The Last Kiss
by
George Blum
Copyright 2012 George Blum
All Rights Reserved
Margaret’s Merchandise--a shop on the village’s Main Street crammed full with a rag-tag collection of antiques--was one of the few cool spots in town. June had been blistering; July was even worse. The morning had been eerily still, broken only by the fragmentary, jagged sound of the sheriff’s siren a block or so away. Deputy Vickers was no doubt late for lunch.
While I wouldn’t have been caught dead in Margaret’s Merchandise a year earlier, when I was still teaching English literature at Hassman State College, I’m now retired, widowed, and bored. I’m only sixty-seven, but I must have hung out with a sickly crowd: all of my poker buddies are dead.
"Do have another glass of iced tea before you toddle off, Wendell," Margaret said as she reached for a large glass pitcher. "And a homemade thumbprint cookie," she added, nodding toward a meager supply of goodies stacked on a silver tray.
I nodded and slid my glass toward the slender, fifty-something woman. While I had stopped in merely to see if Margaret had gotten her hands on a fresh batch of used books of fiction or poetry, I’m never one to turn down a cold drink on a hot day. And, to be completely honest, my Emily’s been gone eighteen months now. Margaret, as it happens, is single, intelligent, and attractive. I had refrained from seriously pursuing the woman partly due to talk that she had a new beau, or, as the villagers were describing it, a "mid-life" infatuation. While that wasn’t particularly troublesome, I had also heard rumors that Margaret is a ruthlessly vindictive woman who routinely holds a grudge. That, I’ll admit, is disturbing.
Vengeful people scare the hell out of me.
I looked longingly at the cherry-topped cookies for a moment, but decided to pass. I would live to diet another day. "Cheers," I said with a smile as I lifted my glass to clink against hers. The front door banged open and Russ Matthews, the high-school kid who works as a gas jockey at the Mobil station on the corner, rushed in. His face was flushed red, his eyes wild.
"You won’t believe it . . ." he exclaimed in a painful gasp.
"Please shut the door behind you, Russ," Margaret pleasantly scolded. "You’re letting out all of the air conditioning."
The boy ignored the woman and turned toward me. "You won’t believe it!" he repeated. "It’s Mr. Thompson. Sam Thompson. He’s dead!"
Margaret’s sharp gasp finally broke the silence. I carefully set my tea glass down to let the news sink in. I had never played poker with Samuel Thompson, but we were fairly close. The sixty-year-old real estate agent and I had fought over the affections of Sarah Parmenter not two months earlier; Sam had prevailed, and that was fine. The better man had won out and there were no hard feelings between us. Besides, since the Parmenter-Thompson relationship had, for some reason, recently stalled dead in its tracks, there wasn’t much for me to be upset about any longer.
The Matthews boy slammed back out of the shop and went running down the street, no doubt eager to spread the news. People don’t die in Hassman, New York, everyday. They certainly aren’t murdered here. Margaret and I sat in the quiet of the shop, absorbed in the serene tick-tocking of Margaret’s beloved clock collection.
"How can he be dead?" I asked in rhythm with the clock ticks. "I just saw him the day before yesterday. He was pedaling his ten-speed down past the library, on his way toward the canal. How can he be dead thirty-six hours later?"
Margaret let out an almost imperceptible sigh, then busied herself by stacking and restacking the cookies. She lifted the perspiring tea pitcher and blotted its excess moisture with a paper towel. "Incredible," she finally said with a cracking voice. "A tragedy. Such a fine man." She looked up at me with brimming red eyes.
I put my arm around her shoulder and let her cry into my neck for several minutes. Sitting in the cool shop, I thought about Sam, thought about Sarah, and listened to the peaceful ticking of her prized timepieces.
******
When I managed to dislodge Margaret from my shoulder, I told her I’d stop by later in the day. She nodded numbly. By the time I left the shop, she was already preoccupying herself by synchronizing the clocks.
I jogged down Main, past the Methodist Church, and onto Rigby Lane. Sam Thompson had lived at 44 Rigby for the last couple of decades. While he had done little to improve the cottage he had called home, at least he hadn’t let it fall into disrepair. I trotted up Sam’s tree-sheltered walkway, taking note of the village’s only ambulance. It was parked next to the village’s only police vehicle, a beat-up Ford driven by Deputy Bert Vickers.
I pushed open the rusty-hinged screen door to Sam’s front porch and stepped into the hushed dining room just in time to see Phil Nussbaum, the county coroner, zip up the black plastic bag over what I assumed was Sam’s cooling corpse. Phil, a no-nonsense sort, looked my way with a nod. "Wendell. Guess you heard."
Bert spun around and grinned slightly. "Here to help us out, Sherlock?"
I shrugged mutely. Besides my love of literature, I was the village’s amateur private eye. Every town’s got one. While my predilection toward crime deduction came from Arthur Conan Doyle, it didn’t stop there; I went in for the modern sleuths, too. I was good-natured enough to admit it, Bert knew it, and the village more or less put up with it.
