Never Neck at Niagara [Short Story] Page 2

  "Yes, we should," she answered.

  Marjory said nothing for a moment, then announced, more to herself than to Leigh, "I'll call them and get a restraining order."

  Leigh smiled. She might just get out of this office and get out of dealing with the police, too. "Good idea." She pulled a pen and yellow sticky note off Marjory's desk and wrote down her name and hotel room number. "Have them contact me if they want a statement about what I heard, okay?"

  Marjory didn't answer, but sat limply, staring at a spot on the wall. "I was supposed to meet him later today," she said faintly, her face alarmingly pale despite her makeup. "We were going out to dinner. It's—" she stopped a moment, her lower lip quivering slightly. "It's our anniversary."

  Blood rushed into Leigh's cheeks, and she squirmed in discomfort. "I'm so sorry," she offered again. "Please be careful. And do call the police right away."

  Marjory managed to snap out of her funk and look back at her through moist eyes. "Thank you," she said, extending a cold hand for Leigh to shake. "I appreciate all you've done." She took the sticky note off the desk, folded it neatly, and slipped it into her suit's breast pocket.

  "No problem," Leigh answered with a forced smile. She headed for the door, and once safely on the other side took off as fast as her feet would carry her.

  ***

  For a regular churchgoer like Leigh, sleeping in on vacation Sundays was a real treat, and being in a hotel on someone else's expense account was icing on the cake. She could doze the morning away with preordered blueberry muffins and tea waiting at her bedside, thinking of how nice it was that she had "forgotten" to bring along any work. Being a partner in her own ad agency had its benefits, but feeling constantly guilty about leaving work undone was a pesky disadvantage, and putting a few hundred miles between herself and the unwritten copy was the only cure.

  Having been awakened early by hunger, she dove happily into a large muffin. Room service was expensive, of course, and her scrupulously honest public-servant husband would be sure to pay for every morsel she ate out of his own pocket rather than the taxpayers', but it was still worth it. She collected a few crumbs from off the bed sheets and reached for the morning paper to help break the next batch's fall. Then she saw the small headline in the lower right hand corner, and her appetite dissolved.

  WOMAN'S BODY FOUND BELOW FALLS; FOUL PLAY POSSIBLE.

  Her pulse pounded in her ears as she read the short article. "The body of a woman was recovered at the base of the horseshoe falls at approximately 11:00 PM last night by officials utilizing a Maid of the Mist tour boat. The search was authorized after numerous sightseers reported watching a large object that might have been a person drifting in the river and going over the edge of the falls near the midpoint. Witnesses claim that the individual was not moving voluntarily at the time, leading investigators to speculate that the woman was either unconscious, or perhaps already dead, when she went over the falls. An investigation is currently under way."

  Leigh's stomach lurched. It couldn't be. Marjory couldn't be dead. How could Roger have killed her, when she knew he was planning to? Hadn't she called the police?

  If she had, they hadn't bothered to contact Leigh.

  An even sicker feeling suddenly overcame her. If Marjory hadn't called the police, it was probably because she herself was involved in whatever illegal shenanigans Ash was threatening to blow the whistle on. In which case, she had probably never intended to call. She had intended to handle Roger on her own.

  Leigh let the paper fall limply to her lap. If she had contacted the police herself, Marjory might still be alive. Guilt washed over her in heavy waves, blending imperceptibly with nausea. She pulled herself out of the bed and started getting dressed. It was too late to save Marjory, but her mistake could still be rectified somewhat. After she told her story to the authorities, Roger and the pink chameleon would be certain to get what was coming to them.

  She had finished dressing and had her hand on the doorknob when the phone rang. She flew to it anxiously. "Yes? Hello?"

  A man's voice, deep and proper, answered. "Yes, this is Officer Tony Burnett with the New York State Park Service calling. Is this Leigh Koslow?"

  Her heartbeat quickened. So. Marjory had called the police after all. The burden of guilt on her chest lifted a little. "Yes, that's me."

