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The Old Man in the Motorized
Chair My grandfather, Stubble Fine,
used to work for the cops, but he didn’t get along with them
so he quit. He opened a detective agency, but he didn’t much care for that,
even though he was good at it. Well, to be honest, he was great at it. But he
didn’t care. At heart, he’s lazy. No man in my memory has more
looked forward to retirement than my grandpa. And as it turned out, he pretty
much had to retire. His legs played out and he spent his days in a motorized
chair, in front of the television set. His wife, my grandma, left him early on,
well before he retired, and she died of some kind of disease somewhere in
Florida. We never met. On the day I’m telling you about,
I was visiting his house, which is a three-bedroom that looks a lot like the
three-bedrooms along his street and across from it. He and I get along well
enough, considering he doesn’t really like much of anyone and hates the human race in general. But I get my fill of him plenty quick, and I
think the feeling is mutual, though it’s more about his personality than about
anything I might do or say. I was pretty
close to making my escape, as it was a Saturday, and I wanted to have a
nice day on the town, maybe go to the mall, see if any good-looking women were
hanging around, but fate took a hand. Grandpa was watching his favorite
channel, one about reptiles and insects and animals. He loved the episodes with
alligators and lions, and especially snakes. The ones where adventurers went
out and showed off poisonous snakes and told you about them and handled them in
precarious and irresponsible ways to show you how knowledgeable they were.
Grandpa watched primarily in hopes of seeing someone bit. So he’s settled in with a snake program, waiting on another, ’cause it’s some kind of all-day snake marathon or such,
and just as I’m about to put on my coat and go out into the winter cold, the
doorbell rang. Grandpa said, “Damn it.” I went over to the kitchen window
for a look. The Sheriff’s car was parked at the curb, and behind it was a big
black SUV splattered on the sides and all over the tires with red mud. I went
to the door and opened it. Standing there beside Jim was a
young woman, who was, to put it mildly, a stunner. She looked like a movie star
to me, even though her hair was a little tussled, like she had just gotten out
of bed. She was wearing jeans and those tall boots with the white fluff around
the tops, and she had on a well-fitting dark jacket with the same white fluff
around the collar. I invited them into the house,
said, “Grandpa, it’s the Sheriff.” “Oh, hell,” Grandpa said. Jim looked at me. “Cranky today?” “Every day,” I said. “I heard that,” Grandpa said. “I
got my hearing aid in.” We went over to his chair.
Grandpa said, “Today is the all-day snake marathon, and I don’t want to miss
it.” “This is kind of important,” Jim
said. “So’s the snake marathon,”
Grandpa said. “It shows next time six months from now. I may not be here then.” I thought: Now that’s silly.
If you’re not here, you’re not gonna miss not seeing
it. Grandpa turned his head slightly,
looked at me, and said, “I still want to see it.” “I didn’t say anything,” I said. “Yeah, but you were smiling, like
what I said was silly.” “It is,” I said. “Why don’t you
just record it and watch it when you want?” “Don’t have a recorder.” “I bought you one for Christmas.” “That’s what’s in the box?” “That would be it. I’ll hook it
up.” “Not today, you won’t.” “Well, it’s still silly,” I said. “Not to me,” Grandpa said. He put
the TV on mute, looked at Jim, said, “Well, get on with it.” “Mr. Fine. Good to see you,” Jim
said, reaching out to shake hands. As he did, Grandpa sniffed and smiled. “Call me Stubble or Stubbs. It’s
not that I feel all that close to you, but Mr. Fine makes me feel more senior
than I like. Besides, I see you from time to time. So
we know one another.” “Very well, Stubbs—” “Wait a minute,” Grandpa said.
