Fit to Die (5 page)

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.

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 place I can stay the night?”

The pub owner shook his head without missing a second of play. So much for country hospitality. Dead tired, I dropped into a chair in the corner and leaned over to pry my feet out of my boots. I felt, more than heard, a presence above me, glanced up, and there he was. It was almost like looking at myself. Same blonde brush cut, same blue eyes and hatchet face, same six-foot, string-bean body.

“I don't mean to intrude,” he said in an accent that sounded like Boston, “but I heard you were looking for a place. I'm just about to go to this small B&B up the road. You're welcome to come and see if they have any rooms.”

I took a few seconds to size the guy up, because he was wearing a fancy shirt and Britain seemed to be full of fags. Either that or I was giving off the wrong signals for this side of the ocean.

The guy's smile faded, and he backed away. “Just trying to be friendly.”

I didn't want to seem too eager, but my feet weren't up to much hotel hunting. Besides, I'd been in Britain nearly a week without talking to a friendly soul, so I accepted.

His smile returned. “Do you want to check it out now, or grab a bite to eat first?”

I didn't want to admit this place was probably too steep for my budget, so I scanned the blackboard over the bar and saw fish and chips. How expensive could that be?

He pulled a chair over and stuck out his hand. “I'm Patrick Johannsen.”

My jaw dropped. “Hello, Patrick Johannsen. I'm Patrick O'Shea.”

Over fish and chips washed down by the half dozen beers
he insisted on buying, we laughed at the coincidence.

“I was born on St. Patrick's Day, that's my only claim to the name,” he said, then nodded to my backpack. “Are you here for the hiking?”

“If I ever get there.”

“Where are you headed?”

“The Brecon Beacons, mountains north of here, with all those ruined Roman castles. What about you?”

He smiled and inspected his hands, like he was embarrassed. “I'm just going. I don't know where. I finished university, hopped a plane, bought a car and headed out of London this morning. This is where I was when I got tired.”

“You've got a car!” I thought of my own pathetic stash of pounds. I'd been such an idiot to think three thousand bucks was enough. Of course, if I'd taken any more, my stepfather would have noticed, and this time the bastard would have pressed charges. “I guess you're in a different league from me.”

He shrugged. “Depends what you're measuring. At least you know where you're going.” He paused to study his hands again. “Maybe we could team up for a while.”

He seemed a bit nerdy, but it would only be for a few days, and he had a car. So what the hell. We cemented the agreement with a couple more beers, then stumbled out the door, me barefoot with my boots in my hand. Patrick led me over to a silver sports car. I remembered this car; it had passed me in a cloud of spray earlier in the day.

“This is not just a car! You must have some major bucks,” I exclaimed as I climbed in. The leather felt like a baby's skin beneath my hand. Things were looking up.

“I guess.” Patrick shrugged, and I thought, oh-oh, not one of those gloomy drunks. But then he started the car and revved the engine like he was gathering strength. “Okay, to the
beginning of a new adventure.”

“This is going to be fun,” I said. “The two of us walk in the door looking enough alike to be brothers—hello, I'm Patrick and this is Patrick.”

Patrick chuckled. “We could even switch last names and really confuse them.”

The little B&B was squeezed in tight among the trees, and as we turned in, Patrick eyed the narrow, cobbled drive worriedly.

“Here, you sign us in while I make sure I get the car parked safely.”

I took his wallet and passport and hauled our backpacks out of the car. A doubtful-looking woman greeted me as I hobbled in the door. The house smelled like old socks, but it looked clean. I could see the woman wasn't impressed with me.

“Have you got a room for two? My friend's just parking the Jaguar around back.”

Her frown cleared like magic, and she stepped brightly over to her desk. “Names?”

Amazing what the smell of money does, I thought, as I handed over our passports and introduced myself.

•  •  •

Old socks or not, the little inn was too pricey for my wallet, but before I could open my mouth, Patrick paid for three nights in full.

“As I said, money's the one thing I do have.” He bent over to heft my backpack over his shoulder. “You've been lugging this thing around all day. Christ, what's in it?”

“This trip was a spur of the moment thing, and I just threw everything I owned into a bag.” Plus quite a few things my
stepdad owned, but I wasn't going to add that. This guy probably wouldn't know about deadbeat dads and resentful stepfathers, and about not having a thing to call your own. Anyway, I figured my stepfather would consider the empty safe and the maxed-out credit cards a small price to pay for getting me out of the house.

Patrick stopped halfway up the stairs. “You mean you're never going back?”

“Not if I can help it.” I tried to sound cool, like it was my way of breaking free, but I was thinking of the warrant my stepfather had probably sworn out for my arrest.

Patrick unlocked the door to a converted attic with two beds and a bathroom the size of a closet. He dropped my bag on the larger bed, then collapsed onto the cot. I was about to protest, because he was paying for the room, but he silenced me with that shrug that was becoming his trademark. Like he was trying to get the world off his shoulders.

“Don't you have any family? Any parents?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “But it was time I left.”

“You won't miss them?”

I thought briefly of my half-sisters, who'd always relied on me to lead them in their minor mutinies against Adolf. I'd miss my sisters. I'd even miss my mother, although she'd made it clear where her loyalties lay when she'd dragged me kicking and screaming into that control freak's life. I'm still young, Patrick, she'd said. I need a life. Needed sex, she meant, although at ten I was too young to know that. Well, I hope the sex was good, because she sure paid for it. Mom called my stepdad Andrew, but Adolf suited me fine. Was I going to miss Adolf?