Murders By Midnight
Mitch Dagen
Published by Mitch Dagen at Smashwords
Murders by Midnight
Copyright 2012 Mitch Dagen
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Cover Illustration by Heather McGrath Design
Editing by Scripta Word Services, Marg Gilks
http://www.scripta-word-services.com/
Dagen, Mitch 1959 –
Murders by Midnight / Mitch Dagen. - 1st Ed.
* * * *
To my wife, Jacqueline; without her wisdom and encouragement, this work would have never seen the light of day. Gracias mi amor. Te amo mucho, hasta a la muerte.
This novella wouldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for the guidance and support of my editor, Marg Gilks. Thank you for your patience and kindness.
This tale began with one paragraph that stuck in my head. Not being a writer, I still jotted that paragraph down. I then started building around that with much help from Marg, and the work you see before you is the end result.
I hope you enjoy the story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Murders
By
Midnight
Mitch Dagen
“But it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.”
Humphrey Bogart
in Casablanca
PROLOGUE
Adelaide heard the gas lawnmower’s engine growing louder as Hans came around the corner of the house. She wasn’t ready to see him yet. She was still too upset. She remained seated on the front steps, her face buried in her hands.
“Adelaide, what’s wrong?” she heard him call, and the roar of the mower’s engine quickly grew louder as he hurried over to her.
She lifted her head to look up at him, pushing her long, curly black hair away from her face. His worried expression made him look much older than his fifteen years. She sniffled and wiped the tears from her eyes and cheeks with the back of her hand. “I’m sorry,” she sobbed. “I really am.”
Hans shut the mower’s motor off and walked over to stand in front of her. “Why are you sorry?”
Her heart balked at the words she’d have to say next. I have to end this, she reminded herself sternly. It is not healthy, for me or for him. She wiped away another tear with her finger and said softly, “We cannot continue like this, Hans.”
Hans’ eyes never left her face as he absently swatted a mosquito that had landed on his dimpled chin. He was frowning, his eyes dark with confusion. “What are you talking about?”
Another sob escaped Adelaide. She struggled to keep her composure. “You know what I mean,” she said. “It isn’t good, what we are doing. I’m married, and I cannot leave my husband.”
Hans raised his arms in the air in disbelief, his muscles bulging as he curled his hands into fists. “I don’t believe what I’m hearing!” he shouted. “We love each other. You know that I love you, and you always tell me how much you love me.”
The tears had dried. Now that she had finally told him, she felt a bit relieved. “I know,” she sighed, “but it must stop. I cannot live like this—lying all the time.”
Leaning forward, Hans took her delicate shoulders in his hands and looked her in the eye, gently shaking her shoulders for emphasis as he said urgently, “Then let’s leave, get away from here. We can go far away and start our lives together.”
“I just can’t leave like that!” Adelaide exclaimed. “I have a husband here, a great life—everything I could wish for.”
Hans released her shoulders and straightened, now indicating himself with both hands. “I can give you all that, Adelaide,” he said in a low voice.
“No, you can’t, Hans,” she insisted, her voice gentle. “You’re fifteen years old. I’m twenty-five. You tend people’s lawns and do household chores. I am upper class—my husband’s a well-known lawyer. If I run away with you, he will destroy me—he’d destroy us.” Overcome with the futility of it all, she dropped her face into her hands again and crumpled into sobs.
“If we love each other, nothing can stop us,” Hans insisted.
I have to end this, Adelaide thought. Lifting her head, she yelled, “I don’t love you!”
He gaped at her a moment, then yelled back, “I don’t believe you!”
Adelaide sighed. I can’t tell him the reason why I have to stop seeing him. “I just can’t continue,” she said, not meeting his gaze.
Hans put his hands on his hips. “Why?”
“Please, just go. Go.” Arm outstretched, she swept her hand to one side as if brushing him away.
Finally realizing the finality of it all, Hans fell on his knees in front of her and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. “Please,” he groaned, “no. . .”
Adelaide burst into tears. His arms moved around her shoulders as he tried to console her. She pulled back and took his face in her hands, the tears falling unheeded on her cheeks. Sobbing, she said, “I cannot leave my husband, Hans. I just can’t. You will not be able to care for me.”
His expression grew desperate. “Yes, I promise, I will!” he insisted. “Please don’t do this.”
I must tell him. I have no choice. Drawing a deep breath to steady herself, Adelaide closed her eyes and shouted, “I am pregnant with your child.” She cried even harder.
He lifted her face to look into her dark blue eyes. Through her tears, she saw the love in his eyes. “Then that’s more reason to leave with me,” he said in an even voice.