“Never mind. Call me Mr. Fine. It sounds better coming out of your mouth.” “Okay, Mr. Fine.” “What’s the problem,” Grandpa
said. He said it like a man who might already know the problem. But that’s how
he was, a know-it-all, who, much of the time, seemed in fact to actually know
it all. “This is Cindy Cornbluth,” Jim said. “Her husband is missing. I had her
follow me here to see if you could help us out. I know how you can figure
things, how you can notice things the rest of us don’t … like … well, you know,
there was that time with the murders in the old theater.” “And all those other times,”
Grandpa said. “Yes,” Jim said, “and all those
other times.” Cindy leaned forward and smiled a
smile that would have knocked a bird out of a tree, and
shook hands with Grandpa. I thought he held her hand a little too long. Before
he let it go, he gave her face a good look, and when she stepped back, he gave
her a good once-over. If he thought what I thought, that she was as fine a
looking woman as had ever walked the earth, he didn’t let on. His face looked
as sour as ever. “Give me the facts, and make it
short,” Grandpa said. “They got a round-up of the top ten most poisonous snakes
coming on next, in about fifteen minutes” “Jimmy … Sheriff. He can’t
possibly help us in fifteen minutes,” Cindy said. “That’s how much time you got,”
Grandpa said. “You already made me miss the part about where one of the snake
wranglers gets bit in the face.” “You’ve seen this before?” Jim
asked. “He has,” I said. “But he never
tapes it. Won’t hook up the machine. He likes to symbolically capture the
program in the wild.” “They got this one snake,”
Grandpa said, “bites this fool messin’ with it, and
they can’t get its teeth out. It won’t let go. The guy is going green, even as
you watch.” “You enjoy that?” Jim said. “Oh yeah,” Grandpa said. “Rule of
thumb: don’t mess with venomous snakes. Okay now, tell me what happened. Chop,
chop.” “I woke up this morning,” Cindy
said, “and Bert was gone. That’s my husband. I don’t know where. I didn’t think
much of it. I thought he might be surprising me with doughnuts.” “Doughnuts?” She nodded. “He do
that often?” Grandpa asked. “Now and again,” she said. “So, Saturday, that’s his day
off?” “Not usually. But he decided not
to go into work today. He can do that when he wants. He owns his own business.
Construction.” “Heard of it,” Grandpa said. “Cornbluth Construction. Got some big deals lately. Saw it
on the news.” “That’s right,” Cindy said. “Would you say he’s wealthy?”
Grandpa asked. “That the two of you are wealthy?” “He’s been fortunate,” Cindy
said. “So, tell me the rest of it.” “I got up this morning, he wasn’t
home, and I waited around until noon. Then I called the Sheriff. I was worried
by then.” “Did you think he might have gone
into work?” “No. It didn’t cross my mind.” Grandpa looked down at Cindy’s
feet. “Nice boots.” “Thanks,” Cindy said, and looked
at Jim perplexed. Jim smiled. He knew how Grandpa was, knew he had roundabout
ways, provided he was in the mood to help at all. Grandpa called me over, said,
“Get your digital camera, go out to her car—” He paused, looked at Cindy. “I
did hear right that you followed Jim over?” “That’s right,” she said, “but
what has that got to do with anything?” “Maybe nothing,” he said. “Get
photos of the car, all around.” I found the camera and went out
and took photos of the car. When I came back in, I leaned over Grandpa’s
shoulder and he looked at the digital photos. He took off his glasses and
rubbed his eyes and sighed. He put them back on, glanced at the TV and pointed. “That’s a black mamba,” Grandpa
said. “What?” Cindy said. “The snake,” Grandpa said
pointing at the silent TV. “Very deadly. Hides in the grass, and then, bam,
it’s got you. You’re dead before you can say, ‘Oh hell, I’m snake-bit.’” Grandpa said to me, “Grandson,
turn up the heat.” I thought it was pretty warm, but I did as instructed. “So, you two,” Grandpa said to
Cindy and Jim, “did you know each other before today?” “Yes,” Jim said. “In high
school.” “Date?” “Once or twice,” Jim said. “Just
a kid thing. Nothing came of it.” He looked at Cindy, and she
smiled like a woman who knew she was beautiful and was a little ashamed of it,
but … not really. Grandpa nodded. “You know, the
dirt around here is white. Except up on Pine Ridge Hill. The oil company did
some drilling up there, and it was a bust. I heard about it on the news. They
had to close it down. They say the old ground up there is unstable, that it’s
shifting, that a lot of it is going down the holes that were meant for oil
drilling. It’s like a big sinkhole up there, a bunch of them actually. Saw that
on the news, too.” “Okay,” Jim said, “but, Mr. Fine,
so what?” “Here’s the deal. Cindy has a
rough place on her hand. Felt it when we shook. But I’ll come back to that.
