A GIFT OF MURDER
By
Thomas Stultz

Shrunken balloons absently kicked by Derek Naile's bobbing foot scuttled away across the carpet like fat bright beetles. Mr. Naile flipped the 121st page of 'Smile with a Bullet' and gave himself a pause. A stack of paperbacks, yellow on the edge of the page, smelling of the garages and thrift store basements they were rescued from, rested on the desktop to his right. Mr. Naile's fiftieth birthday party wound up around ten, but hours before that Mr. Naile had stole away with his cache: a plate full of cake, the once-a-year bottle of scotch his brother always sent, and a new addition to his library.

Mr. Naile, on anticipation of the usual birthday gifts, had been busying himself in his workshop during the past days crafting a few more shelves for the crammed study. This after-supper activity left him little time to catch up on the short stories in the half-dozen mystery magazines that arrived each month. He had been sustaining himself on these, staving off a trip into the city to replenish his stock of paperbacks, because he knew that's what his family would be giving him. He accepted his presents with a joy unmatched by any child, and his wife would always find something special for him. This year Smile with a Bullet, the original hardcover version which she must have searched very hard for, was something he just couldn't wait to begin.

Juliana let him disappear far before the party was over, taking pleasure in the fact that her gift brought him so much. Mr. Naile was never very good at parties anyway.

He reached out a finger, wiping a patina of yellow frosting from the plate. Bringing the fingertip to his lips, he forced himself to close the cover just for a bit. It was an even summer night, but a breeze slipped in through an open window to shuffle the birthday cards propped up on his desk. One from Kevin, his son away studying theater at college, remained standing. His book took the place of the card, and he read it to himself again.

Happy Birthday Dad! Sorry, but there's much going on here at campus with rehearsals - I'm afraid I won't make it home in time for your birthday celebration. Why did you have to be born during finals anyway? We'll have to do something about that sometime. Heck, this might be a good thing, because I haven't had the time to shop for a gift. But don't worry, I promise I'll have something special to bring home next time I can make it. Love, Kevin

Mr. Naile loved him too, but he wished for something else that the boy would be interested in for his college studies. Acting seemed like such a long shot - Not that he wanted him to follow in his father's footsteps, accounting may provide a fine lifestyle, but it didn't do much for thrills. That's why Mr. Naile always had his escapes. Family life was always happy, but between the pages of a good mystery, now that's where Mr. Naile always liked to be. Of all the things a man could choose to do, in Mr. Naile's opinion, acting was probably one of the hardest roads to walk. God bless him anyway, he was working hard at his studies.

He replaced the card on the desk, crowding his mystery and the tumbler of scotch. He reached out, thought he might have another sip of the aged, peaty liquid, but opted for the book instead. It was getting late, and he wanted to get through to the climax before getting sleepy. The author was building up a pretty good head of steam; already several victims, three different women (Mr. Naile preferred the brunette), two suspects and the obvious red herring. The hero still didn't know who was behind it all, but Mr. Naile knew. He always knew. If he could just get to climax, then he'd go to bed happy. The denouement could wait until breakfast.

Carefully bending the spine he attempted to get back to page 121, but something caught his eye. A shadow across the eaves of the garage grew larger, twisting around the corner into an elliptical shape that a human form might throw, then disappeared. He was up from his desk, book tumbling to the floor. He heard it above the breeze, the crunch of footfalls on the gravel path that led from the back door of the study out to the garage. He slid open his pencil drawer and retrieved something his son gave him last year. A prop gun, almost a joke really, salvaged from the university's costume department along with a magnifying glass and a trench coat. Mr. Naile dimmed the lights and held out the gun before him. It might be a prop, but it was a good prop. No one would know the difference in this light. As he knew from his books, a gun in your hand was all about the way in which you held it. Guns didn't work without the attitude, real or not.

He scanned through the windows across the back. With the lights low he could now see more than just shadows. All appeared quiet across the lawn, but as he brought his attention back to the room he saw the flash of a hand reaching through the far window. Damn, what a night to leave the screens up! It was a man's hand, turned up with the palm slowly pressing against the window, raising it.