  "Ma'am, I wonder if you would be willing to come down to our headquarters on Goat Island as soon as possible. We have an individual here who appears confused and disoriented, and we're hoping you might be able to help us identify her. She isn't carrying any ID, but a note with your name and number was found in one of her pockets."

  It was a moment before Leigh could speak. Marjory confused and disoriented, on Goat Island? It made no sense, but the primary implication was positive. If Marjory was on Goat Island now, she couldn't possibly have been found dead last night.

  Leigh took a deep breath. It was all right. Marjory was alive. Whatever had happened to her between yesterday and this morning—she was still alive. And although Leigh stopped short of being glad that some other woman was dead, she couldn't help but be relieved at not having been a party to that particular tragedy.

  "I'll be right there, Officer," she said firmly.

  ***

  Her hands shook a little as she drove the Cavalier over the Peace Bridge back into the United States. Thankfully, it was still early, and the line at customs was short. A tour bus idled up in the queue next to her, and she somehow wasn't surprised to note that it was a Purple Mist. Since yesterday she had noticed two of them driving about, their striking eggplant color making them easy to spot. Like most local tour busses, they shuttled regularly between the U.S. and Canadian falls. But unlike most of the other busses, Purple Mist tours appeared to cater exclusively to foreign tourists. Both of the busses she had seen yesterday had carried Japanese families, while all the occupants of the current bus appeared to be from India.

  A female passenger with a red dot on her forehead stuck a camera up to the bus window and aimed it at the customs booth, and Leigh's mind began to drift to something curious that Ashley had said. She was just about to remember it when the radio station she had been listening to began its newscast.

  "Police have identified the woman whose body was pulled from the base of the horseshoe falls late last night as twenty-three-year-old Ashley Whitener, a resident of Fort Erie, Ontario. Ms. Whitener was employed as an assistant manager at the Niagara Sun Diner in Niagara Falls, Ontario; she was last seen Saturday morning by her roommate as she left their apartment, ostensibly to go running. Investigators have not yet determined whether foul play was involved in Ms. Whitener's death; autopsy results are pending."

  Leigh's mind raced. Ashley Whitener. Twenty-three years old. It could be a coincidence, she reasoned. There must be any number of twenty-something Ashleys in the area—there was no reason to assume it was Roger's Ashley. If she hadn't first thought the dead woman was Marjory, it would never even have occurred to her.

  She drove on, answering the custom agent's questions mechanically as she continued to convince herself that pink-halter Ashley was still alive, well, and committing adultery without remorse. Why shouldn't she be? She was Roger's choice, after all. It was Marjory he wanted out of the picture. Marjory the confused and disoriented…

  Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly as she navigated the scenic bridge that crossed from mainland New York to Goat Island, suspending cars above a vigorously churning arm of the upper Niagara River. Dangerous rapids surrounded all of Goat Island, a fact which only lent to its beauty and fascination. Throw a floating object from the island in any direction and its destination would be the same—over and down. Way down.

  She located the building the officer had directed her to, parked, and jumped out quickly. She was still about fifty yards from the door when a disheveled woman in a bright-colored suit charged out from around the back of the building, running at top speed. Leigh stared at her curiously for a moment before realizi
ng who she was.

  "Marjory!" she called out frantically, giving chase. Where were the officers, and how had she given them the slip? Leigh glanced back over her shoulder as she ran, but saw no one. Confused and disoriented indeed. Marjory appeared to have lost it completely, and in this place if somebody didn't stop her soon, she could be in a good deal of danger.

  Leigh continued to follow the fleeing woman, calling out her name and begging her to stop. But Marjory flew on, appearing to hear none of it. When they reached the first bridge to the chain of tiny islands known as Three Sisters, Leigh felt an additional wave of panic. Not there, please. Anywhere but there.

  On any ordinary occasion, the little islands were one of Leigh's favorite parts of the park. Encased in swirling rapids and edged with huge rocks, the islands had ambience to spare. But for someone out of control and moving fast, they were dangerous as hell.