She’s also got red clay on her boots. The left one. I think she may have
stomped some of it off, but there’s still a touch on the toe, and a bit she’s
tracked in on the floor. So, she’s been out there to the old oil site. I
believe that she’s got a bit of pine needle in her hair, too, twisted up under
the wave there, where it got caught in a tree limb.” Jim leaned over for a look. I
gave it a hard look from where I was standing as well. Didn’t that old codger
wear glasses? How in the world had he noticed that? “I drove up there the other day,”
she said. “I was looking for pinecones, to make decorations. I haven’t washed
my hair since then. I was hanging around the house, didn’t have anywhere to
go.” “Gonna
spray them pinecones gold, silver?” Grandpa asked, not looking away from the
TV. “I don’t know,” she said.
“Something like that.” “On your earlobe there’s a dark
spot. Noticed it when we shook hands. I’ll come back to that” Jim gave that a look too, said,
“Yeah. I see it.” Then, appearing puzzled, he unfastened his coat, took it off,
dropped it over the back of a chair. Grandpa grinned. “Warm, son?” “A little,” Jim said. “Well now, Jim,” Grandpa said.
“I’ve known you a long time. Since you were a boy.” “Yes, sir.” “I believe you’re a good man, but
she didn’t call you this morning. She lied and you let her.” “Now wait a minute,” Jim said. “When you shook hands with me I smelled her perfume on your coat. A lot of it. I don’t
think sheriffs are in the habit of comforting women with missing husbands with
a hug so intense it gets on their coat, and in their hair. And she called you
Jimmy.” “Well, we know each other,” Jim
said. “And I did comfort her.” “Another thing. There’s what we
used to call a hickey on your neck.” Jim slapped at his neck as if a
mosquito had bitten him. “Not really. Just kidding. But
here’s what I think. I think you’ve been having an affair. If she had called
the sheriff’s office to get in touch with you, and the two of you were not an
item, you wouldn’t have come to me right away. You were hoping it was simple
and I could solve it without involving the sheriff’s department. That’s why you
had her follow you in her car, so she wouldn’t be in your car. “And Mrs. Cornbluth,
that smile you gave me, the one that was supposed to make me weak in the knees?
That seemed out of place for the situation.” “People respond in different
ways,” she said. “Yes, they do,” he said. “I give
you that much. Would you like to take your coat off?” “I’m fine.” “No, you’re not. You’re sweating.
In fact, it’s too hot in here. Grandson, turn down the heater, will you.” “But you just told me—” “Cut it down,” Grandpa said. I went over and did just that. “When you and me
shook hands,” Grandpa said, “there was a fresh rough spot on your palm. That’s
because your hands are delicate, and they held something heavy earlier today,
and when you struck out with it, hitting your husband in the head with whatever
you were using … a fire poker, perhaps? … it twisted in your hand and made that
minor wound.” “That’s ridiculous,” Cindy said. “It certainly is,” Jim said.
“Okay, Mr. Fine. Me and Cindy had a thing going, but that doesn’t mean she
killed her husband.” Grandpa said, “Jim, you came by
her house. Just like you were supposed to. I don’t mean you had anything having
to do with Mr. Cornbluth, but Cindy was expecting
you. You had a date with her because Bert was supposed to be at work, but when
you showed for your date, she told you he had stayed home, and she hadn’t been
able to reach you, and now he was missing and she was worried. That it wasn’t
like him. Right?” “How could you know that?” Jim
said. “I guessed a little, but all the
other facts line up. After she hit her husband in the head with something or
another, she wiped up quick.” “But why would I kill him?” Cindy
said. “That’s between you and your
husband, but if you were having an affair, it might be you weren’t that fond of
him, and he found out, and you didn’t want to lose all that money, and thought
if the body wasn’t found, you’d get insurance money and no jail time. The
murder was quick and spontaneous, done in anger, and afterward, because Jim was
coming, you had to do on-the-spot thinking, and it was stupid thinking. “You drove the body out to the
old oil-well site this morning, dumped it, drove back and cleaned the car, the
house, and maybe you were cleaning yourself when Jim showed up. You had to wipe
yourself down quick. But that spot of blood on your ear. You missed that. And
one more thing, Mrs. Cornbluth: You’re sweating. A
lot. That’s why I turned up the heat. To see if you’d take your coat off on
your own. You didn’t. That made me think you had something to hide. Like maybe
the blood that splashed on you from the murder wasn’t just a drop on your ear, and
you didn’t have time to change before Jim showed up. So, you threw a coat on
over it. Was she wearing it in the house when you showed, Jim?” Jim nodded, looked at her. He
said, “Cindy. Take off your coat.” “Jim, I don’t want to.” “Jim isn’t asking. The sheriff
is. Take it off.” Cindy slowly removed her coat.