Mr. Naile calmed his breath, and told his arm to stop shaking. Gun aloft he crept across the study and stood before the window. The hand reached through the opening, elongating into an arm wrapped in a dirty white sweater. The arm pulled the torso of a body up over the sill, and Mr. Naile lowered the muzzle of the prop against the back of the intruder's head.

"I believe you have the wrong house." Mr. Naile said evenly, proud of how calm his voice sounded. He hoped the intruder would recognize the feel of the shape pressed into his skull. The prop was a solid piece, but Mr. Naile didn't have the luxury of announcing his weapon with a clicking of a hammer like they were always doing on television. Mr. Naile felt the man freeze, and took a moment to examine him while he held him so trapped. The sandy hair was familiar, wispy like his own. And there was a scar across the back of the visible hand. A fading crescent, a shape Mr. Naile knew. It was left by the pedal of a bicycle years ago that scraped him when he fell off.

"Kevin?" Mr. Naile asked.

"Dad?" Kevin wondered, breathless in his position over the sill. "T-take it easy okay."

Mr. Naile slipped the prop into his waistband, and pulled his son through the window. "Glad you could make it home son, but just what kind of entrance is this? The party's over kid, they yelled surprise six hours ago."

Mr. Naile marveled at his son's appearance. Kevin was a very neat kid and seeing him like this - something was wrong. The sweater was torn, dark with splotches of mud across his arms and chest. His boots spat small clods of earth as he moved. Scratches on his face seeped blood. His features screwed up into a pinch, and he clutched at his father's chest, trying to keep his sobs quiet. Kevin hadn't held him like this since he was a boy, and Mr. Naile let himself enjoy the contact before consoling him. "Kevin, relax now boy, you're home. Whatever's the matter you've got to tell me." Mr. Naile steered Kevin towards his chair as he spoke, guiding him with words and steady pushes. As Kevin was seated, Mr. Naile remembered his scotch and pulled a soothing mouthful.

"Why don't you start by telling me how it is you're down here." He offered the glass to Kevin, who sipped and seemed thankful. Kevin held the glass between his hands and kept his eyes on it. He breathed through his nose, and after a time he felt calm enough to speak.

"Beth is dead." Kevin whispered. He drank a bit more, and repeated, "Dead."

"Now what are you talking about? Beth, your steady?" Mr. Naile had heard about Beth from his wife, but he had never paid attention to the details.

"My fiance." Kevin sighed. "My ex-fiance." Mr. Naile patted his shoulder and gave him a moment to explain.

"Beth and I were having some troubles. Things weren't going well." Kevin's words crushed into a whimper. He bent over and took deep breaths.

Mr. Naile anticipated the explanation. Somewhere within he would find a point to focus on to help him calm his son. Mr. Naile was never very good at connecting with people, even his own family. He found people and all their troubles hard to understand unless it was spelled out in 10-point type across the page. That's why he always retreated into his novels. Some gumshoe gets framed for murder, or one of his clients gets killed - now all that, the rage, the frustration of the character, that he could open up to. He knew what he'd say, and often say it right to the open page - "Stick with it detective, you'll show them all in the end." But when his wife came home wearing the frown of a bad day at work - he might be able to offer a smile, a sigh to let her know he understood. Trouble was, he didn't. Kevin was laying the biggest problem of his life at his feet, and Mr. Naile knew he had to stick in there and find something he could understand.

Kevin was a handsome boy, and he had a string of girlfriends he went steady with through high school. Sooner or later they'd break up, Kevin usually playing the sap in the end. Mr. Naile always avoided him during these periods, and let Juliana take care of the broken heart. But this was different. Beth was taken away from Kevin not because of his softness, but by blind, bad luck. Whatever took her must have been sudden, for if she was ill Kevin would have told his mother about it, and Mr. Naile would hear it over the dinner table. Mr. Naile began reading ahead - Car wreck? Skiing accident? Suicide? Oh no, not that.