She shook her head vehemently. “No. I will never leave my husband. Go, Hans. Now. Don’t make this harder than it already is.”
Hans dropped his head onto her lap for a moment. Then he got to his feet. He took one last look at her, then walked away, leaving the lawnmower sitting on the lawn. His shoulders hunched as if he had lost all hope, he never looked back. Adelaide silently watched him leave, tears streaming unnoticed down her face.
A Few Weeks Later
Hans stepped up to the door, raised his finger toward the doorbell, then hesitated. He did love her, and knew that he had to do something, but—his finger stopped in mid-air and stayed there for what seemed like minutes. Finally, drawing a nervous breath, he rang the doorbell. He heard footsteps approaching on the other side of the door, and cleared his throat.
The door opened a crack and Adelaide’s face appeared in the gap. “Hello, Adelaide,” Hans said coldly,
Her shocked gaze travelled down his perfectly tailored suit, then returned to his face as she whispered, “Hello. What brings you here?”
Hans held out an envelope and she opened the door a bit wider to reach for it. Her hand brushed his as she took it from him. Their eyes met, but she quickly turned her eyes away. She snatched the envelope back inside the door without looking at him.
“I wrote you a letter. I just thought you would like to read it before I leave,” he said.
She was staring at the envelope. At mention of him leaving, she looked at him in surprise. “Where are you going?” She waved the envelope in air, and spoke louder. “What’s all this about?”
Hans smirked. “Well, read it and let me know what you think.” Without waiting for her to comply, he turned and skipped down the stairs, two at a time. “I left my phone number so you can reach me,” he yelled over his shoulder. “I think it would be in your best interest to do so.”
He turned his eyes forward again without saying goodbye, continuing with his confident act even though his heart was beating so hard, he thought it would burst from his chest, just from the excitement of seeing her in front of him again. But mingled with that excitement was sadness. He felt a tear roll down his face as he strode away, and hunched his shoulders and jammed his hands into his pockets, trying to hide the sadness that pierced his heart.
* * *
Still standing in her doorway, Adelaide tore open the envelope and glanced at Hans’ back as he walked way before she read:
Adelaide,
I am a man with little education. You have torn my heart out and I have been in agony. Since I am a man of lower class—in fact, I barely have any—I have chosen to avenge myself upon the one who has inflicted this pain upon me. If you do not pay me weekly for my silence, I will go to your husband and the newspapers and tell them of our liaison, and about the child that’s mine. You now have my number. It would be best for you to call me to arrange how to deliver the amount of money that I believe will ease my pain.
Your once beloved,
Hans
Adelaide looked up from the letter, glaring her disgust at Hans’ back as he sauntered down the street, whistling. Blackmail huh? The nerve of this kid! She suddenly felt nauseous. Isn’t it enough, being nauseous every morning with his baby inside me? Now he has to do this? A tear fell on the piece of paper she clutched as she turned and closed the door behind her.
CHAPTER 1
Rawdon, Quebec. Wednesday, September 23
Seated in her huge black leather chair, Thelma stared at her grandmother’s old diary, illuminated by the moonlight pooling around her from the window. Lifting her eyes to gaze at the full moon, she thought about her plan. I cannot fail. This must work; if it doesn’t, I will be the one to pay the price. Everything looks perfect, she assured herself, if there’s any change in plans, I’ll have time to verify things and change them. Despite her attempt to reassure herself, though, the doubt crept back in: I must succeed. She clenched her jaw in determination and looked at the diary. She was glad her grandmother had left photographs. I will succeed. I know I will. It’s our family’s fortune: we never fail.
Thelma looked back up at the blue-white moon, surrounded by the brightly sparkling stars. She could see the moon’s craters very clearly as she sat there wondering, continuously flipping the pages of the diary from back cover to front. At last she felt that everything was going to be all right, but she also felt so much anger. She could only imagine what her grandmother went through.
She had reviewed her plan several times in her head; she knew exactly what she was about to do. She told herself that she wasn’t going to feel any sorrow or regret, no pity for anyone, that what she’d been planning for the past year would be well worth it. It just had to be done—it was her grandmother’s dying wish. She knew her grandmother’s spirit would be with her. He is going to pay for what he has done. One thing, though. Who do I kill first? I know—I’ll go alphabetically.
When she’d been younger, Thelma had often wondered why her mother never talked about her childhood, pretending that she never remembered anything when asked about the past. But now Thelma knew. Thelma’s grandmother had died last year, and Thelma had found all of the answers in her grandmother’s diary. Knowledge had brought sadness, but Thelma loved her mother even more now, knowing of her mom’s past. She’d felt the pain coming through in the words when she read the diary. How bad it must be to have been adopted and never know who your real parents were, Thelma thought, and promised herself that she would tell her mother everything, once all this was over with.