She was wearing a gray, tight-fitting wool sweater. There were dark patches. Grandpa said, “Those wet spots on
her sweater — I think if you check them, you’ll find they’re blood. And if you
check up at the old oil site on Pine Ridge Hill, you’ll find her husband at the
bottom of one of those holes. You know, they were supposed to fill those in
next week. If they had, good chance that body would never have been found.
That’s how you got the pine straw in your hair, wasn’t it? When you were draggin’ Bert from the car, through the pines, to the top
of the hill? And Jim, when it all comes out, that you were dallying with a
married woman, while on the job … well, I hope you keep your job.” “Yeah, me, too,” Jim said taking
out a pair of cuffs. “Put your hands behind your back, Cindy.” “Jim. You don’t have to do this.
Bert found out about us—” “Shut up! Just shut up. Put your
hands behind your back. Now.” She did. He handcuffed her. She
looked at Grandpa. “I hate you, you old bastard.” As they went out the front door,
which I held open for them, Grandpa said, “Lots do.” Grandpa turned up the sound on
the TV. Just in time. The countdown of the world’s most poisonous snakes was
just about to begin. "The Old Man
in the Motorized Chair" was originally published in Damn Near Dead 2: Live Noir or Die Trying (Busted
Flush Press). It was later included in the Lansdale
short-stories collection Bleeding Shadows, published
by Subterranean Press. "The Old Man in the Motorized Chair" © 2010 By
Bizarre Hands, LLC. All Rights Reserved. My friend Bill
Crider was editing an anthology about old guy detectives, and since he and
I are the best of friends, going back over thirty years now, I had no choice. I
didn’t want to see him cry. Anyway, I wrote this one for an
anthology titled Damn Near Dead 2: Live Noir or Die Trying. I wanted to write something simple, but fun, and of an older school of
crime writing I used to read but had hardly touched on as a writer. When I was
learning to write, teaching myself, I used all manner of sources. Ellery Queen and Alfred Hitchcock magazines were among them. I
tried a few stories for them early on, and missed, and once I started selling I was writing other types of stories, so I never
really came back to that kind much, and when I did, it was usually pre-sold
somewhere. Meaning I had been asked to write a story for a magazine or
anthology, and it went there without going out into the broader market. Also,
as a short-story writer I had mostly moved out of the crime arena. My short
stories were primarily of the hardcore realism or absurd fantasy, or marginal
fantasy and horror and science-fiction schools, or to be more precise, a bit of
all those things, and often at the same time, which was an unintentional
by-product. I will say among the influences
for this were the character of Mycroft, from the Sherlock Holmes stories, “The
Old Man in the Corner” stories, which are mostly forgotten today, as well as
Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe stories, though I confess I was never a big fan of Nero
Wolfe. Anyway, here it is. I even
thought I might write more about the character, but I haven’t, and this may be
the only appearance for this old, cantankerous man who likes to watch
television, especially dark nature programs, and solve crimes off the cuff, without
leaving his chair or room. As a side note, Busted Flush
Press, the press that published this story, was owned and operated by David
Thompson, a very fine person who was a co-owner of Murder by the Book in
Houston, Texas, one of the best bookstores around. Its specialty, as you might
have gleaned from the name, is crime and mystery. David died suddenly of an
unknown heart problem, and I forever have his memory and this story tied
together. He was a fine young man and died well before his time. I miss him. I
remember when he was just a kid that worked in the store, and then he was the
co-owner with his wife, McKenna. In my mind he’s still just a kid. He was like
a big puppy, rushing here, rushing there, laughing in place of barking. He was
someone who truly loved his work and loved the field of crime and mystery
writing. I miss you, David. Slither back this way next
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