The Body in the Library

The Body in the Library

By

Phoenix Hocking

I suppose the funny thing about this is that my name really is Agatha Christie.  No, not that one. 

My mother was a great fan of Ms. Christie, and our last names being the same, she thought it might be great fun to name me after her favorite author.

It might have been fun for her, but believe me, explaining my name almost every day of my life has been no fun at all.  Trust me, no one in my age group was named Agatha except me.

Anyway, when I woke up this morning, and actually found a body in my library, I was more amused than shocked.  I confess that my first thought was, “Oh, Mom would have loved this!”

Well, the seriousness of the situation did not take long to arrive, however.  There was a body in the middle of my library floor, and what was I going to do about it?

I guess I should explain here that I don’t really have a library.  What I call my library is what most people in my apartment complex use as their dining room. 

I don’t have a dining table in my dining room.  Instead, I lined the walls with bookshelves, and placed just one chair in the corner, with a good end table and proper lamp to one side. 

I live alone, and take my meals mostly sitting in my recliner in front of the television set, watching Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune, or Death in Paradise. 

I’ve always rather enjoyed murder mysteries.  I love the puzzle of them, not the gore.  I also read a lot of medieval mysteries, and watching shows like Midsomer Murder, Father Brown, or Miss Fisher.  And of course, I love Agatha Christie’s novels.  How could I not, with my name?

So, the puzzle that was the dead body in my own library, sent quite a shock through me. 

A body.

In my library.

Imagine that!

Well, I stepped a little closer to get a better look.  His poor eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling, and his body was quite rigid.  So, what does that mean?  How long had he been dead? 

Obviously, he must have died during the night while I slept, but how had he gotten in in the first place?  Why hadn’t I noticed?  And for heaven’s sake, why hadn’t my dog given any kind of notice?

Well, to be fair, Hercule is quite old, and his hearing isn’t what it used to be.  He probably slept through the whole thing.

Still, there was a body in my library, and what was I going to do about it?

What were my options?

Well, I could call the police, I suppose.  I mean, that would be the most logical thing.  But there would be questions.  Lots of questions.  And due to certain other mishaps in the past, which I’d rather not go into, I’d just as soon not involve the local gendarmes.

I could call my son.  He’d know what to do.  But, again, my son pretty much never believes me anymore about anything I call him about.  He’s been to my house so many times about some tiny little thing, that I don’t think he’d come for a big thing.  So, that’s out. 

I carefully stepped around the body and went into the kitchen.  I turned on the Keurig and plucked a k-cup of Hazelnut from the box, waited for the water to heat, then pressed the button. 

When the coffee finished brewing, I poured one tablespoonful of creamer into the cup and gave it a stir.  I looked toward the dining room, but the body hadn’t moved. 

But then, it wouldn’t, would it?

I stepped around it again and went into the living room to view it.

The eyes still stared at the ceiling, the limbs were still stiff, and I was still faced with a dilemma. 

Now, in Christie’s original story, the body was that of a young woman, and there was quite enough story to keep one occupied for many pages. 

I had just about decided what to do when my elderly dog, Hercule, decided to get his old bones out of bed.  He sauntered into the living room and stopped near my right foot.   He looked at the body, then looked at me. 

He walked over and sniffed it once, then turned away, as if disgusted.  He made his way to the doggie door that leads out onto the patio to do his business. 

Apparently, dead bodies were none of his concern.

So, I finally did what any sane and rational person would do.  I put down my coffee cup, walked back into the library, picked the body of the dead mouse up by its tail, dropped it into the kitchen garbage pail, tied the bag and took it out to the trash. 

Still, I do wonder how it got in, in the first place.

The Heist

The Heist

By

Phoenix Hocking

I was not surprised to see old Mr. Gentry come up to my window.  After all, he’d been banking with us for as long as I could remember, and I’ve been a teller here for over thirty years.

But on that day, he didn’t look well.  He didn’t look well at all. 

Now, ordinarily, Mr. Gentry was always decked out to the nines, in a clean and pressed suit, a sharp tie, and a spring in his step.  His gray hair, what there was of it, was always combed neatly.

That day, though, was another story.  Mr. Gentry’s suit was rumpled and not at all clean.  His hair hadn’t been combed, and there was a definite odor about him.  For the first time, he used a cane, and the usual spring in his step was gone.  And then, my God!  He was as thin as a stick of spaghetti, and it seemed his suit hung on a frame of old, dry bones.

