Her mind is still very keen and seems to become keener even as her eccentricities grow. She, who always proudly considered herself frugal, is spending money like water. Thanks to several investments her husband, my grandfather, made, she is downright wealthy and it has been with great pleasure that I have observed her simple lifestyle. But now it is different. For example, she just put an elevator, which cost forty thousand dollars, in her modest home. She is sure she will live to be one hundred and is contemplating building a state-of-the-art gym in the backyard because she read in a Harvard medical report that exercise is good for arthritis.
I submit to you that a better cure for her arthritis is to put an end to it forever. This I propose to do.
You must realize that I am her sole grandson and heir. Her only child, my mother, departed this earth shortly after I graduated from college. In the twenty-six years since then I have married and divorced twice and been involved in many ill-fated ventures. It is time for me to stop wasting my time on useless enterprises and enjoy a life of comfort. I must help to make that possible.
Obviously her demise would need to seem natural. At her advanced age, it would not be unlikely to have her pass away in her sleep, but if someone holding a pillow were to help that situation occur there is always the danger of a bruise that might make the police suspicious. Police always look for motive and I would be a living, breathing motive. I am uncomfortable about the fact that when under the influence of wine I was heard to say that the only present I wanted from my grandmother for my next birthday was a ticket to her funeral.
How then was I to help my grandmother sail across the River Styx without arousing suspicion?
I was quite simply at a loss. I could push her down the stairs and claim she fell but if she survived the fall, she would know that I caused it.
I could try to disable her car but that ancient old Bentley she drives with the skill of Mario Andretti would probably survive a crash.
Poison is easily detectable.
My problem was solved in a most unexpected way.
I had been invited to have dinner at the home of a successful friend, Clifford Winkle. I value Clifford’s superb wines and gourmet table far more than I value Clifford. Also I find his wife, Belinda, insipid. But I was in the mood for a splendid dinner in comfortable circumstances and looked forward to the evening with pleasure.
I was seated with Clifford and his wife, enjoying a generous scotch on the rocks that I knew had been poured from a two-hundred-dollar bottle of single malt reserve, when their little treasure, ten-year-old Perry, burst into the room.
“I’ve decided, I’ve decided,” he shouted, spittle spraying from the space between his upper front teeth.
The parents smiled indulgently. “Perry has been reading the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe this week,” Clifford told me.
The last time I was a guest I had endured Perry’s endless description of a book he had read about fly-fishing, and how by reading it, he could really, really understand all about baiting and casting and catching and why fly-fishing was really, really special. I wanted desperately to interrupt him and tell him I had already seen A River Runs Through It, Robert Redford’s splendid film on the subject but, of course, I did not.
Now Perry’s all-consuming passion was obviously Edgar Allan Poe. “ ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ is my favorite,” he crowed, his short red hair spiking up on the crown of his skull, “but I could write a better ending, I know I could.”
Barefoot boy with cheek out-Poes Poe, I thought. However, I wanted to show some small degree of interest. I was down to my last sip of the two-hundred-dollar scotch and hoped that by directing attention to myself, Clifford might notice my empty glass and not neglect his duty as my host. “In high school I wrote a new ending to ‘The Cask of Amantillado,’ ” I volunteered. “I got an A in my English class for it. I remember how it began.” I cleared my throat. “ ‘Yes. I killed him. I killed him a long fifty years ago. . . .’ ”
Perry ignored me. “You see in the ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ the guy killed the old man because he can’t stand looking at his eye. Then he buries the old man’s heart but when the cops come he thinks he hears the heart beating and goes nuts and confesses. Right?”
“Right!” Clifford affirmed enthusiastically.
“Exactly. Um-hmm,” Belinda agreed, beaming at her whiz kid.
“In my book, the guy kills the old man, but another guy watches him do it, then helps him cut up the body and bury the heart under the floor. When the cops come in, the murderer laughs and jokes with them and thinks he’s getting away with it. Then when the cops go, the friend comes back and as a joke says he can hear the old man’s heart beating. Isn’t that good?”
