~ Murder In The Bathroom ~

by

Don Higgins

“I’ll watch Fitzgerald while you are gone,” Mary said.

In the kitchen, Jill wiped the darkened spot with a dishtowel. “Before we go back, let’s have our little talk in the bathroom.”

Patricia sighed. “Your begging won’t do any good. I’ve decided to expose you as the cheat you are.”

“Well then, even a condemned woman is allowed a last request.”

“What?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute, in the bathroom where we can have privacy. You go on. I’ll tell the others we’ll be out shortly.”

There was a long moment of hesitation as Patricia deliberated the request. Jill sighed, thinking she would have to argue her petition.

Patricia sighed. “All right. This is the last time I will give in to your silliness.”

Jill held back a grim expression. You got that right.

Scowling, Patricia headed down the hallway toward the bathroom.

On Jill’s return to the living room, she said to the others, “Patricia’s in the bathroom, and she said for us to continue.” Waving her hand Jill added, “I figure about five minutes—at least. You know Patricia when she gets in front of a mirror. While we’re waiting, I’m going outside and have myself a quick smoke.” As she pranced toward the front door, she raised her voice. “Please, continue your discussion.” Jill sashayed out the front door and lit her cigarette. She knocked on the front window, waving to her fellow writers, then eased away from the window.

She brushed the lit end of the cigarette against the door until the fire was out, and quickly stuck it into the pocket of her blouse. Only the half-moon and perhaps a wandering animal noticed what happened next. As though endowed with acrobatic ability, the cigarette caught the pocket edge of Jill’s blouse and dropped to the porch floor.

Dashing around the side of the cabin, she entered through the kitchen door, showing some discomfort as she lugged her packed tote bag. Jill sidled along the hallway to the bathroom, being careful she wasn’t seen. Peeking around the alcove, she took note that the others were still in their chairs discussing the story. She opened the door and stepped inside, quickly closing it, gently. She locked it and set her tote bag beside her.

“Hurry up and deliver your solicitation,” Patricia said, while powdering her forehead.

Jill took off her high heels, then slipped on her loafers. “Did you bring your proof?” she asked, shoving her stilettos in the bag.

“Of course.”

“Where is it?”

“The papers are in safekeeping, why?”

“Well, I want them in return for my offer.”

“Yes, I’m sure you would.” Patricia leaned closer to the mirror, her eyes scrutinizing a possible blemish on her chin. “I love it when I see you squirm,” she said over her shoulder. “No. I intend to keep the notes. I am serious about telling the others of your thievery, which I will do on my return to the table.”

Patricia’s nagging monologue clacked and clattered in Jill’s ears as she rummaged through her tote bag.

Smiling at the mirror, Patricia added contritely, “Case closed. Comprenez-vous?”

“You bitch! I expected as much.” The list of priorities flashed across her mind. Handkerchief out, chloroform Patricia, smother with pillow, attach recorder, out through the window.

Jill took out the chloroformed handkerchief from a plastic bag. During this moment of silence, Patricia turned just in time to see something white in her face. Swiftly pushing against the back of her comrade’s head with one hand, Jill slapped the handkerchief onto the gaping mouth. Patricia struggled, grasping Jill’s hand. Jill pressed harder. Soon Patricia’s hand went limp, and her body drooped.

Jill eased the limp body onto the floor, then dropped the handkerchief on the wash basin. While humming a tune softly, she pressed the pillow against Patricia’s face for a time, then checked Patricia’s pulse. Jill sneered at the dead woman’s face. Your coloring is gone, dearie. Rising up, she glanced at the mirror seeing her own reflection and pushed out her lips, frowning. With a momentary lapse of urgency, she retrieved a tube of lipstick from her tote bag, and applied a bronze tint to her lips, until a slip of the fingers marked a spot above the lip line. Oh, poop!

Frowning at her mistake, she dabbed her lips with the handkerchief in an effort to remove the spot. She grimaced as the ethereal odor reached her nose. What are you doing? Don’t asphyxiate yourself. Hurrying, she tossed the handkerchief into the toilet bowl, but didn’t see it slip over the edge, falling on the hold-down bolts. She flushed the toilet, then quickly pulled the cassette recorder and duct tape out of her tote bag. Reeling out a long strip of tape, she tore it off with her teeth, then strapped the recorder to the underside of the toilet tank. She hit the power button. Expelling a long breath, she slapped her cheek. Slow down, babe, don’t get panicky.

Next chore: climb out the window. Lifting the clothes hamper into the tub revealed its lightness. Feeling its unstable condition, she would have to be careful mounting the makeshift stepping stool. Jill set the tote bag on the far side of the lid. Having accomplished that task, she reaffirmed, No problem. Expelling a deep breath, she flung her knee on top of the hamper, looking like a contortionist. Grasping, pulling and pushing her body, Jill reached base camp number one, squatting on the lid.

Glancing at her watch, she saw the time. Four minutes had expired. Expired? You used the right word there, girl. She rose to a stooped position, swung the window open, extended her tote bag through the opening and let it drop. Next: final onslaught to the summit. Grabbing the windowsill, she lifted her leg into the opening, but hit her knee on the sill. “Ouch!” She put a hand to her mouth, hoping no one heard her outcry. Squeezing through the opening, she dropped to the ground below, landing on both feet. Like a paratrooper, she complimented herself.

One last manipulation left. She took the coat hanger and pliers from her tote bag, cut the hanger, then straightened out the wire. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she caught the edge of the window and pulled it to a closed position with the help of her gyrating lips. She folded the hanger, putting it and the pliers back in her tote bag. She must remember to return the pliers to the kitchen drawer. And dispose of her trinkets of destruction. Over the cliff would do, later, when she had more time.

Jill brushed off her hands. The fact that the window was closed should dispel anyone’s thoughts that an intruder used the window to make their getaway. If there was any doubt in Jack’s mind, she would simply ask him the key question: How did the perpetrator close it after jumping out? Besides, Patricia died of natural causes, the only obvious conclusion possible. Who could question the obvious? But she knew Jack Antonovich would, the doubting Thomas of their writer’s club. She was ready for him.

Grabbing her tote bag, she ran to the front porch, changed into her high heels, and put her loafers in the tote bag. She could use a smoke, but there wasn’t time. She barged inside the room.