By Judy Shantz (1713 words)

It had been nearly two years since Lucy had put on her corporate clothes and taken the early train to the City. Stylish clothes, major-label pantsuits, or boot-cut jeans with a blazer if it was a Friday. But today she had caught a glimpse of herself in the window and the window had said, “Frump.” So true. The ballet flats worn down at the heel had replaced her lovely Italian boots. The navy cords worn to a shine and the oversized sweater all confirmed it. The reflection in the window automatically checked its shoulders for spit-up stains. “Get a grip,” she silently yelled at the window.

Lucy had chosen a chair in one corner where she could see all the entrances into the so-called reception room. She sat down and put her notepad on her lap—her brand new, unsullied note pad that proudly declared OfficeMax on its binding—the notepad that was tucked inside her leather folio with her name embossed on the cover, along with the name of the newspaper she worked for. Regardless of the window’s proclamation, she felt that the folio gave her gravitas, gave her legitimacy, the one thing that said “see, I am an actual writerly-type person who has every right to be at this retreat.”

Still, she had remembered her girlish out-burst yesterday and felt the damp flush of embarrassment climbing up her throat to her cheeks. What kind of mature, thoughtful person gushes “wow” to an accomplished professional? Today she would be quiet and observant and take lots of notes.

Of course, that was all before the ex-cop crime writer had decided to become a CSI agent and before their hosts had disappeared into a room at the farthest end of the hall.

***

The storm raged off and on outside. Occasionally the wind would die down and the sun would peek out, lighting up the few remaining leaves on the big leaf maple across the street. The group would all rush to admire the sudden reprieve from the wild weather, only to get soaked as the next squall came charging through. “We’re being teased,” said Mavis. “And maybe not just by the weather. Like, when does the actual retreat even start?”

Underneath the sounds of wind high in the pine trees and the rain lashing the windows, they slowly became aware of something else. A door had slammed somewhere in the back of the  main building. A girl’s voice called out—not necessarily frightened, but annoyed, impatient. Footsteps running down the hall and the sound of grunting on the other side of the wall.

“Bear,” said Chuck, with authority and Lucy gasped, fingering the canister inside her purse. Would she remember how to use it? Pull the pin. Get low. Spray upwards at the beast’s face. Is that what the man had told her? But what if it was a very short bear? 

The worry proved moot as the door to the grand salon suddenly opened and a teenaged girl in jeans and muck boots crashed into the reception area, uttering profuse apologies and struggling to maintain control of a rather large pig with a dog collar and a blue bandana around its neck.

“What the hell,” barked Chuck. “Who let that huge beast in here?”

“He’s not huge. He’s still really just a piglet,” said the girl.

“A piglet? He sure looks pretty big to me.”

“I thought piglets were supposed to be small and cute,” said Mavis.

The girl looked offended. “Well, I think he’s very cute. He’s only four months old, from the last litter of the summer. I’m raising him to show next spring. We live in the main house out past the barn. I’m Jen and this here is Wilbur.”

“Naturally,” said Ed.

“Huh?” said Chuck. “Whaddaya mean, naturally?”

“You don’t read much KidLit, do you?” Mavis asked sarcastically.

Lucy finally found her voice, “That’s not KidLit. It’s Classic.”

“Whatever,” grumbled Chuck. “But why is he snuffling and grunting around like that?”

“He’s looking for food. That’s why he pushed his way in here before I could get his leash on him. He smells something.”

“What does he eat?” asked Lucy

“Oh, he’ll eat anything—pig slop, corn husks, peas, grapes, even meat and blood. He loves it all. He sure seems to have smelled something yummy in here this morning. Come on, Wilby, let’s go and leave these people to their meeting.” 

***

Jasper and Margaux were missing all the excitement of the marauding pig, which at least had added a temporary levity to the meeting. Jasper was still fully clothed in last night’s smoking jacket and slacks and was curled like a fetus with the comforter pulled over his head. Every time Margaux tried to talk to him, he would let out a little cry and mumble something incoherent.

Margaux finally ripped the comforter off him and he squealed, “I didn’t do anything! I only suggested something. A solution. Is that a crime? But, but…do you think they’ll exhume her body?”