Fascinating, I thought. If only Poe had lived to meet Perry.
“But then the murderer, ’cause he doesn’t know it’s a joke, believes he really is hearing the heart, and you know what?”
“What?” Clifford asked.
“I can’t guess,” Belinda gushed, her eyes wide, her hands clutching the arms of her chair.
“The murderer dies of fright because of the heart he thinks he’s hearing.”
Perry beamed at his own brilliance. Send for the Nobel Prize, I thought, not realizing there was more to come.
“And the twist is that his friend was going to split the money the old man had hidden somewhere in London and now he realizes he’ll never know where to find it so he’s punished for the crime too.” Perry grinned triumphantly, an ear-to-ear grin that made all the freckles on his cheeks bond together in a henna-tinted mass.
It was I who led the applause and my reaction was genuine. The sound had scared the murderer to death. My grandmother’s fear of cats rushed into my mind. She shakes and trembles to the point of almost fainting at the sight or sound of one. It goes back, I am told, over eighty years ago when a rabid cat attacked her in the garden. She still bears a scar on her left cheek from that long-ago encounter.
My grandmother has a new elevator.
Suppose . . . just suppose, Grandma got stuck in her new elevator in the dark during a power failure. And then she hears the sounds of cats yowling and hissing and howling and purring. She hears them scratching at the door of the elevator. She is sure they will break through. She cowers, shrieking, against the back of the elevator, then crumples onto the floor, the memory of that long-ago attack overwhelming her. No, it is not a memory. It is happening. She is sure that the cat is poised to attack her again, not just one cat but all the cats in this crazed, menacing pack, foaming at the mouth, teeth bared.
There is only one way to escape the panic. She is frightened into heart failure and her death would be blamed on her being trapped, alone, at night, in the new elevator.
I was so excited and thrilled at this solution to my problem that I hardly tasted the excellent dinner and was uncommonly responsive to Perry who, of course, dined with us and never shut up.
I planned my grandmother’s death very carefully. Nothing must arouse even the slightest suspicion. Fortunately there are frequent power failures in her area of northern Connecticut during wind storms. She has talked of installing a home generator but so far that has not happened. Still, I knew I had to move swiftly.
Night after night for the next few weeks, I roamed through the nearby towns, slithering through dark alleys and around abandoned buildings, any place where wild cats gathered. I tossed pieces of meat and cheese to get them fighting with one another, their teeth bared, their ungodly yowls rumbling from their throats, getting it all on tape. One night I was attacked by a cat who, frantic for the food in my hand, sprung on me, her front claw ripping my left cheek in the same spot my grandmother was scarred.
Undeterred, I kept on my mission, even recording cats in animal shelters, where I caught the plaintive meows of discarded felines bewildered by their fate. At the home of a neighbor I secretly caught on tape the contented purring of her cherished pet.
A cacophony of sound, a work of genius. That w
as the result of my labors.
As I was engaged in my nocturnal wanderings, by day I was also lavishing attention on my grandmother, visiting her at least three times a week, enduring at mealtime the vegetarian regime that was her latest quirk to stay alive until her hundredth birthday. Seen with such frequency, the annoying habits she was developing became increasingly hard to take. She began avoiding my eyes when I spoke to her as though she were aware everything I said was a lie. She also took on a nervous mannerism of pursing then releasing her lips, which gave the impression she was always sucking on a straw.