Kevin regained his breath, and began again. "We had tried to get parts in the same productions, but we never had any luck as a team. Our rehearsal schedules were always different - she'd get jealous of the female leads in my show, and I'd get mad when she'd put me off to rehearse with the males in hers." Kevin swallowed more from the glass as he told. Emotions turning to anger as he remembered the recent past. "Finally at one casting call where she didn't make the cut, the guys went second and I was up. She showed up with another friend from a previous production to watch. Right in the middle of my monologue she gives him a kiss - just to throw me off and it did. I've lost my concentration and I've flubbed it enough to know I lost the part, so I stop right in the middle of the speech and walk off the stage and let them both have it." Kevin stood up and slammed the empty tumbler on his father's desk. "The guy actually laughed at me. He said I couldn't act my way through a church group production of Spoon River." Kevin was almost shouting. Then he dropped his tone.

"That's when I told her."

"Told her what?" Mr. Naile felt the excitement rise in his body he hadn't felt in years. He was ahead in his son's story, and he asked himself - 'What was the obvious conclusion?' He knew before Kevin spoke again.

"That I would kill her." Kevin slumped back down in the chair, body sagging with the release of the words.

"Listen to me Kevin. You've got to trust your father now, and tell me. What has happened to Beth?" Kevin saw his father's eyes, and found in them a calm and understanding he'd rarely seen. He began his story.

"A few days after that I followed them. Beth and this guy Peter. I wanted to find out if it truly was all over - or if she just pulled that stunt because she was jealous. I trailed them across campus to the theater building, and then inside. They were doing what a lot of theater majors do which is sneak out the fire exit up the escape and onto the roof. It was one of our favorite places when we were a couple. After a few minutes I crept up after them." Kevin labored getting the telling right. Mr. Naile watched him pant in frustration as Kevin's eyes wandered over to the bottle of scotch. Mr. Naile poured him half a drink while Kevin still held the glass.

"They had their backs to me, sitting on the edge, looking out over the quad. I hid myself behind a chimney, and watched." Mr. Naile began pacing, looking very much the police detective role he unconsciously slipped into.

"I watched for a time, waiting for a sign. I wanted to see another kiss - an embrace. Anything that would tell me that we were through. But all they did was talk. They watched the sun set together, then Peter left Beth alone." Kevin clenched up his fists in his lap and continued. "While they spoke - Peter would caress her arm, pat her back. I thought it might go farther, but it never did. If I saw them kiss, then I would have left. I would have known it was over."

"You had to know?" Mr. Naile prodded.

"I couldn't go another day without being sure. I loved her."

"So you went up to her." Mr. Naile halted his steps, looked right at Kevin.

"Yes. She denied it at first - but then - she said they were together and we were through. But I still couldn't trust her, she might have still been playing a game."

"You were angry." Mr. Naile deadpanned. A statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"You hit her."

"Yes!" Kevin stood again, but Mr. Naile placed a palm on his chest and eased him back down. He could feel warmth rising through the sweater. Drops of sweat at his temples.

"Relax Kevin. You need to tell me this. Everything."

"She hit me back. Then I pushed her." This last, given with a sniffle. "If only we weren't so close to the edge. I should have pulled her away."

"She fell." Mr. Naile finished for him. He looked to the Rolodex on his desk. One of the cards had James Koeman's number, a lawyer he contacted from time to time for business. Could he counsel on criminal cases?

"The theater building, that part of the roof above the stage is very high." Kevin demonstrated with an upraised hand. Mr. Naile patted the back of Kevin's other hand, a gesture more fatherly than detective. He left it there until Kevin looked up into his eyes.

"It was an accident, Kevin. You didn't mean to kill her." Mr. Naile let his son cry for a time. He took what was left in the glass and slugged it back. There was more to the story, and he had to pull Kevin back together.

"Look at me son. When did this happen?"

"Earlier tonight. I came down right after."

"You didn't tell anyone? My god Kevin, don't you know what the authorities will think when they find her?" Mr. Naile began sweating like Kevin, wondering if James Koeman might still be up at this hour.

"They won't"

Mr. Naile began pacing again. Warming up with the liquor inside him. He looked at Kevin. Read ahead. "You brought her here." Mr. Naile said.

"She's in the trunk." Kevin pointed toward the garage. His eyes asked, what should we do?