"What happened?" I finally managed.
Bert’s a good sport and usually indulges my hobby. "There’s no sort of break-in here, Wendell. No signs of violence. It appears that Sam suffered a . . ."
"Heart attack," Phil completed from behind his clipboard as he furiously jotted down notes. "Had a bad ticker. Everybody knows that. From what Doc Grisham says, Sam never would cut down on the fatty foods." He finished writing and tucked his silver pen into his shirt pocket. "Add a sweltering day like this to an already overburdened respiratory system and a clogged-up circulatory system, and we’re talking a coronary episode. No big crime here. Sorry, Wendell." His grin was quite insincere. Phil never liked me much.
"He was a decent man," I mumbled softly.
As Phil and Bert went about their business, I glanced around the small, cozy living room. Framed pictures of wildlife graced paneled walls. A small shelving unit held a smallish color television and DVD player. A wall clock--from Margaret’s shop, no doubt--hung neatly-centered above a smudged fireplace. A Persian cat--Mikey was his name, if memory served me correctly--was curled up on an overstuffed green pillow on a window bench near the front door. Some leftover fattening treats were strewn about the coffee table, a macabre comment on Sam’s premature death. Except for the corpse awaiting patiently in the zip-up baggie, everything looked normal. A Northeastern Gothic of sorts.
Two morose attendants took a silent cue from the coroner and lifted either end of the stretcher; Mr. Thompson was making a last exit from his home on Rigby Lane. The breeze from Sam’s passing body nudged a paper napkin from the coffee table onto the braided brown and white oval rug. Mikey, without missing a beat, hopped from the pillow, snatched up the napkin, then scurried back to his resting place. The cat, using its front paws, stuffed the napkin beneath the pillow. We all have our hiding places, I suppose.
Nussbaum followed the assistants to the front door, then turned my way. "Guess you’ll have to pay a visit to Sarah Parmenter," he said smugly.
I gave him my best icy stare. Bert came and stood between us. Phil finally added, by way of meek explanation, "To pay your respects. She’s gonna be pretty broken up about this." With that, he left. Good riddance.
Bert opened up the squeaky door and held it for me. I stepped out onto the porch. He closed, but didn’t lock, the front door, then pushed the screen door to. He shook his h
ead slowly, perhaps in sadness, perhaps in apology for that horse’s ass of a coroner.
"Nothing fishy here?" I asked as the midday sun beat down upon us.
Bert took off his hat, reached into his back pocket, and wiped at his dripping forehead with a crumpled handkerchief. "No reason to doubt Nussbaum," the sheriff said with a shrug. "Heart attack, pure and simple."
"But a lot of things can look like a heart attack, can’t they?" I asked hopefully as I stepped off the porch and into the shade of an ancient oak.
Bert laughed softly. "Listen, Columbo," he said as he began down the front walk toward his car. "I am not going to open a murder investigation on a coronary case just to give you something to occupy your time."
I smiled in spite of myself. "You’re the boss."
"Exactly." He climbed into his Ford. "Give you a lift someplace?"
I sat down at the foot of the oak and unfastened one of my shirt buttons. "No thanks, Bert. Think I’ll just sit awhile."
The sheriff nodded. "You know, maybe you should stop by and see Sarah." He blushed slightly. "Not for whatever the hell reason Nussbaum may have been suggesting. It’s just that Sarah and Sam apparently had this on-again, off-again thing. I’m not sure if it was currently on or off, but she’ll no doubt be upset when she hears about this."
I waved to the sheriff. "Okay, Bert," I agreed. "I’ll go see her."
"Good deal," he replied as he started up the engine. With a quick honk of the horn, he was off. He left me alone on that fine, hot day, in the shade of Sam Thompson’s ancient oak.
It was the perfect place to sit and think.
******
By eight-thirty p.m., it had grown darker in Hassman, but not much cooler. I had stopped by Sarah’s home to "comfort" her, but she wasn’t in. I was glad; I wasn’t in the comforting mood. I spent much of the day down at the canal, watching small boats bob merrily past. I thought about Sam, Sarah, Mikey the cat, the death scene. I didn’t have all of the pieces yet. By the time I munched a grilled ham and cheese sandwich for dinner at the Stovepipe Restaurant, I convinced myself that I would have to go back to Sam’s and take an unobtrusive look around. I wasn’t Sherlock or Columbo, just a curious, retired schoolteacher. I could at least go back to Sam’s to make sure the cat had enough food and water until someone adopted him.
The house looked more ominous in the dark sweltering night. I stood outside for several long moments. The sheriff had not locked the front door, I reminded myself, and I wouldn’t be breaking any law of substance if I chose to step inside and pay my private last respects. The screen door screamed in protest as I slowly pulled it toward me. I turned the knob to the front door and, before I had a chance to change my mind, stepped inside. It was even hotter in the cramped living room, but I shut the door behind me.
