Snuff the Magic Dragon (and other Bombay Family Bedtime Stories) (Greatest Hits Mysteries) by Leslie Langtry

sitting on uncomfortable wooden benches, bored out of our minds, praying for something interesting. Like an ill-timed Indian attack.
    And then there was the disease. People fell ill and died all the time. It was ridiculous. Because of my solitary nature and devotion to sanitation and hygiene, I was fine. But this was just silly. If your neighbor has the plague, don't go visit to see ! But people always did, and they took the disease home with them, infecting everyone around them. I spent a lot of time on burial duty. A lot of time.
    Of course, if you survived that, there were the Indians. Some were friendly. Most wanted to roast us on a spit and eat us. I was pretty sure I’d feel the same way if I was them. But they were basically screwed. Bows and arrows were nothing against guns. Still, they outnumbered us in ways that could make you lose sleep at night.
    Being here was just plain crazy dangerous. I’d give it another ten years at best before everyone here packed it in and went back to England. This whole experiment was doomed to be nothing more than a failed footnote in English history.
    I followed John Billington home along the path he always took. I’d have to be more careful. If he caught me following him, he’d really raise a racket—something, again, that I did not need.
    As I lay on my straw bed later that night, I realized my risk was becoming greater the more my intended victim railed about me. The more he talked, the more likely I’d be the first suspect in his death. Maybe I could pay some Indians to kidnap him and take him away? Could I convince them that their gods demanded that John Billington should be sacrificed? Probably not. I wasn’t the most creative person in the family—in fact, they teased me all the time about being entirely too serious.
    The Indians, even the friendly ones, didn’t really trust us. And I couldn’t guarantee they would kill him. That man weaseled out of everything. He’d been behind several mutinous plots—all of which he denied, and once got out of punishment by begging forgiveness on his knees. The punishment would’ve had him tied up, ankles to neck. I was kind of rooting for that one out of professional curiosity. You never know when you’ll pick up something you can use later.
    I was running out of time. If John was calling my name out at night, he was close to saying it out loud in the daytime. And I couldn’t have that.
    I was up before the rooster crowed. The plan came to me in a dream (and, sadly, not the one about the buxom widow down the lane who always winked at us lads). I now knew what to do.
    And so it was that John Billington found me tearing out a tree on the disputed property line. Okay, I was a little more on his property than mine. And it was a tree he liked (I found it amusing he liked a tree, but not people). But I needed to step things up.
    “What are you doing, man?” Billington thundered at me.
    I gave my most innocent look. “Why, what do you mean, neighbor? I’m just getting rid of this pesky tree.”
    Billington’s face turned purple with rage, and he hopped from one foot to the other, shaking his fists at me. “That tree is on my property! I planted it myself when we arrived, ten years ago!”
    I knew this. I also knew the tree was the only reminder he had of home. It may have seemed cruel, but 1) I was out of time and 2) I didn’t really care.
    I stood up and wiped my brow. It was warm for September yet.
    “I don’t think so.” The tree was completely down, and the shattered trunk lay at my feet. “This is my tree, and it’s on my land. I want it down, so I can put in a potting shed.” Okay, it was a lame excuse, but it was all I had. Potting sheds are no joke in my family. Where else can you grow poisonous plants out of public view?
    Billington stepped so close to me I could smell the stale beer on his breath. “I’m going to get you for that, you bastard!” He gathered up the wood in his arms and stormed off.
    “Hey!”