Mr. Naile switched the prop gun from the front to the back of his waistband. Now, no words of comfort were needed to put things right for his son. No need to call a lawyer, Mr. Naile was a part of it now. His son made a mistake, panicked and made another. He was a bright boy, a future ahead. All that was about to be erased by rash, young actions. Mr. Naile laid out the facts of the plot so far. Was Kevin a villain? Certainly not - The Victim? Only of his foolishness. Mr. Naile liked this character, his son. He wanted to help him.

He forced the plot ahead several chapters, after the police get involved. Kevin charged, 20 years away for manslaughter. It wasn't where he wanted the story to go. But now, a twist - Mr. Naile. He would see a much different outcome.

"Kevin, get up." Mr. Naile nudged Kevin's knee as he talked. "Did anyone see you, either go up on the roof, come down, or with the body?"

"No, and I'm sure of it. I thought all about it on the way down. It was dark before she fell. The theater building is far away from the dorms. There's a footpath that winds through hedges you have to take to get there. From the ground you can barely see more than the shape of the building."

"Good."

"At the time I was trying to stay hidden from people ten feet away, and they never spotted me, so I'm sure no one else saw me follow them." Kevin explained.

"How'd you get the body into the car?"

"When I found her, I knew right away she was dead. Her neck was twisted. She looked so - wrong." Kevin slowly filled his lungs, and continued. "I was parked in the theater lot at the time. I picked her up, and headed for the car. There's no production on right now, and the lot was empty on a Saturday night. I was going to take her to the hospital, but I got scared. I knew I had a tarp in the trunk, so I wrapped her up and placed her inside. I don't know why I didn't call the police dad. I just -"

"You didn't do the right thing, but let's make damn sure from now on it's not the wrong thing."

Mr. Naile went through his plan. He ran through the details, looking for holes. He walked through it from Kevin's entrance on - took the point-of-view of all the characters involved; Kevin, Beth, himself, the eventual police, and even the wildcard, Peter. It all checked out, but Mr. Naile would have to ride it through with Kevin the rest of the way. Final chapter, a secret between father and son - and it would end there.

"First thing ," Mr. Naile grabbed Kevin by the shirt and steered him towards the back door as he spoke. "We've got to get the body."

* * *

Beth awoke to total darkness, wrapped in a musty fabric. She could feel the hard metal of the trunk squeezing around her body, curling it uncomfortably. She must have dozed off at some point, and in the complete darkness the dream she just left was hard to shake off. For a moment she wasn't sure where she was, then she heard voices, talking low outside. She recognized one of them, and everything began to snap back.

She was in the trunk of Kevin's car, that voice was his. Her ear caught the jingle of keys being fished out of a pocket, felt them scratch around the lock. Her coffin was about to be opened, and they expected to find her dead. The events leading up to her confinement rushed through her mind. Kevin wanted her dead, and now she mustn't let them know she wasn't. Not yet. Concentrate, like you've been taught to do by your acting coaches. Start a mantra. Beth closed her eyes, and began to relax control over all her muscles with a chant. I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead.

Kevin levered up the trunk and let his dad have a look at Beth. There she was, and Mr. Naile stared at her, rapt with the image of the first corpse he'd ever seen outside of a funeral parlor. Kevin watched him bend closer, taking it all in. Her hair was matted and sticky with blood. The face unnaturally pale. Beth could feel Mr. Naile's breath as he examined her. I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm dead.

"Alright son. We've got to get her out of your car and into mine." Mr. Naile indicated his Buick that sat next to Kevin's Escort in the garage. "Then you have to drive like hell back to the university and go out and get drunk." Kevin nodded, listening.

"Don't get caught speeding on the way, and when you get back, hit a few taverns. Try to lose your head for a while, and make sure you've been seen." A thousand plots ticked through Mr. Naile's mind. He selected the best themes, applied them to the situation. "Get angry, then go find this Peter and give him all you've got.”

Mr. Naile unlocked the trunk of his car, selected a shovel from the garage wall and placed it inside. "When you find Peter, start a fight. Demand to know where Beth is." Mr. Naile paused, thinking out the scene. "And if the cops arrive, even better."

For the first time he was taking part in something that he thought would only happen on the page. It felt good. He followed the story's actions, and when he was brought to certain points, he tested the directions it could go. He followed them all, then selected the best. If there was one thing Mr. Naile knew, it was this - Murder. Mystery. He had been a student of it for years.

