Murder and Mayhem

Also by

B L HAMILTON

… and now for something completely different

A collection of short stories and poems

Death Stood In The Shadows Beckoning

A novel

Copyright © 2014 by B L Hamilton

The right of B L Hamilton to be identified
as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the
Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

All rights reserved. No part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in
any form or by means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor
be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in
which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the
subsequent purchaser.

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead
is entirely coincidental.

This book is dedicated to my sister, Rhonda Anderson

The bravest woman I know

Without her this book would never have been written

ONE

“I know a good place to hide a body,” my sister, Rosie
said. The stranger beside her glanced sideways and then feigned interest in the
open book on her lap.

“Where?” I asked.

“Cascade Falls.”

“Cascade Falls!  But a lot of hikers go up there, so I
don’t see how that could work.”

The woman shifted on the hard
plastic chair and chewed on her bottom lip, her eyes darting over the page in
an effort to portray indifference to our conversation.

My sister seemed to sense her apprehension. She knew
what it was like; she’d been through it herself. “Is this your first time?” she
asked.

The woman flushed slightly, and nodded.

Rosie gave her a reassuring pat on the arm and said,
“Don’t worry it’s not so bad once you get used to it,” then turned to me and
took up the thread of our conversation. “Yes, I know, Bubbie, but there are a
lot of little-used trails up there so you could stash a body in any number of
places and no one would ever find it–unless it started to stink. But,
hopefully, wild animals would dispose of the victim before that happened.”

I looked at my sister in stunned disbelief. “Wild
animals!  What wild animals? There aren’t any bears or cougars up there.”

“Now, Bubbie, you don’t know that for sure. That old
theory’s been doing the rounds for more years than I care to remember based on
vicious allegations and unsubstantiated innuendo. There
could
be a
mountain lion up there, or a coyote or two. There are raccoons, of course. The
woods are overrun with those thieving bandits. And let’s not forget the
four-legged rodents with great big doe eyes.”

I knew of no rodents that fit her description. All the
rats I know have shifty, beady little eyes.

“What rodents are they, Hon?”

“You know, Bubbie–the deer.”

“Deer! Deer don’t eat meat, they’re herbivores,” I
told her but she just gave me a dismissive wave and a perfunctory shrug and
tried to edify me on the eating habit of rodents.

“You try cultivating a garden around here and see what
happens. Deer aren’t the cute, cuddly creatures Walt Disney would have us
believe.”

I waited for Rosie to enlighten me on the subject of
large garden pests but she dismissed my unspoken question and continued to
espouse her own half-baked theory based on unsubstantiated fact and
ill-informed rumor.

“I’m sure there are lots of wild animals in the woods
that would feast on the flesh, and gnaw on the bones, then bury the leftovers
for a mid-winter feast.”

The woman beside her coughed and spluttered, her face
turned red and her eyes seemed to bulge out of their sockets while she tried to
draw breath.

“Quick, Bubbie, go get some water,” Rosie instructed
as she pummeled the distraught woman on the back while trying to educate her on
the complicated art of breathing–like she didn’t already know.

“You’ll be all right,” my sister counseled. “It’s the
not knowing that’s scary. But after a few treatments you’ll find it’s not as
bad as you thought it would be. Now, take a deep breath. That’s it–breathe in
through your mouth… Good. Now let it out slowly… aahhh.”

When I handed the woman a paper
cup filled with water I noticed her hands were shaking so much she had trouble
finding her mouth. Poor thing!

The woman sniffed loudly and gulped down the water.

“Thank you,” she whispered, and placed the empty cup
in my hand.

“You’re welcome,” I think I mumbled but wasn’t in the
moment. My mind was still trying to process what my sister had said about Cascade Falls.

“I drove over to Muir Woods yesterday, but the park
closes at dusk so you’d have to drag the body over the fence and try to find
somewhere to hide it in the dark. I suppose you could use a torch but the
rangers might see the light and decide to investigate.” I crumpled the empty
cup and goaled it in a trash bin nearby. “Touchdown!” I yelled… with the volume
turned down.

Rosie rolled her eyes to the ceiling and shook her
head. “Then that’s not going to work, now is it?”

“Well, no, but how about the road leading into the
woods? It’s deserted at night and so poorly lit you could push a body over the
side of the embankment and not have to worry about inquisitive tourists
stopping to ask awkward questions. It’s a pretty steep drop so the body should
go down without too much trouble. And there’s not much chance of it being
discovered any time soon because no one goes down there. It’s too
inaccessible.”