Grandma lived alone. Her housekeeper, Ana, a kind Jamaican woman, arrived at 9 A.M., prepared Grandma’s breakfast and lunch, tidied the house, then went home and returned to prepare and serve dinner. Ana was very protective of Grandma. She had already confided to me her distress that Grandma might somehow get trapped in the elevator when she was alone. “You know how when it gets very windy, she gets power failures that can last for hours,” Ana worried. I assured her that I too was troubled by that possibility. Then, I impatiently waited for the weather to cooperate and a good wind storm to come along. It finally happened. The weather report was for heavy winds during the night. That evening I had dinner with Grandma, a particularly difficult dinner, what with the vegetarian menu, Grandma’s averted eyes, her twitching mouth and then the dismaying news that she was meeting an architect concerning her idea for building a personal gym. It was clearly time to act.
After dinner, I kissed Grandma good night, went into the kitchen, where Ana was tidying up, then drove away. At that time, I only lived three blocks from Grandma. I parked my car and waved to my next-door neighbor, who was just arriving home. I felt it was fortuitous that, if necessary, he could testify that he had seen me enter my own modest rental cottage. I waited an hour and then slipped out my back door. It was already dark and chillingly cold, and it was easy to hurry undetected back to Grandma’s house. I arrived through the wooded area, checking to be sure that Ana’s car was gone. It was, and I slipped across the lawn to the window of the den. As I had expected, I could see Grandma, hunched up on her recliner, an old fur lap robe wrapped around her, watching her favorite television show.
For the next ten minutes she stayed there, then, as I had expected, promptly at nine o’clock, the fur robe dragging behind her, she turned off the television and made her way to the front of the house. In a flash, key in hand, I was at the basement door and inside. As soon as I heard the rumble of the elevator, I threw the switch, plunging the house into silence and darkness.
I crept upstairs, my feet noiseless in my sneakers, my flashlight a thin beam. From the sound of my grandmother’s cries for help I could detect that the elevator was only a few feet off the floor. Now for the tricky part. I placed my tape recorder on the vestibule table behind a book I had left for Grandma. I reasoned that Ana, if indeed she noticed it, would think nothing of it being there. I had developed a habit of bringing books and little gifts for Grandma.
And then I turned on the tape. The sound that thundered from it was a litany from cat hell, meowing, clawing, scratching and howling, their shrieks interwoven with the sudden incongruous rattle of purring contentment.
There was absolute silence from the elevator.
Had the recording done its job already? I wondered. It was possible, but I wouldn’t know for sure until the morning. The tape was twenty minutes long and would play repeatedly until midnight. I was sure that would be sufficient.
I let myself out of the house and walked home at a quick pace, bracing against the sharp wind that was now making tree branches bend and dance. Chilled to the bone, I went directly to bed. I confess I could not fall asleep. The mental image of my grandmother’s stiffening body inside her elevator kept me from restful slumber. But then as I allowed myself to imagine finally getting my hands on all her money, my frame of mind improved and from dawn till eight o’clock I enjoyed a refreshing slumber.
But then as I began to prepare breakfast, several possibilities occurred to me. Suppose Grandma’s face was frozen into a frightened mask? Would that make anyone suspicious? Worse yet, suppose for some reason the recording had not automatically turned off!
My original plan had been to await Ana’s phone call, the one that would convey the sad news that Grandma had been trapped in the elevator and must have had a heart attack. At the frightening possibility that the tape just might still be playing, I leapt up from the breakfast table, threw on some clothes and rushed over, arriving as Ana was opening the front door. To my vast relief there was no sound from the recorder.
The morning was overcast, which meant that the vestibule was dark. As Ana greeted me she tried to turn on the light. Then she frowned. “My God, there must have been another power failure.” She turned and made a beeline for the stairs to Grandma’s bedroom. I, on the other hand, raced down to the basement and threw the master switch on the panel. The whir of the elevator rewarded me. I rushed up the stairs and was there when Ana yanked open the elevator door. Grandma was on the floor wrapped in her mink fur lap robe. She opened her eyes and blinked up at us. With the fur wrapped around her head, the strands of fur resting on her cheek, for all the world she had the face of a cat. Her mouth pursed in and out as though she were sipping milk. “Grandma . . .” My voice failed. With Ana’s help, she was struggling to her feet, her hands on the floor, her back arched to help regain her balance.
