house to the door that led in from the carport. They didn’t. They simply faded away.

“You idiot!” Myra cried, getting up to her elbows again. “Couldn’t you see the car? You knew I must be home. Why didn’t you come to the side door? You could have seen through the window!”

The phone began to ring. That would be Charles, calling to tell her he’d be late again. She looked up at it gratefully. Oh, Charles. Wonderful, wonderful Charles!

She ground her teeth and began to crawl again. Slowly and painfully she went, leaving a trail of warm blood behind her. By the end of the fourth ring she was under the instrument, desperately trying to pull her useless legs into a use-able position. A yard above her head the phone continued to ring, four more times, five, six.

“I’m coming!” she tried to scream, clutching and clawing at the smooth yellow wall dancing in front of her. At last, she made it. Her legs were uncertain but they were under her, and she snatched the receiver from the hook just in time to hear a click.

“Charles,” she murmured. “Charles!”

The dial tone answered her.

Myra Saunders sank to the floor again, crying silently. “Damn you, Charles. Damn you! You knew I’d be here. I’m always here, fixing dinner for you. How could you hang up!”

The clock chimed for half past five. One more hour to go. Surely, he’d come at 6:30. Surely, he wouldn’t be late tonight, when he hadn’t been able to reach her.

Above her head, the receiver dangled and the dial tone buzzed on. Myra closed her eyes, counted twenty heartbeats and opened her eyes again when she heard the sound of voices.

For the first time she realized that it had stopped raining, and the kids next door were playing in their yard.

“Oh, thank heavens,” Myra breathed. “Mark! Mason! Come help me. Bring your friends. Come over in my yard and up to the window and find me. Let your ball hit against my house. I won’t take it away. I promise.”

The side door was now about four feet from her, and from this angle, she could see that it wasn’t quite closed. The man must have slammed it so hard it had bounced back open again. She had to get to get to it!

Her hopes soared, and she began to crawl one more. The voices were like music — young, high voices, not quite ready to change. There must have been five or six of them. She could even hear the crack of bat on ball, and just as she got to the door, there was a resounding thump. The ball had hit her house.

Ignoring the pain, she scrambled the last few inches, got to her knees and threw the door open, lunged through it, felt the wound open wider as she scraped across the threshold and down the little step into the carport.

“Boys,” she whimpered. “Boys!”

A pair of running dungarees crossed her line of vision. A cry rang out. “We’d better get out of here!”

There was the sound of running feet again, then silence. They had probably knocked down a plant or put a dirty mark on her house. And then the little brats had run!

Fresh tears ran down Myra’s cheeks. Her head throbbed; her elbows were on fire. She could hear the cars going by on the street. Men — more faithful men than Charles — were hurrying home from their offices. Flighty, frivolous women were rushing home from bridge in time to stick frozen dinners in their ovens. Her shoulders jerked with sobs.

“Why?” she demanded. “Why?”

No one looked her way. No one stopped or even slowed. She knew they wouldn’t. Not one single, solitary Good Samaritan lived on Sandcastle Lane.

Movement finally caught her eye. She was lying face down, sandwiched between her car and the door, in front of a screen breezeway through which she could see across her own backyard and the Hartmans’ and on into the Hartman house.

Myra’s pulse began to quicken. Beth Hartman was standing behind that door and waving.

“Beth!” Myra breathed. “Beth! I should have known you’d help me.”

It had been nearly six months since she and Beth Hartman had spoken, but Beth wouldn’t hold a grudge at a time like this. Not just because Myra had poisoned their cat! After all, Myra’s was a human life!

Myra inched her way forward, and when she got to the front of her car, she could see that the lights were burning. So that was it! She’d left the lights on after the rain, and Beth was signaling her.

“Oh, Beth! Beth! Come on over. Please come over and find me!” Myra raised up on her hands, pressed her face hard against the screening of the breezeway. “Look, Beth. See me. Come over and save my life!”

The pain was too much to bear. She collapsed again and lay with her face in her arms, waiting for Beth to come. Certainly, she’d come. She wouldn’t just stand there waving. Sooner or later, she’d wonder why Myra hadn’t responded, and she’d come over to tell her about the car lights.

“Come, Beth, come. See me. Save me.” It sounded like a first grade reader. And ironically enough, Myra thought, the whole thing was so elementary. All Beth had to do was walk across the yard.

Myra waited a long time before she raised her head again and saw that Beth was turned around waving in the other direction. A tremendous sob rose into her throat, threatening to choke her. Beth Hartman had to be purposely avoiding even looking at the Saunders house. She was simply washing her sliding glass door!

“Please, Beth, please! Look at my house, see that my car lights are on and then come over to tell me! I won’t scream at your child. She can pick all the flowers she wants!”

Beth Hartman squatted down, as if to examine the door for streaks, then went back inside and closed the full-length draperies.

Myra’s head dropped down into her arms again, and nausea swept over her. She hated Beth Hartman and all the other stupid, self-centered, grudge-holding people in the world.

With her last bit of strength she rolled over onto her back and lay staring up at the ceiling. She would simply wait for Charles. The pain was too great now, and she was far too exhausted to try any more.

The neighborhood sounds died away, and the sun was sinking rapidly. Everyone had gone inside to eat. No one could possibly find her now except Charles. She was almost hidden from the street by the car and the darkness, and it was extremely unlikely that anyone else would come. She decided she was glad. Never once during the five years she had lived in the house had she asked a favor of a neighbor. She didn’t need one now.

She had no idea of the time, but it was completely dark when she heard Charles’ car. He parked in the driveway, slammed the door and walked towards her very slowly.

She could see his tall, lean silhouette outlined against the moonlight as he stepped to the edge of the carport. He hesitated, then hurried to her, knelt down and took hold of her wrist.

“Myra!” he said hoarsely. “Myra?”

She couldn’t answer. Her lips wouldn’t move, but she tried to flutter her eyelids. Call Jim! she tried to tell him. I’m hurt, but I’m alive. I can make it if you get hold of Jim right now.

He was agonizingly slow. “Move, Charles, move!” she commanded mentally. “Can’t you see that I’m bleeding to death?”

At last he got up and hurried to the phone. She could hear him dialing the number. Oh, thank you, Charles, she thought. Thank you! Thank you! I’ll forgive you for everything.

For everything? She heard his voice, low-pitched and edged with anger. “Sabino?” he was saying. “She’s alive.”

Sabino? Jim’s name wasn’t Sabino. It was Fox.

“She isn’t dead, I tell you. No... no... I couldn’t! I paid you...” He broke off, listened a minute, then clicked the receiver into place. For an eternity, there was nothing. Then his footsteps crossed the kitchen again and he came outside. The car lights went out and he closed the door quietly, then went back into the house. Myra was left in total darkness.

“Oh, no!” she cried silently. “Charles! Please! Don’t leave me here to die. You can have the divorce. Marry your little tramp. I won’t stop you. I won’t even ask for alimony. And I’ll never tell on you, Charles. I promise I won’t tell! Just save me, Charles. Please save me!”

It was almost as if he’d heard her. His footsteps were coming back again. They were slow, but they were coming. She had known he couldn’t do it. Charles Saunders wasn’t the type. He didn’t have the nerve.

“Hurry, stupid, hurry!” Her throat ached, and her brain was bursting into flames. She would get him for this. If it was the last thing she ever did, she would get him.

And then he was standing over her.

“No, Charles, no! I’ll give you the divorce. I’d never hurt you, Charles. I’ve never hurt anyone. I’ve been a perfect wife. You know it. Put that pillow down, Charles. You idiot! You’ll never get away with...”