Rosie’s eyes focused inwards,
her mouth twisted in a tight little curlicue as she chewed on the words. “I
suppose that might work. But what if the body got struck on a tree halfway
down?”

Everyone knows the success of
all battles are based on the plans of great generals, and I rate myself up
there with the best: Macarthur, Patton, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan,
Stonewall Jackson, and let’s not forget that wily old strategist, Odysseus, who
managed to capture the ancient walled city of Troy using nothing more than a
crudely made wooden horse. I could, however, add Field Marshal Rommel to the
list, but the poor man had the misfortune to choose the wrong side, and
everyone knows losers are not looked upon kindly when history books are
written–and songs of victory sung.

But, forgive me, I digress…

“We could
check it at sun-up, before the park opens, and if the
body is caught up on a tree, or even a rock, scramble down and dislodge it with
a good solid kick. What could be simpler than that?”

I could see the wheels turning checking every angle
for possible flaws. “It might work,” Rosie finally conceded. But my hopes were
soon dashed when she turned to the pasty-pale woman fidgeting beside her, and
asked, “What do you think? Do you reckon that plan would work?”

In hindsight, I should have asked if this woman was
some kind of expert in this specialized field, but sadly, I didn’t, so I have
no one to blame but myself for what turned out to be a grave error of judgment.

“Um… Err… I… don’t know,” the woman spluttered and
took up residence at the back of the chair in an effort to conceal her size
twenty-two body. But I could have told her there was not much chance of that.
She obviously hadn’t counted on my sister’s dogged pursuit in this fact-finding
mission. And I never thought to warn her that once Rosie got her teeth into
something there’d be no turning back. I’d give my eye-teeth to be as
strong-willed and tenacious, but then, some of us are fighters–while others are
not. I’m not quite sure which category I fit into, but, as they say, it’s early
days yet.

“Well, why don’t you think on it and let me know when
we come in tomorrow. People just don’t seem to realize disposing of a body is
not for the faint-hearted–it’s really hard work.”

Suddenly the color drained from the woman’s face. She
clamped her hands over her mouth and hot-footed it down the room leaving a
trail of discarded items scattered across the floor, like breadcrumbs in the
forest.

When the door to the restroom slammed shut with a
resounding bang, Rosie cherry-picked her way down the room collecting odd bits
of clothing; a handbag with all the contents spilling out: discarded gum rolled
up in tinfoil, an assortment of recipes torn from magazines, a used toothpick,
a hair-roller; and a down-at-the-heel shoe, size eleven – minus its mate – and
deposited everything in neat disarray on the recently vacated chair where the owner
would be sure to find them when she returned.

Rosie sighed. “The poor thing doesn’t seem to be
coping, does she, Bubbie? She doesn’t seem to be handling it at all.”

“Then we’ll just have to take extra care of her, Hon.
We need to remember not everyone is as strong as we are. It’s all in the
genes.”

Suddenly there was a whoosh of sucking door seals, and
a hushed quiet fell over the room as the oversized door opened inward on silent
hydraulic hinges to reveal what was hidden inside.

Everyone looked up and waited in anxious vexation as
the piercing blue eyes of the woman in white scanned the room… and came to rest
on my sister. Their eyes locked for a brief moment, and then the gray-headed
woman gave Rosie a warm, compassionate smile.

“We’re ready for you now, Mrs. Albertson.”

TWO

My husband, Ross, and I had traveled from our home in
Sydney, Australia, to San Francisco, to take care of my sister while she was
undergoing treatment for a particularly virulent form of breast cancer. To take
her mind off the illness, and give her something to look forward to when she
woke up each morning, I decided to write a murder mystery novel.

Now, I forgive you, dear reader, if you thought I had
written a novel before–but at this, I’m a virgin, although not a virgin in the
true sense of the word. I lost my virginity to a pimply-faced boy when I was
barely sixteen. But those days are long gone and all I can say is good riddance
to that nasty little episode–and I do mean
little
–if you get my meaning.
However, I have dabbled in the odd birthday poem, and scribbled a few
enlightened words on the back of the school’s toilet block doors, so I asked
myself, how hard could it be? Everyone who’s had their five minutes of fame
from has-been-actors, to aging socialites, ex-politicians, and television
celebrities have put pen to paper and written tell-all books. Even serial
killers are writing their memoirs from behind prison walls in the hope of
achieving notoriety again.