"Why fight Peter?" Kevin asked.

"You're throwing suspicion off you to Peter. Remember, he was up on the roof same as you. He doesn't have an alibi. Hopefully they were seen leaving together."

"But what about the body?"

"You let me take care of that. Our office has an investment in three acres of land on what used to be a machinery plant in the forties. The soil tested so high with lead and mercury it'll be another fifty years before it'll be usable again. I do the books, trust me. If that ever changes I'll know in plenty of time to make sure she's not found."

"What if Peter knows anything? What if he saw?"

Mr. Naile stopped, and unconsciously drew the prop gun from his waistband.

"You just don't worry about him, okay?" Mr. Naile tapped the barrel of the prop into his empty palm as he made his point. "You just do like I tell you, and everything's going to work out fine."

And Mr. Naile believed it, because he knew. He had been living this life, secretly, for the past twenty years. Could he face a dead body? Lie to the police? Keep secrets? It was all coming naturally. Now to get rid of the evidence.

"Come on Kevin, give me a hand."

Beth felt the shadow of their bending bodies across her eyelids. Hands groped about her body, twisting the tarp around her. She held her breath, knowing she would have to fall deep into her part if she were to keep up the ruse. I'm dead. I'm dead. I'm... Ah hell, that tickles.

Mr. Naile exploded back from the trunk as the body began to laugh. The eyes opened wide, bright. Kevin made a show of stumbling back as well, but as Mr. Naile noticed his son's face, the actions were reduced to a weak pantomime. Mr. Naile clenched up, glaring at the pair of them as they tried to fight away laughter. They finally broke down, filling the garage with a roar.

"Kevin!" Mr. Naile shouted above them. "Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Dad, I'm sorry. Listen." Kevin showed his father both of his palms, and took a moment to catch his breath. "Since I've been a boy you've always read those mysteries. Sure, I could have just bought you another one this year, but I figured - why should he just read another one, when he could be in one?"

Mr. Naile let it sink in. Repeated the thrills he just went through: the fear, the planning. How long had Kevin been rehearsing this?

"I wanted this birthday to be special. You know, your fiftieth." Kevin's voice began to crack, eyes shining, hoping he didn't go too far.

As Mr. Naile stared at his boy his anger began to fade. At first he thought he had been made a fool, but hearing his son speak to him with such emotion - real this time - he felt himself flattered.

"You got me son. You really got me." Mr. Naile grabbed his son in a hug, rubbed wetness off his cheeks while Kevin couldn't see. "Oh my god, I've never felt excitement like that in all my years."

"Hey, let's get Beth out of there. She was great, huh dad?"

"Looked dead to me." Mr. Naile agreed.

Beth sat up, allowing the tarp to drop away.

"I insisted on riding in the trunk the whole way down. I'm a method actor, and this was a good exercise, although I think I fell asleep before you came out." Beth added.

Kevin lifted her out of the trunk, pulled off the tarp. Mr. Naile could see where the powder ended below her neckline. Beth reached up to Kevin's face and peeled off a latex scratch.

"You see honey, I knew the old man could take a plot twist." Kevin boasted.

"You let this go on much longer, I'd a had you six feet under young lady." Mr. Naile told Beth, then turned to Kevin. "You know, this acting thing just might work out for you Kevin."

"Brrrr. It was chilly in that trunk." Beth circled her arms around her shoulders. "You have anything leftover to drink from this party?"

"As a matter of fact, your boyfriend's uncle sends me a very good bottle of scotch this time of year, and there's plenty left."

"So that's what I smell on Kevin's breath. Seems like a perfect gift."

"Ah yes, but not the one I'm going to remember this year." Mr. Naile beamed.

"Happy birthday dad."

"Happy birthday Mr. Naile."

"Happy birthday, indeed."

Mr. Naile adjusted the prop gun in the small of his back, and waved them back to the study.

###

Thomas Stultz is a fiction writer recently published on-line at 'Plots With Guns', and in print with Fading Echoes Press' titles 'Tales of Double Danger' and 'Classic Tales of Pulp Fiction'. Having always enjoyed the genre of murder and mystery, he lives and writes in Chicago, Il.