She’d just finished going through the diary for the fifth time, jotting down notes. Now she closed it and lifted her head to stare at the airline tickets that were tucked into the frame on the dresser mirror. She had saved up enough money to pay for a year-long, around the world trip, first class.
With only five days to go, Thelma felt nauseous with worry, wondering if she could go through with her plan. But whenever Thelma was in doubt, a soft voice in her head would repeat, My spirit is with you. You need not worry. It frightened her, hearing that soft voice. She wondered if she were going crazy. Could it be her grandmother talking to her, or was it just her subconscious playing tricks on her?
She firmly closed the diary and pushed herself up from the big black chair. Time to go to bed, she decided, hoping she would feel better in the morning.
The bright display of stars framed within the window caught Thelma’s eye as she entered her bedroom, and she moved closer for a better look. A moment later she gasped in amazement as a shooting star streamed across the heavens. She had never witnessed anything so beautiful in her twenty-eight years. She smiled as she slipped under the covers, thinking how lucky she was to have seen the star dropping out of the sky. How many people tonight actually noticed it? She wondered. Not many, I suppose; pity, for it was beautiful. Let’s hope there’s a clear sky tomorrow night, so I can wish upon another star.
CHAPTER 2
Barcelona, Spain. September 27
Though she was happy to have been able to save enough in the past few years to afford the luxury of first class, Thelma’s nerves were off during the flight to Barcelona. She wasted no time in ordering a glass of wine to calm her down, then donned earphones and distracted herself by watching a movie. Before she realized it, the plane was already descending for landing.
A taxi carried Thelma to the three-star hotel she had chosen. She would have loved a five-star hotel after flying first class, wanting to continue the fantasy of wealth and being treated like royalty, but the plane ticket had been her only indulgence; now she had to pinch pennies for the rest of her trip.
The time difference was about six hours. Jet-lagged, she lay down on the sofa and clicked on the TV, but she soon fell asleep, waking with a start three hours later at the sound of explosions. Heart hammering, she looked wildly around her room, then relaxed when she saw that First Blood was on the TV. Sighing, she sank back onto the couch, then decided, I’d better take a tranquilizer. I’m feeling edgy.
Later, studying a city map, she tapped her finger on a point not too far away from her hotel. Ingrid’s office. Her first target. She pulled a photograph from the diary and examined it. There is a resemblance, she decided, pulling the only picture she had of her grandmother from within the diary—a faded black and white portrait of a vibrant twenty-five-year-old woman. So terrible, Thelma thought sadly, that Mother doesn’t even know I have this picture of her real mother. The thought inspired her to go through with what she’d planned.
* * *
Thelma walked along a street lightly filled with traffic, the long blue shadows cast by the buildings across the sidewalk still warm with the afternoon’s sun-heated air. It was still early and rush hour wouldn’t begin for another half hour or so. She entered a café across the street from the offices of Strauss Inc., ordered a coffee, and sipped it slowly, surreptitiously watching the front door of the office building for Ingrid’s departure for home.
A woman with long, dark, curly hair stepped into the street. Thelma rose and went to the public phone just inside the café door. She dialed a number and watched the dark-haired woman stop and begin searching in her purse for her cell phone. Suddenly she straightened, lowered her purse, and held her phone to her ear.
“Hello, how may I help you?” she said stiffly.
The voice surprised Thelma, who blanked for a moment before remembering the name she’d made up. “Hello,” she blurted. “I’m Kathy Johnson, a Canadian businesswoman in the retail clothing industry; I noticed you don’t have any stores in Canada and I was thinking of opening one of your stores in Montréal—a franchise. I would like to meet with you, if that might be possible?”
Thelma watched the woman again rummage in her purse and pull out a small leather appointment book. “Let’s see,” she said, flipping the book open and turning pages. “I could be available tomorrow for dinner . . . say, six o’clock?”
“That would be great,” Thelma replied enthusiastically. We could meet at . . . how does Princesa 23 sound?”
“I’ve never been there.”
“It’s a small restaurant and we will be able to talk in a quiet environment,” Thelma said.
She saw the woman shrug. “Sounds alright to me.”
“Okay, see you there at six. Do you know where it is?”
“I’ll get my secretary to look it up.”
“Don’t bother; it’s on Carrer de la Princesa.” She warmed her tone to sound friendly. “I’m sure you will love the salad with goat cheese and the Mexican chicken.”
The woman on the street smiled. “Oh, anything sounds great. I’m always hungry.”
They laughed.
