In the hours I had to think, I figured out where Mr. Oodles was being held. The threatening note was written in the same shade of Revlon Red that coated the thin lips of my captor. I’d never thought to connect my harassment with the disappearance of Ms. Leopold’s treasured pooch. I replayed the conversation I’d had with Ms. Leopold about the situation at Damon’s being “rectified” and shuddered to think what she’d done to defend my chubby honour.
The security guard found me in the morning asleep under the muu muu. The police had been searching all night. Ms. Leopold had contacted them when I hadn’t returned home with her vermouth.
Two hours later they arrested Mrs. Bretton, aka sales bitch, on one count of unlawful confinement and one count of dognapping. Mrs. Bretton was fired from Low-Mart, just as she had been from Damon’s. As I suspected, Ms. Leopold had called the manager at Damon’s to air her disgust over my shabby treatment. Being a member of the pleasantly plump club himself, the manager had dismissed Mrs. Bretton immediately.
We were returned safely to our homes, Mr. Oodles swaddled in a police blanket and myself with a $700 gift certificate from Low-Mart.
I sipped my Pina Colada poolside at the River Grand Country Club. Ms. Leopold was holding a chintz fabric swatch to Mr. Oodles.
“I do enjoy the red, dear, but it’s just not his colour.” A couple in the hot tub caught her eye. “Well, well.”
“Who are they?” I knew they must be important for Ms. Leopold to have stopped putting zinc on Mr. Oodles’ nose.
“She is Dana Swan, the world’s highest paid plus-sized model. She’s on the cover of Mode and In-Style this month.”
I peered around Ms. Leopolds’s hat-cum-golf umbrella. “And him?” I asked of the handsome silver-haired man fawning over his curvy companion.
“That, my dear, is Mr. Bretton.”
I blinked at her. “As in married to Mrs. Bretton, psycho sales cow from hell?”
“The same.” She fanned Mr. Oodles. “From what I understand, Dana worked at Dairy Dream before her modelling career took off. He always stopped in after his afternoon walk. Then one night, he went out for a scoop of butterscotch swirl, and never came back.”
Dana Swan emerged from the hot tub. Her string bikini clung to her glistening size 16 frame. Mr. Bretton panted after her.
“Rumour has it the article in Mode is rather racy.”
Later that week, I took great pleasure using my $700 Low-Mart certificate to buy 100 copies of Mode magazine. I sent them to Mrs. Bretton in care of the womens’ correctional facility. I was careful to dog-ear the feature article: “Sizzling Sex with your Sixty-Something Sweetheart” by Dana Swan.
VICTORIA MAFFINI Long known to customers at Prime Crime Books as Vic the Chic, Madame Maffini-Dirnberger now inhabits the dangerous world of educational publishing. She lives in Hull, Quebec, with her husband, her dachshund, a pair of squirrels, two lovebirds and a flock of cockatiels. “Down in the Plumps” is her first published short story.
DOUBLE TROUBLE
BARBARA FRADKIN
If it hadn’t been for my brand-new Discount Dan’s hiking boots, I’d never even have met Patrick. I’d spent a long, wet day trying to hitch a ride into the mountains, and I was covered in mud and sweat. No one wanted to pick up a guy who looked like he was on the run from a chain gang, so I had to hoof it about eight kilometres to the next little Welsh town, whose name resembled a bad hand of Scrabble. When I finally hit civilization, it was dark, and I limped to the nearest pub to knock back something cold while I rethought my plans. My feet weren’t going to take me any farther that day.
Wales was supposed to be a hiker’s paradise, crisscrossed with trails along sea cliffs and over mountaintops steeped in the lore of ancient wars. A far cry from the flat, featureless city of strip-malls I’d left behind in southern Ontario. But it wasn’t turning out quite as I’d planned. Prices were astronomical, and I had wasted half my money before I even got out of London.
I entered the Trewern Arms and dumped my gear by the bar. The pub owner took his eyes off the rugby match long enough to flick a question at me. I pointed to the nearest draft, hoping it wasn’t that awful tar the Brits drink. Smooth amber liquid foamed into the mug, and I downed half without even taking a breath.
“Do you know a—” I almost said “cheap”, but stopped myself “—a reasonable place I can stay the night?”
The pub owner shook his head without missing a second of play. So much for country hospitality. Dead tired, I dropped into a chair in the corner and leaned over to pry my feet out of my boots. I felt, more than heard, a presence above me, glanced up, and there he was. It was almost like looking at myself. Same blonde brush cut, same blue eyes and hatchet face, same six-foot, string-bean body.
“I don’t mean to intrude,” he said in an accent that sounded like Boston, “but I heard you were looking for a place. I’m just about to go to this small B&B up the road. You’re welcome to come and see if they have any rooms.”
I took a few seconds to size the guy up, because he was wearing a fancy shirt and Britain seemed to be full of fags. Either that or I was giving off the wrong signals for this side of the ocean.
The guy’s smile faded, and he backed away. “Just trying to be friendly.”
I didn’t want to seem too eager, but my feet weren’t up to much hotel hunting. Besides, I’d been in Britain nearly a week without talking to a friendly soul, so I accepted.
His smile returned. “Do you want to check it out now, or grab a bite to eat first?”
I didn’t want to admit this place was probably too steep for my budget, so I scanned the blackboard over the bar and saw fish and chips. How expensive could that be?
He pulled a chair over and stuck out his hand. “I’m Patrick Johannsen.”
My jaw dropped. “Hello, Patrick Johannsen. I’m Patrick O’Shea.”
Over fish and chips washed down by the half dozen beers he insisted on buying, we laughed at the coincidence.
“I was born on St. Patrick’s Day, that’s my only claim to the name,” he said, then nodded to my backpack. “Are you here for the hiking?”
“If I ever get there.”
“Where are you headed?”
“The Brecon Beacons, mountains north of here, with all those ruined Roman castles. What about you?”
He smiled and inspected his hands, like he was embarrassed. “I’m just going. I don’t know where. I finished university, hopped a plane, bought a car and headed out of London this morning. This is where I was when I got tired.”
“You’ve got a car!” I thought of my own pathetic stash of pounds. I’d been such an idiot to think three thousand bucks was enough. Of course, if I’d taken any more, my stepfather would have noticed, and this time the bastard would have pressed charges. “I guess you’re in a different
