was one of the conspirators, the plotters. Her little remarks, her little looks, all calculated, all poisonous. Look at what she had almost done to Carlotta herself. This girl is killing us, Carlotta thought. She is killing our happiness, our contentment. Our selves.
She has to be dealt with.
Carlotta took her bathing suit out of her dressing case. She would relax in the whirlpool for a while. It would soothe her nerves and help her think. She followed the girl into the pool room.
The next day Carlotta came in at her usual time to find the fitness studio in chaos. She carefully expressed her astonishment when she learned that the little Tiffany had been found drowned in the whirlpool. She had evidently dropped one of her gold earrings as she had entered the water—one could see where it lay gleaming at the bottom of the pool—and when she had reached for it, the vigorous movement of the whirlpool had wrapped her blonde ponytail around the chrome ladder, where it was fastened to the wall. Accidental death, the policeman said. A petition was being circulated to replace the whirlpool.
“Poor child,” Carlotta said as she signed in.
VIOLETTE MALAN writes from Elgin, Ontario. Her published fiction crosses several genres, including mystery, romance, fantasy and erotica. Violette won the inaugural short story contest at the Bloody Words Crime Writers Conference, and most recently she has sold a story to Over My Dead Body for their Canadian issue.
SNAP JUDGEMENT
SUE PIKE
Here. Have a look at this.” The bald guy sitting next to me leaned across and waved a photograph in front of my nose.
It was a small snapshot, an old one judging from the wide border and all the folds and creases. The woman looking up at the camera had great bone structure, but she seemed to be hiding behind too much hair and black eyeliner. Mr. Jones, who leads our high school photography club, was teaching us all about bone structure.
I nodded and looked away, but the creep leaned closer and tapped the snapshot with a stubby finger.
“My wife.” Tap. Tap. “She’s dead.”
He was way into my personal space. I shifted sideways in my chair as far as I could and looked around at the rest of the group, hoping someone more my own age might have come in while I wasn’t looking. But the others seemed pretty old, and they were either crying or staring straight ahead like zombies.
Now he was leaning forward, peering at the stud in my nose.
“How d’ya blow your nose with that thing in there?”
I felt like asking how he tied his shoes with the big gut hanging over his belt, but I just shrugged and looked away.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.” He reached over and clamped a hand on my knee. Oh, please!
I jerked my knee away and scraped my chair a couple of inches to the other side.
The noise made the group leader look over. She cleared her throat. “Welcome everyone. Let’s start by introducing ourselves.” She smiled at each of the five of us in turn. “My name is Helen. I’m Program Coordinator here at Coping with Grief, and I’ll be your facilitator this evening.” She sat down and her voice went quiet. “My husband and daughter were killed eight years ago at a railway level crossing, so I’ve experienced something of what you’re all going through.”
“I seriously doubt that,” the guy beside me said.
She looked a little surprised. “Mr. Simpson. Would you like to start?”
“Name’s Russ Simpson. Career army. Retired.” He laid the snapshot on the arm of his chair and stretched back, his fingers laced behind his neck. His shirt was one of those loud Hawaiian jobs with the first four buttons undone. I could see gold chains tangled up in a bird’s nest of gray chest hair.
“Moved here from Calgary a month ago.” He cracked some knuckles. “My wife, Debbie, was killed a while back.”
Helen waited to be sure he was finished and then turned to me.
“I’m Jill,” I said. “My mom died in March. Breast cancer.”
That was all I felt like saying. My throat and chest had started to ache, and I could feel tears making rat tracks down my cheeks. I sure didn’t want to be bawling in front of strangers.
“All of us are bound to cry at one time or another during these sessions. And that’s okay. In fact it’s more than O.K.” Helen pushed the box of tissues on the coffee table closer to me, but I kept my eyes on the floor, and after a bit she turned to the woman on my other side.
“My name’s Mary Anne.”
I hadn’t had a chance really to look at Mary Anne before because she’d been hunched over in her chair since I arrived. Now I could see she wasn’t all that old, probably not more than thirty. She was pretty too, even with puffy eyes.
“My little girl died of leukemia. She—”
“Hey. Life’s a bugger.” Russ gave a low whistle.
“Go on.” Helen said to Mary Anne, but she’d clamped her mouth shut and was staring down at the wet lump of tissues in her hand.
Helen waited then looked across the room at an old couple sitting close together and apart from the rest of us. The man had a tight grip on the woman’s arm. “Our daughter and her husband died in a car accident last winter. They were on their way home from a ski trip. Left three kids—”
“Hoo boy. Gotta take it easy on those winter roads. Wonder there aren’t more accidents. Eh?”
The old man straightened up and glared at Russ. “The wife and I are doing the best we can.”
Helen spoke up. “Your names…?”
“I’m Bert. This is Doreen.” He slumped back.
“I want to say something.” Russ dropped his hands to his knees and shifted forward in his chair. “The wife here,” he tapped the photo again, “she was a beautiful woman. Great cook and housekeeper, too. I get real mad when I think how some runner could just up and kill her and get away with it. I could kill…”
Helen frowned. “It’s quite normal to feel anger—”
“Just walking home from the mall one day, minding her own business and this woman jogger runs past her and pushes her off the sidewalk and into traffic. Wham!” He slammed his right fist into his left palm.
“That’s terrible—”
“Police never found the bitch who did it.” He was breathing hard. “Sometimes I get this red, this blood-red light in front of my eyes. Can’t see past it. Tried anger management, but they told me to come to this group.”
Helen turned to Bert and Doreen. “Were you going to say more about how you’re feeling?”
“Well, I get a little angry at Trish sometimes.” Doreen’s mouth was quivering. “I know it’s not fair to her. She didn’t choose to die.”