Thelma hung up the phone with a sigh of relief. That went pretty well. She returned to her table and finished her coffee while she watched Ingrid Strauss walk out of sight. Then she left the café. Time to prepare for what has to be done tomorrow
* * *
Thelma entered the restaurant shortly before six the next evening, hesitating when she saw a woman sitting in the lobby. She relaxed when she saw it wasn’t Ingrid, and sat down beside the lady to wait, observing the people walking in until a woman entered who looked as if she just came from a beauty salon.
Thelma stood. “Mrs. Strauss?”
The woman stopped and looked at her. “Kathy?”
Thelma nodded and held out her hand. “How are you?” she said politely when Ingrid shook it.
“Fine,” Ingrid said, then waved her hand and looked mildly flustered. “I’m sorry I’m a little late; I had some paperwork to finalize.”
“Not to worry,” Thelma replied, waving her own hand in dismissal. She noticed Ingrid’s gaze travelling down her figure.
Ingrid flushed and said, “My weakness—part of being in the fashion industry, no doubt. You look just like I imagined: a tall, slender woman with long legs.”
“Really? I try to envision speakers myself, but I’m not that good at it, as I can see.” Thelma touched her face in mock embarrassment. “I was looking for a much heavier woman.”
Ingrid smiled smugly. “Yes, most people say that after talking to me on the phone. They envision a woman to match my deep voice, and when they see me they are very surprised.”
The maître d’ seated them at a table by a window near the far end of the restaurant and they sipped wine while they waited for their meal. Thelma noticed that Ingrid was always pushing her long black hair out of her eyes, her movement mildly awkward, as if the gesture were foreign to her.
When Ingrid saw her attention, she flushed and leaned forward to whisper, “I hate this wig.” She huffed, and scowled. “It isn’t normal, to have to go out in disguise just to be able to enjoy a normal life.”
Thelma widened her eyes. “I’m shocked. I really thought that was your hair.”
Ingrid shook her head. “I’m really a blonde, from my mother’s side of the family—all blue-eyed and blonde.”
My God, how lucky can I get? Thelma gloated. Here I was so worried of being seen with Ingrid Strauss in public! Grandmother is watching over me, I guess. She shook her head and said aloud, “I just can’t get over that.” Then she leaned forward. “Anyway, I want to know more of your company.”
They exchanged ideas over their entrees. As the waiter cleared their plates away, Ingrid confided, “Kathy, you’re very intelligent and interesting to talk to. I am very interested in doing business with you.”
Thelma grinned, then looked seriously at Ingrid. “I’m afraid that I have to leave tomorrow; could we start discussing details at my hotel room and get some of the paperwork done?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Ingrid said expansively. “We’ll go to my place; I live five minutes from here. We will be by ourselves—the kids have piano lessons at their grandmother’s and they sleep over and go to school the next day from there. She lives closer to the school than we do, so they can get up a little later.”
And her husband? What if he’s there? Thelma wanted to be alone with Ingrid. She couldn’t afford to have any witnesses. She had to think fast. “Well, I wouldn’t want to disturb your evening with your husband,” she said, assuming a hesitant expression.
Ingrid waved away Thelma’s concerns. “Don’t worry about him; he’s away on assignment for the week.”
Hiding her relief, Thelma said, “Okay. I guess if it’s closer, we could get a lot of work done.”
Thelma walked stiffly toward the restaurant door, feeling like a mannequin, conscious of her long blonde hair swaying from side to side with every step she took, conscious of placing one foot in front of the other. When Ingrid led her to a Cadillac, unlocked it, and gestured for Thelma to get in, she wondered, Why no chauffeur? And why isn’t she driving a Mercedes? Curious, she opened her mouth to ask, then thought better of it. She was grateful that the drive to Ingrid’s house did indeed take only five minutes, but when they reached the house, Thelma was again surprised, this time that they didn’t have a bigger home.
“Kathy?” Ingrid said, interrupting Thelma’s thoughts. “Would you like a glass of wine or something to help you digest?””
A crème de menthe would be great, Thelma thought as she took off her overcoat and draped it on the couch. “Please. A crème de menthe would be nice. I am so full from our dinner. That can help me digest.”
Ingrid smiled warmly and tossed her car keys into a shallow bowl on a foyer table before moving to a wall bar to prepare their drinks. Her makeup matches the colours of her flowered dress, Thelma noted, watching her. “Ingrid,” she said aloud. “Such a beautiful name.”
The other woman glanced over her shoulder. “My grandmother’s name was Ingrid. Strauss is German, of course. I changed my name when I married, but hardly use it, though I find French names so romantic, don’t you? It’s Ingrid Leriche.”