 “Shut up, Jimmy. You’re dreaming. Or hallucinating, more likely.” She tried to drag him to his feet by his jacket while holding out a glass with a double shot of courage. He did, as usual, respond to the offer of whiskey.

“Get in the shower right now and I’ll get out some clean clothes for you.” She decided that now was not the time to tell him about the photos she had taken in room 28 or about the blood-stained copy of his book.

Twenty minutes later she was marching him down the hall and into the reception area. There she left him, bleary-eyed and red-faced, tottering slightly and trying to masque it all with charm.

“I apologize, folks. I seem to have slept in this morning.” He was wondering if the pounding in his head was visible. Couldn’t they see his temples ballooning out and then collapsing into his eye sockets?

Margaux slipped into the grand salon and was relieved to see that a do-it-yourself sandwich bar had been set up with bottles of wine and cans of ale half buried in a tub of ice. One more crisis averted.

For half an hour the attendees chatted amiably, all pretending that their sandwiches didn’t resemble chilled slabs of library paste and that the wine had come recently from an estate in the Napa Valley. 

JP had both shown up, looking a bit worse for wear but determined to pin down Jasper once and for all. They were positive that a nod from the famous writer would launch their novel series to stratospheric heights.

And Bunny was in fine form, in spite of her red wine headache. She had Jasper cornered and she was giving it her best shot. She had already floated several of her ideas to which he had cooly replied, “Very interesting idea, Ms. Beecham.” Or “I might give it a thought, Ms. Beecham.” Oh, would she just please go away. He couldn’t take much more of this.

However, Bunny was determined to keep going. “Picture this, Mr. St. John. May I call you Jasper?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “As I was saying, picture this. An entire series based on old song lyrics—like the ones Bob Dylan or the Beatles wrote. Try this on for size. There’s an old man, a priest. Seems very lonely. Sits by himself in his rectory, mending his clothes. But by night he becomes a different person altogether and ….”

Jasper’s face had gone flat and white, with a rictus grin, as though he had just had his first glimpse inside the asylum. Good god! Jack the Ripper as a lonely priest. “I think we’ve had quite enough stories about priests run amok, Ms. Beecham.” He grabbed the nearest bottle of wine by the neck and charged off down the hall. 

“But, wait,” said JP in unison, to no one in particular. Their literary hopes were fading.

***

Jasper collapsed in his room, moaning slightly and shaking. He couldn’t shake the dreams or the memories. He could no longer bury the fear of what very possibly could have been a crime.

Years ago, after Jasper had published his first novel, he had made the mistake of starting a  celebratory crawl of Seattle’s seedier bars and pubs. There were a lot to choose from. He eventually acquired a drinking companion, a man who had crawled up on to the next bar stool one night and with whom he shared very similar proclivities—mostly a taste for expensive tequila and a desire to write. They got along well. They traded stories from their childhoods and their very different but equally dreadful parents.

It was after a lot of Mexico’s finest one night that Jasper described the series of novels he was starting, The Matricide Mania books and he asked his friend about plot points. “Can an ordinary guy get, or buy, say, anthrax?” 

“Sure, it’s not that hard.” 

“Really?” 

“Sure, I could get some tomorrow if I wanted.”

Jasper laughed. “I could write a story about sending anthrax to a drug-addled mother and she thinks he’s sent her coke.” He started to giggle and downed the rest of his tequila shot. They plotted and drank until the bartender was about to turf them to the street.

Jasper was trying to get off his bar stool without falling on the floor. He looked at his friend who had given him so many good and murderous ideas and said, “These evil schemes are what I do so like about you, you sicko!”

The world turned. The bartender blinked the closing lights. His drinking companion became very still, rigid. He slid from his stool and pushed his face right into Jasper’s. “Don’t you ever call me that again. Ever. Ever!” His voice was high and shrill. Then he took his glass and threw the contents in Jasper’s face. 

That was the end, until last night. 

***

Margaux was trying to clean up a bit, carrying the half-eaten sandwiches to the bin outside the back door. She was just lifting the lid when she saw the pig, pushing past her and down the hall before she could get the door closed to stop it.