"Hello," I called out in a foolish whisper. I heard the ticking of the wall clock, then, softly but distinctly, Mikey’s purr. I rubbed the cat’s head a few times; he looked up lethargically, probably missing Sam already and knowing, somehow, that his human pal was never coming back. When I stopped petting the animal’s neck, he plopped back onto the pillow.
I clicked on the table lamp near Sam’s camelback couch and began investigating. A fishing magazine lay open on the sidetable. Junk mail was heaped next to the phone. A plate holding a solitary snack treat sat next to the mail. I leaned forward for a closer look. It was a cherry thumbprint cookie. The kind Margaret made. The kind she had offered me just hours earlier. That, of course, wasn’t particularly unusual. Sam was a gadabout. He had probably spent some time with Margaret, along with Sarah Parmenter and who knows how many others.
When the clock struck the quarter hour, I instinctively caught my breath.
Mikey stopped purring, tried getting off of his pillow, then slumped back down again, dead weight this time. I touched the cat tentatively, feeling for signs of life. There weren’t any. On the pillow next to the cat was a piece of bread or some other half-eaten morsel. Maybe the cat had gotten into one of those lethal mice cakes Sam was known to set behind the refrigerator in the summer months. I slipped my hand under the pillow to lift the cat. It was too late for an emergency visit to the town vet, I thought as I shook my head with regret.
Several loose papers fell from beneath the pillow and floated to the carpeted floor. I thought of the cat, hours earlier, squirreling away the paper napkin. I placed Mikey gingerly on the sofa and turned my attention to the papers he had collected. In addition to the napkin was a phone bill, a gas company meter-read card, and an envelope with a recent Hassman postmark. While it was addressed to Sam, it bore no return address. I puffed air into the opened envelope, took out a single sheet of paper, and unfolded it carefully. It wasn’t a letter at all, but a typewritten poem entitled "The Last Kiss." I sat on the edge of the coffee table and, always the instructor, read aloud:
"Is the last kiss not the best kiss?
Can the kiss of betrayal be tolerated?
As time runs out, like an unwound clock,
Can my affection for you be debated?
I expressed my need for undivided love;
This, my dear love, you cannot dismiss.
As time runs out, like an unwound clock,
Let this, my kiss, be the last kiss."
While it wasn’t good poetry, it was honest. It was from the heart. But who composed it? What did it mean?
I realized, with mild dread, that I would have to contact Deputy Vickers about my discovery. I lifted Mikey and his pillow back onto the window seat; that's when I noticed, adjacent to the cat, the entree comprising his last supper. It was the remnant of a cherry-topped thumbprint cookie.
As I pondered the meaning of my discovery, I heard footsteps on the front walkway. When the footsteps scraped onto the front porch, I ducked into the hallway.
I prayed that the unwanted visitor would just go away, but I heard the screen door screech open bitterly. My heart pounded wildly as I listened to movements in the living room. I peered around the dividing wall; it was Margaret, of course. She looked with surprise at the table lamp, which was still illuminated. "Hello?" she called out. After several long seconds, she shrugged her shoulders and began to check out the room.
Margaret carefully gathered up her plate with the sole remaining cookie and dropped it into a paper bag. She dove enthusiastically into the pile of mail near the phone, flicking her glove-covered hands through the stack. Margaret, no doubt looking for her poem, sighed in frustration. She didn’t realize that her work of art was planted firmly in my back pocket.
Margaret might have caught me in Sam’s hallway if it hadn’t been for the honk of a car horn out on the street. She quickly folded up her bag, and, after a peek through curtained windows, exited through the squeaky door. When I heard her footsteps echo down the lane, I stepped back into the living room.
Margaret, vindictive Margaret, had poisoned Sam Thompson. That was my theory, at any rate. Had she been angered after learning she didn’t have Sam all to herself? After learning that she would have to share him with, among others, Sarah Parmenter? Had Margaret determined that Sam’s "last kiss" would be hers?
Margaret must have assumed that she would have an unhindered opportunity to stop by Sam’s to dispose of whatever uneaten evidence might have been left behind. And she had done just that, of course, except for the half-eaten cookie on Mikey’s pillow. Mikey, the poor innocent bystander.
I picked up the phone and stared at the dead cat for several long seconds before dialing. Sweat dripped down the back of my shirt; it was at least eighty degrees in Sam’s cottage. I would have to call the sheriff, give him the poem I had found and point out the partially-eaten thumbprint cookie on the dead cat’s pillow. More importantly, I would have to testify at trial about Margaret’s return to Sam’s house on the night of the man’s death.
All of that was fine.
But they better put Margaret away for a long ti
me. The village gossip was right on the money about her. She’s a vindictive one.
#####
About the Author
George lives with his wife Rebecca in Southern California; they have three daughters. He's a legal article writer by day, and fiction writer (and occasional stage actor) by night. George, after graduating from law school at University of California--Hastings, worked as an attorney for a number of years, a background which comes into play in the novel Murder on Retreat. A work in progress is also based in the legal world, an environment which is always challenging, often unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous.
To drop George an e-mail, please contact him at
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