The Ladies Killing Circle Anthology 4-Book Bundle. Barbara Fradkin
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and locking windows.
How did someone get my grocery bill? And why? It must have been left in one of the numerous plastic bags I’d put out for recycling. I struggled with the strange events.
My sleep was littered with nightmares of being chased by the “Fat Police”. I barely managed to settle my nerves with several cups of camomile tea. When I went for the paper, any internal calm was sucked out of me by Ms. Leopold’s shrieking. She was standing on her doorstep, wrapped in plum chiffon and feathers, waving at me desperately.
“They’ve snatched my Oodles!”
Mr. Oodles had escaped the night before. He was inclined to do so after a stressful day. Ms. Leopold assumed he’d be back by morning. But instead she’d found his ascot with a note.
“Kiss your wiener goodbye.” It was penned in smeared red lipstick.
Mr. Balducci watched from his balcony. He wore an apron proclaiming him to be a “naughty gnocchi”.
I settled Ms. Leopold into her bed with a box of Kleenex, camomile tea and a 40-ounce bottle of Bombay Sapphire. Then I phoned the police.
In fifteen minutes three cruisers arrived, lights and sirens on. Apparently, Ms. Leopold played bridge with the chief of police.
That evening I was posting “Missing Oodles” fliers after visiting the liquor store for Ms. Leopold. I slipped into Low-Mart for new workout attire. I didn’t want to spend a bundle on clothes. I knew from experience they would not get much wear. I was led to the fitting-room by a pinched-faced woman in a blue smock. She must have overheard my grunts as I forced the waistband of the medium stretch pants.
“Another size, perhaps?” She called from just outside the stall. “Maybe a large would be more comfortable.”
Moments later, the loudspeaker announced the store would be closing. A flowered housedress was flung over my stall door. I eyed the 28XXXL tag.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s for me.”
“I think it will do perfectly.”
The store lights dimmed.
“The men will be swooning over you. You see, spandex is not your friend. It shows off all your rolls and dimples.”
That condescending, nasal voice! I’d been thrown off by the smock, but it was the sales lady from Damon’s. That bitch! Wanting nothing more than to throttle the snotty woman, I stuffed myself into my clothes, but found the change room door was locked.
“Hey!” I banged hard against the door. “Let me out!”
“Perhaps Colonel Sanders will come to your rescue. Although he may be hurt to find you’re having an intimate relationship with Mr. Christie and Joe Louis as well.”
The lights were completely out in the store. I strained to listen for signs of life over my pounding heart. A Muzak version of “La Bamba” accompanied my cries for help.
I slumped to the floor to ponder my predicament. It was hard to believe someone with such a high calibre of snobbery would be caught dead in Low-Mart. Why would she have traded her Donna Karan suits for a blue smock and grey polyester slacks? She had obviously been going through my recycle bin. The references to the Colonel were no coincidence. I’d perched a greasy red and white cardboard tub on top of my green box.
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