But, I’m a professional, and could not possibly comment on his current condition, so I simply smiled and said, “Good morning, Mr. Gentry.  What can I do for you today?”

A tear gathered at the corner of his eye as he thrust a deposit slip towards me with shaking hands.

“Give me all the money in your till,” was written on the slip.  Just that and nothing more. 

“Oh, Mr. Gentry!” I exclaimed.  “You know I can’t do that.  What on earth has brought you to such a sorry state?”

“Never mind,” he said quickly, and turned to leave.

“Mr. Gentry,” I called after him.  “Mr. Gentry, I have a lunch break in half an hour.  Meet me over at Starbucks, and let’s talk, okay?”

He paused for a moment, but didn’t turn around.  Then, with a nod of his head, he shuffled out the door, defeated.

It was a long half hour.  I couldn’t imagine what had caused this sweet old gentleman to try and rob a bank, but I certainly wanted to get to the bottom of the mystery.

I spotted him sitting at one of the outside tables, nursing a cup of coffee.  He had made an effort to comb his hair, though nothing else had changed.

I stopped by his table, just to let him know I’d arrived, then went in to Starbucks and placed my order.  When it was ready, I brought out a duplicate of my own meal and placed it in front of him. 

“Thank you, Ellen,” he said, then began to wolf down his food as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. 

We ate in silence for a while, and after he had finished, he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.  Once again, I saw tears glisten in the corners, but he fought them back.

“Why?”  I kept my voice gentle.  “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Oh, Ellen,” he said, his voice breaking.  “I was hoping to get caught so that I could go to jail.”

I stopped with my cup halfway to my mouth.  “You wanted to go to jail?” I said incredulously, putting my latte down.  “What on earth for?”

The dam broke and his whole story burst forth in a torrent of words.  He had been trying to make ends meet by working, though he was long past retirement age.  He lived on Social Security, but it wasn’t nearly enough.  He lost his job, which is what paid for the utilities, and the landlord raised his rent, so he couldn’t afford to live there anymore.  He was evicted and had been living in his car.  He thought if he went to jail, at least he’d have a place to sleep, and be able to eat regularly.

“Could you not go to a shelter?” I asked.

The tears flowed for real then.  “No,” he answered.  “They won’t let me bring my dog, and she’s the only thing that keeps me alive these days.”

“But, Mr. Gentry,” I said.  “They won’t let you have your dog in jail either.”

“Oh,” he said, becoming still.  “Of course.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  Of course, they won’t.”  He paused and looked at me with real anguish.  “Oh, Ellen, what am I going to do?”

To this day, I have no idea what possessed me to answer as I did.  “Well, Mr. Gentry,” I replied.  “You’re going to come and live with me.”

“What?”

“I have a house.  It’s got four bedrooms, but the kids have long since moved out and I rattle around in that house like a peanut in a boxcar, as my mother used to say.  I could use the company.”

For a moment, he looked hopeful, but then asked, “But, what about my dog?”

“What kind of dog have you got?”

“She’s a Beagle mix.  I got her from Beagle Freedom Project some years ago.  She’d been rescued from some sort of laboratory doing animal testing.  They cut her vocal cords, so she’s very quiet.  She’s not any younger than I am, in dog’s years, and she’s been with me a very long time.  She deserves a home,” he wailed softly, “and I can’t give it to her anymore!”

I reached over and patted his arm.  “Not to worry, Mr. Gentry,” I said.  “Your dog will be welcome, too.  I have a nice, big, fenced yard.”

And that is how Mr. Alexander Gentry and his dog Molly came to live with me. 

But that’s not the end of the story. 

I started to truly notice the homeless people in my neighborhood, those who hung around McDonald’s in hope of a handout, those who stood on the side of the road with signs that said, “Will work for food,” those who looked defeated and lost. 

I started giving out gift cards from the local fast-food places.  I started stopping to ask those with the signs if they were serious about working, and for those that said “yes” I found work for at my house.  Carpentry, gardening, general cleaning up.  Whatever I could find for them to do, they were grateful for.

And Mr. Gentry?  He keeps an eye on the place while I’m at work.  It turns out he’s a pretty good cook, and Molly is an absolute delight.  In the year that he’s lived with me, I’ve also brought two more lost souls into my house, and they’re both working out well. 

How could I possibly have known that my life would be so enriched by an old man who tried to rob a bank?