  "Marjory, stop!" Leigh commanded, but she doubted her voice could be heard over the rush of water that ran under the woman's feet on the narrow bridge. Still seeming oblivious to her pursuer, Marjory plowed onto the first island and headed straight across it to the bridge leading to the second. Leigh kept following, nearing her prey only when the woman reached the third island and stopped in her tracks.

  Leigh halted a few paces behind her and tried desperately to catch her breath. "Marjory," she panted as soothingly as possible, "Take it easy. You don't need to run any more. Everything will be okay."

  A wild-eyed Marjory spun instantly to face her. "Okay? Okay? Of course it's not okay! My husband is trying to kill me. He's here, right now, somewhere. He tried it once, and he'll try it again. And it's your fault, Samantha. You had no business sleeping with my husband."

  Leigh's panic escalated. The officer hadn't been kidding. Marjory was more out of it than she'd thought, and she herself was quite clearly in this situation way over her head. Instinctively she glanced over her shoulder again, hoping to see a posse of law enforcement officers approaching.

  There was no one anywhere, not even another tourist. On a Sunday morning, she shouldn't be surprised.

  "I'll beat him to it!" Marjory screamed suddenly, her arms flying. She dashed to the far edge of the island and began scrambling onto the boulders. Passing by one of several prominent signs that forbade that very activity, Leigh cautiously followed her.

  "He wants me to go over the falls," Marjory screeched. "Fine! I'll go over the falls!" She had made her way to a large rock whose lip hung out well over the rushing water. Looking down at the swirling whitecaps, her face suddenly went pale, and she started to sob.

  With one last-ditch look over her shoulder, Leigh gave up on waiting for rescuers who knew what they were doing. She could handle one little crazy person, couldn't she? She hadn't grown up with the Morton clan for nothing.

  "Marjory," she said soothingly, pulling herself carefully onto the near edge of the rock. "It's all right. Just take my hand and climb down. Roger can't hurt you now, I promise."

  But the sobbing woman didn't move. She stood stubbornly on the boulder's far edge, her shoulders heaving. Leigh exhaled loudly, then took a few careful steps forward to where she could just touch Marjory's arm.

  In an instant Marjory's hand lashed out and grabbed her wrist with surprising strength, swinging her up and farther out onto the rock. The unexpected motion threw Leigh off balance, and as she struggled to get her feet back underneath her, Marjory delivered a deft blow to her shins that sent her reeling again. She could hear a man's voice shouting angrily, "No, not there!" as she felt herself falling down, down into a heavy, freezing soup that struck her body with the force of a blow.

  The breath had been knocked out of her, but with the desperateness of any animal that suddenly finds itself unable to breathe, she nevertheless managed to right her body and pull her head above water. Her limbs felt like lead weights as she flailed to get her bearings. Trying to fight the strong downhill current was futile, but the water's horizontal direction was fickle, pulling her first back toward the island, then out again. She fought to keep her head up and her vision clear, concentrating on keeping the land in sight. She knew without thinking that she had gone in at the top of the island rather than the bottom, and that thought kept her going as she paddled her heavy limbs toward it with all her might.

  Only a few seconds had passed before something solid rose up in front of her, and she grasped it for all she was worth. Her face promptly smashed into its side, the sweet texture of tree bark assaulting her bruised lips. She was only a few feet from land now—the fallen tree having stopped her downward movement as the lesser currents helped pull her toward shore. Closer in she could see water only inches deep, sweetly still and placid, as if a toddler could safely splash in it. With the tremendous deeper current still tugging her lower body toward the falls, it was cruel irony.

  "Hold on, there," a man's voice called. "Just stay right there and don't move. I'm coming to get you."

  The feeling that washed over Leigh should have been relief. Instead, it was a chilling fear. She looked up toward shore again, and in between the endless splashes of water that pelted her eyes, she could easily identify her would-be rescuer. It was Roger. Good old hairy. He had tried to kill his wife, he might very well have killed his girlfriend, and now he was trying to save her.

