Fit to Die by Joan Boswell

stove. Do you think it was a self-cooking pot?”
    He gives my hand a pat. “Maybe you need a bit of help around here.” He said. I read the unspoken message. Forgetful. A danger to herself and others.
    I smile compliantly. “I am fine on my own. I have just purchased an excellent new alarm system. If I even get hot under the collar, it will sound the alert.” I don’t trouble him with talk of Mrs. Sybil Sharpe, the snake woman, or the side door that never quite locked. I have fixed it now, anyway.
    I know what I really need.
    â€œWhat doesn’t kill us, makes us strong,” I explain to Silent Sam as he gets a nice bit of ground round for a reward. He looks at me as if to say, so what will it be?
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    It is my best effort ever. Reminiscent of my glory days when I could really toss paint on a canvas. And what a canvas it is. A vast, welcoming field of cream. I use every graffiti symbol I can remember. Probably overdo it a bit with the clouds. The resulting work is full of fury, threats and imagery. It takes me nearly all night, but it is worth it. Who would have realized how all that gardening helped me? The strength of the arms holding the cans of paint, the quick scampering up and down the ladder to scoop up new cans of colour, the ability to arch my body and take advantage of the grand sweep of the wall.
    â€œI call it Joseph’s coat,” I say to Silent Sam. He thumps in approval.
    Despite my exhaustion, I feel so much better when I’m finished. I can understand why those boys do it. Euphoria is addictive.
    In the morning, I rise late. All I have to do is admire my handiwork. I make myself a wonderful pot of Red Zinger and settle comfortably in the old Muskoka chair to enjoy the sunshine and wait for the fireworks.
    Perhaps it is Silent Sam’s thumping tail that draws Mrs. Sybil Sharpe through the patio door. Perhaps she just wants to stare down at my little house and garden and plot her next strategy.
    â€œGood morning,” I call up. “I believe you are right about the violation of the neighbourhood.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” she says.
    â€œLook behind you. I believe there must be a new gang in town.”
    She grabs her throat as the full enormity of Joseph’s coat sinks in.
    â€œI see what you mean by rape,” I add.
    Mrs. Sybil Sharpe appears to be in the midst of a little dance. Most unlike her. I sip my Red Zinger and watch. But what’s happening? She’s clutching her chest and making gurgling noises. She’s slipping onto the deck. Her foot is drumming strangely on the cedar boards. Am I the only one who hears? So it seems.
    I finish my tea and turn my attention to the Siberian iris, which are reaching their peak. I move on to plan where I might split the daylilies and get a bit more of a ruffled look to the bald spot near the fence. The bird feeders need to be filled. The impatiens wants water. I could split and replant those clumps of snow-on-the-mountain.
    It all takes time.
    The drumming seems to go on forever. Then it is quiet on the deck.
    Artists: 2, Snakes: 1.
    â€œWell,” I say to Silent Sam after we have staked the morning glory, “we are neighbours, after all. Perhaps we should call for help.”
    Speak Ill of the Dead, MARY JANE MAFFINI ’
s first mystery novel for RendezVous Press, was nominated for a Crime Writers of Canada Arthur Ellis award, as was her short story “Kicking the Habit”, in
Menopause is Murder.
She scooped the Ellis for Best Short Story in 1995. Now watch out for her chilly new novel,
The Icing on the Corpse.

GRAND SLAM
    LEA TASSIE
    Seven spades.”
    â€œDouble.”
    â€œPass.”
    â€œPass.”
    â€œRedouble!” A smug smile accompanied Laurene Jones’ triumphant bid. It was clear she thought making seven spades would be a snap.
    A grand slam, doubled, redoubled and vulnerable. If Laurene made her contract,