“Eerr . . . eerr . . .” she sighed. Or was she saying “Purrrr . . . purrrr”?
“Eerrr, that’s the best sleep I’ve had in years,” Grandma said contentedly.
“Weren’t you frightened trapped in there?” Ana asked incredulously.
“Oh, no, I was tired and I just made the best of it. I tried calling out but there was no one to hear me. I decided not to waste my voice.”
The recording had been playing. I had heard it myself.
Grandma was eyeing me. “You look terrible,” she said. “I don’t want you worrying about me. Don’t you know I’ll live to be one hundred? That’s my promise to you. So I was stuck in the elevator. The carpet is thick. I lay down and was nice and warm under the robe. In my dreams I was hearing this faint purring sound like water lapping against the shore.”
Afraid I would give myself away, I stumbled downstairs and grabbed my recorder from the table, then realized that in my haste I had knocked a small object off the table. I bent down and picked it up. It was a hearing aid. I started to lay it down and saw there was another one on the table.
Ana was coming down the stairs. “How long has Grandma been wearing hearing aids?” I demanded.
“They’re just what I’m coming for. She leaves them on that table every night. She’s so vain that I guess she didn’t tell you that her hearing has been going steadily downhill and she’s practically deaf now. She’s been studying lip reading and is quite good at it. Haven’t you noticed the way she always looks at your lips when you’re talking? She finally got the hearing aids but uses them only for television in the evening and always leaves them right here.”
“She can’t hear?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“Only a few sounds, deep ones, nothing shrill.”
That happened five years ago. Of course, I immediately destroyed the tape, but in my sleep I hear it playing over and over. It doesn’t frighten me. Instead it keeps me company. I don’t know why. There’s something else that’s a little strange. I cannot look at my grandmother’s face without seeing the face of a cat. That’s because of those whiskers on her cheeks and lips, the odd pursing movements of her mouth, the narrow intense eyes that are always focused on my lips. Also, her bedchamber of choice is now the elevator where, for naps and at night, she curls up on the carpeted floor wrapped in her mink lap robe. Her breathing has even taken on a purring sound.
I can hardly keep my wits about me as I await my inheritance. I do not have the courage to try to precipitate its arrival again. I live with Grandma now, and as time passes, I believe I am beginning to resemble h
er. The scar on her cheek is directly under her left eye; mine is in the same spot. I have a very light beard and shave infrequently. At times my beard looks just like her whiskers. We have those same narrow green eyes.
My grandmother loves very warm milk. She’s taken to pouring it into a saucer to cool it before she laps it up. I tried it and now I like it that way too. It’s purr-fect.
MARY HIGGINS CLARK, #1 international and New York Times bestselling author, has written thirty-four suspense novels; four collections of short stories; a historical novel, Mount Vernon Love Story; two children’s books, including The Magical Christmas Horse; and a memoir, Kitchen Privileges. She is also the coauthor, with Carol Higgins Clark, of five holiday suspense novels, and the coauthor, with Alafair Burke, of The Cinderella Murder. Her books have sold more than 100 million copies in the United States alone.
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BY MARY HIGGINS CLARK
I’ve Got You Under My Skin
Daddy’s Gone A Hunting
The Lost Years
The Magical Christmas Horse (Illustrated by Wendell Minor)
I’ll Walk Alone
The Shadow of Your Smile
Just Take My Heart
Where Are You Now?
Ghost Ship (Illustrated by Wendell Minor)
I Heard That Song Before
Two Little Girls in Blue
No Place Like Home
Nighttime Is My Time
The Second Time Around
Kitchen Privileges
Mount Vernon Love Story
Silent Night / All Through the Night
Daddy’s Little Girl
On the Street Where You Live
Before I Say Good-Bye
We’ll Meet Again
All Through the Night
You Belong to Me
Pretend You Don’t See Her