  Don't believe it. She stared at the man who had started to inch his way toward her on the fallen log, and every exhausted muscle of her body begged her to trust him. But her brain insisted on replaying the sound of his voice. One voice, over and over again, until at last Leigh got the message.

  No, not there. It was Roger's voice she had heard just now when Marjory pushed her. And it was Roger's voice, all prim and proper sounding, that had brought her out here in the first place.

  Officer Burnett, indeed.

  She had been set up—by both of them. He hadn't yelled at Marjory a moment ago because she was pushing Leigh off a rock, he had yelled at her because she was pushing Leigh off the wrong rock, into a current that might inconveniently bring her right back in.

  Which it had. A situation Roger now had to rectify.

  "Hold on tight," he said soothingly, still inching closer along the log. "I'm almost there."

  Leigh studied him out of squinting eyes. She wasn't panicked. She was far beyond that. She was close enough to certain death that cool acceptance was all she had. Roger would reach her in another few seconds. And what would he do then? Pry her hands off the log? Push her head under with his foot?

  No—she thought, eyeing his left hand—he would hit her over the head with the socket wrench he was holding. So much cleaner. No unpleasant struggling or screaming, just another unconscious body going over the falls.

  Just like Ashley. Ashley, who had somehow managed to catch on to the shady side of Purple Mist Tours, and had made the fatal mistake of trying to capitalize on it.

  A loaded Nikon. That's what Ashley had mentioned, and what the Indian woman with the camera had somehow made her think of. But Ashley hadn't meant loaded with film, had she?

  Smuggling. That had to be it. Illegal drugs, prescription drugs, magic rhino horn powder—who knew? The tour company would make a perfect front for smuggling virtually anything between the U.S. and Canada; probably without the tourists even knowing about it. No wonder Marjory had hid her decorating tastes behind closed doors. Purple Mist Tours was undoubtedly taking in a whole lot more cash than sightseeing alone could account for.

  Enough to kill over.

  Leigh looked beyond Roger to where Marjory stood calmly on the bank, all traces of hysteria gone, and the last pieces dropped quickly into place. Roger had never intended to kill his wife. The plans Leigh had overheard at the preserve were just a bunch of nonsense, designed to keep Ashley's mouth shut a little while longer, until he could shut it permanently. Marjory had probably known everything. But neither had counted on a nosey, do-gooding eavesdropper being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  Roger was at hand, and her fate was in h
ers. Maybe Marjory had knocked her in accidentally, and maybe Mr. Hairy really was trying to save her. But she didn’t think so. And sometimes, a woman just has to go with her instincts.

  Thinking no further, Leigh took a deep breath—and let go.

  The current swept her under almost immediately, and she had to fight her way up again not once but repeatedly, grabbing a breath whenever a patch of air grazed her cheeks. She couldn't see a thing anymore. Seconds passed, and just as she was beginning to say her last prayer, a sharp pain stabbed her left leg, and a jagged protrusion crashed against her rib cage.

  Ignoring the numerous pricking pains along her left side, she struggled toward the object. With the help of the current, her body obligingly rolled partway out of the water and onto the half-submerged stump.

  Somewhere, a girl's voice screamed, and a boy's voice issued a heretical exclamation. Strong hands pulled Leigh's torso up and off the waterlogged stump, and her legs met dry land.

  "Are you all right?" the boy asked loudly. "Where the hell did you come from?"

  Leigh opened her eyes. She focused them first on the face of the handsome, shirtless teen who held her, then on the thin girl beside him, who appeared to be wearing the shirt he had lost. It was the mystique of Niagara, she supposed. There was just something about rushing water, danger, and secluded paths that made people's clothes go missing.

  "Hey, you!" the boy called out in the opposite direction. "Can you give us a hand here? This lady's half drowned!" He sat a still-limp Leigh down on solid ground, then turned back to the girl. "Are they coming?"

  It took her a second to answer. "No. It looks like they're taking off. How do you like that? Middle-aged couple—too good to get involved."

  The boy frowned. "Maybe they're calling an ambulance."

  Leigh felt herself smirking. Somehow, she doubted that.