The excursion consisted of a trip to the local beach. “To cool off,” said Zoggan, winking meaningfully. Martine shuddered. The experience she’d had that morning was still too fresh. Betty had no swimsuit with her and stayed at the hotel. Joanna did the same, retiring to their room with her new package of pills. But the others all wandered slowly in pairs or groups of three down the street to the beach. Zoggan was still wearing his Cat in the Hat headgear. Occasionally someone waved from a window and they all waved back.
Martine had moved her towel somewhat apart from the others and was sitting alone when a young woman spoke to her.
“Don’t you recognize me?”
It was the waitress from the Hotel Post, wearing a flowered swimsuit and with a horde of small children around her. Martine hadn’t recognized her at all.
“I’m Hedi,” the young woman introduced herself.
“Martine.”
Hedi called something to the children, who ran off to play, and then dropped down onto Martine’s towel next to her. “I’m tired of standing,” she sighed. “Aren’t you going in?”
“No, I... I can’t.”
“But you look as if you swim.”
Martine’s muscular upper arms and broad shoulders and the high-cut Speedo with the swim badges on it had all betrayed her. So she described her experience that morning even though she still found the whole thing embarrassing. Told of the hands that had reached for her.
“The hands, of course,” said Hedi, as if it were all completely obvious. “The dead. I don’t like them either. Some people don’t notice anything, but other people are more sensitive, if you understand what I mean.”
You and I, was what she meant. We’re more sensitive. Or maybe she meant: we women.
“The dead?” Martine repeated.
“That girl I told you about? The one who drowned? I’m not sure how to put it, but let’s just say she wasn’t the only one.”
Martine shuddered, and Hedi changed the subject. What was it like to live in America? she wanted to know, and whether it might be a good change for, say, a waitress from Switzerland. You know, just asking.
The sun was still hot. Children splashed in the water, shouting, jumping from a raft. At first, nobody noticed that Mr. Zoggan, farther out in the lake, was fighting for his life. And by the time somebody out on the raft called for help, it was too late.
Martine sprinted into the water; it splashed, icy cold, around her thighs. She threw herself in, swam out into the lake, leaving herself no time to think, no time to be afraid. Zoggan was thrashing and treading water farther out, near the raft, but still far from the middle of the lake. Martine had almost reached him when she heard him call out, one last time. Then he went under. Fast and suddenly. As if somebody had pulled him down. She dove under. He was gone. She had on her goggles, but the water was murky and she couldn’t see anything, not even air bubbles. She dove again and again, but there was just no sign of him. She simply couldn’t find him. Neither could the divers from the rescue team who fished her out of the lake, coughing and blue with the cold. They dove for hours. Nothing. As if he’d never existed. Nothing remained but the Cat in the Hat top hat, which drifted, listing to one side, in the water.
“Let go,” he’d screamed. “Let me go!”
In Schwyzerdütsch.
The rumors about Mrs. Zoggan were all true, as it turned out. She worked for the district attorney’s office. She’d spent nine years as a nun, and after leaving the convent she’d gone to the police academy and had then become one of the first female cops on the vice squad in San Francisco. She never said whether she’d met her husband during a raid. Just that the handcuffs she always had in her pockets were a personal memento.
Handcuffs, thought Martine.
Copyright © 2012 by Milena Moser; translation Copyright © 2012 by Mary Tannert
Dial Country Code 91 + M for Murder
by Stewart Brown
Stewart Brown is a software developer who worked in tech support for a call center for several years. But it wasn’t so much his work in that field as his experience as a customer waiting on hold for tech support that inspired this story. The author lives in Arvada, Colorado with his wife and nine-year-old son. He tells EQMM that he’s been writing short stories off and on since childhood. This is his first paid professional publication.
“Welcome to the Spade Detective Agency. If your life is in immediate danger, please hang up and call the local authorities. For English, please stay on the line. Para el español, por favor, pulse uno. Press 2 if you would like to hear about our weekly crime-buster specials. Press 3 if you are calling about an existing investigation. Press 4 to start a new investigation. Press 5...”
[beep]
“You have selected ‘new investigation.’ Press 1 if the crime involves blackmail or extortion. Press 2 if the crime involves kidnapping. Press 3 if the crime involves treason. Press 4 if the crime involves murder. Press...”
[beep]
“You have selected ‘murder.’ Press 1 if the victim was a business associate or colleague. Press 2 if the victim was a spouse or loved one. Press 3 if...”
[beep]
“You have selected ‘spouse or loved one.’ Press 1 if the victim was poisoned. Press 2 if the victim was stabbed. Press 3 if the victim was shot. Press 4 if the victim blew up when he started his car. Press 5 for all other modes of death.”
[beep]
“You have selected ‘other.’ Please hold while I transfer you to one of our highly qualified private detectives.”
“All of our detectives are currently solving crimes. Your wait time is approximately five minutes.”
[hold music]
“It’s murder by numbers 1,2,3... It’s as easy to learn as your A, B, C.”
[45 minutes later]
“Thank you for calling the Spade Detective Agency. This is Hamish. Would you like to hear about our weekly crime-buster specials?”
“Um, no. I would like to speak to a detective.”
“My name is Hamish. I am a detective. How may I help you?”
“Well, I, uh. I think my husband may have been murdered and I would like to hire a detective to investigate.”
“Thank you, madam. What is your name?”
“Nancy.”
“Thank you, madam. What is your husband’s name?”
“Marlowe. Marlowe Drew.”
“Is your husband deceased?”
“Uh, yeah. That is why I’m calling.”
“Thank you, madam. Please tell me about your husband’s death.”
“First of all, you can call me Nancy. And you don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“Thank you, mada—, I am very sorry, Miss Nancy. Please tell me about your husband’s death.”
“Well, about three weeks ago he was rock climbing with some friends. They were in a very remote part of the Rockies when the rope that tied Marley to his climbing partner broke and he fell. But the weird part is that no one actually saw him fall. And the climbing rope was new. They don’t just break. I think someone might have cut it.”
“Please tell me, did your husband have access to dead bodies?”
“What? Of course not! Why would he?”
“It is my belief that your husband faked his own death.”
“That’s ridiculous. Look, I don’t have time for this. I just want to set up an appointment to meet with a detective. Can you do that or not?”
“I am sorry, Miss Nancy, that is not how the Spade Detective Agency works. We only do remote investigations over the phone.”