“What do you mean he’s still alive?” Delia hissed at me, pulling on my elbow. “I thought you fixed this. Jesus, I should have known not to leave it to you.”
“Calm down,” I said, annoyed. “How was I to know that he wouldn’t want the soup?” The man has eaten garlic soup every Friday lunchtime for the past 50 years. Yesterday had to have been the first time in two thousand-some bowls of soup that he’d suddenly felt “bilious” and asked Gerta to bring him chicken broth instead.
I glared at my sister, who was still digging her claws into my elbow. “Will you keep it down? You’re going to blow this whole thing.”
She shot me another look, but she did let go of my elbow. Fixing on a bright, unnatural smile, she muttered to me out of the corner of her mouth while smoothing her skirt.
“It was still a damn foolhardy thing to do, Oliver. What if Gerta had served the bowls in a different order? You might’ve ended up glugging down the poison yourself. I just thank God that I wasn’t here. With the way you’ve been fucking things up, you probably would’ve ended up killing me .”
Wouldn’t that be a shame? I thought but didn’t say.
“Look, if you’re not going to do it, I will,” Delia snapped. “Now, shut up, and let’s go into the house before someone suspects something is up.” She smoothed her skirt a final time and marched purposefully through the ornate front doors.
Uncle John is 99 years old and the wealthiest man in four counties. He holds all the family money, and it’s looking like he’s decided to live to enjoy it forever. Other people’s great-uncles have the decency to be dead by 85, having spent at least a few years languishing in a nursing home and eating mush while staring vacantly into space. Ours still wears a three-piece suit every day, sports the greatest collection of vintage bowties you’ve ever seen, and golfs six times a week.
I trailed after Delia, who had already made a beeline to the dining room where Uncle John was having his usual breakfast of grits, coffee, and toast. He exclaimed to see her, how long has it been, so glad you could join us for the long weekend, do pull up a chair for some coffee, or would she like a little something stronger?
“It is Sunday, after all,” Uncle John chuckled with that characteristic gleam in his eye. “I never say no to a mimosa of a Sunday breakfast.”
As far as I’m aware, Uncle John has never said no to a mimosa – or a Bloody Mary, or a mint julep, or a bourbon and soda – at any time of day, any day of the week. It’s one of the lifestyle habits that makes his longevity particularly irksome.
Delia, no teetotaller herself, giggled and handwaved before accepting, and Uncle John rang the delicate porcelain bell he keeps next to his place setting at the grand, solid oak dining table that seats 14 and must be at least 250 years old. It’s been in the family for generations and is absurd for a single old man to use three times a day, but Uncle John is nothing if not absurd.
Gerta poked her head into the dining room mere moments later, her grey hair pulled back into its standard impeccable bun and her apron pressed within an inch of its life. Uncle John ordered two mimosas – “Oh, or shouldn’t it be three? Oliver, stop hovering in the doorway and come sit down, for heaven’s sake!” – and Gerta glided off to fetch the booze.
The weekend was starting to feel never ending.
***
Part of the reason Delia was so steamed at me is because the soup fuckup was the third time that week I’d tried to off Uncle John, but nothing took.
When we hatched this plot, I spent weeks preparing. Mainly by reading a lot of old Agatha Christie novels, it’s true, but she’s the queen of the murder mystery, isn’t she? And I needed something that wasn’t going to land my ass on Death Row. The family money wouldn’t be much good to me then. Delia would find a way to get off (she’s always been a great one for wiggling out of trouble, has been ever since we were kids), and then she would be living the high life while I rotted away looking down the long years until they stuck a needle in my arm.
I could just about handle the thought of the needle, but I couldn’t handle Delia reaping all the rewards for my hard work.
So, first I went with the “accident” method. You know, make his death look like a freak accident. He’s 99, for Christ’s sake. He’s supposed to be frail. It shouldn’t have been very hard to pull off.
But luck seemed to be against me. First, I tried the “tumble down the stairs” approach. I artfully scattered three or four dog toys in strategic spots on the grand staircase, in such a pattern that Uncle John was sure to trip over one of them when he descended for his booze-and-breakfast the next morning. Bugle was always leaving his damn toys all over the place – hell, I’ve almost broken my neck on them more times than I can count. Plus, it worked a treat in Dumb Witness. Well, except for the part where Poirot solves the case and the murderer gets caught. But that’s fiction.
But damn if Gerta didn’t come up that staircase half an hour after me, tutting and scooping up all the toys as she went. Ruined hours of work, all my careful planning to get those dog toys positioned just right. I don’t know why Uncle John doesn’t make her stick to the servant’s staircase, anyway.
Next, I thought about leaving the gas on in the kitchen overnight, after swapping the batteries in the gas alarms to dead ones, but thankfully I realized last minute that this would not only kill Uncle John, Gerta, and the dog, but me as well. So, chalk that one up to a failure, too, I guess.
Then came the soup, and you know how that went.
I guess I couldn’t blame Delia too much for being so annoyed – I was 0 for 3 at that point– but at the same time I don’t see why I was the one elected to do all the dirty work in the first place. Let Delia take a turn at trying to kill a man who will be a century old by Christmas, see how she does if she thinks it’s so damn easy.
So, that’s where I was now. Sitting at the ridiculous dining table, picking at scrambled eggs and sipping at my second mimosa while Delia and Uncle John had moved on to a pitcher of Red Snappers, planning a golf date after lunch and chatting about Delia’s new boyfriend, who was joining us that evening.
I have to admit, it was pretty unsettling, watching Delia gamely yammer away about boyfriends and golf dates to the man she was fixing to murder. I hope she never plans to kill me – I’d never see it coming.
Delia caught my eye and frowned almost imperceptibly, like she’d read my mind. I took a gulp of mimosa and looked away.
***
After Uncle John’s customary Saturday lunch of roast chicken, okra, and mashed potatoes (with a side of bourbon and soda), he retired to his bedroom for his after-lunch nap. I figured Delia would lie down too, as she was looking worse for wear at that point, but instead she grabbed me by the arm and dragged me off to the front porch again under the guise of wanting a cigarette.
"Now, Oliver, I’ll show you how it’s done,” she said, taking a drag and blowing smoke up over our heads. Her lipstick was half worn off and her elaborately curled ponytail was crooked. I tried not to show my distaste.
“What? What do you have in mind now?”
“We’re going to tamper with his golf cart, of course.”
Uncle John’s property abuts his favourite golf course, and, as such, he has his own golf cart parked out back that he rides across his fields to get to tee off.
“First of all, what do you mean ‘we’? I thought you were taking over. And second of all, how the hell do you know how to tamper with a golf cart? What does tampering with a golf cart even look like?”
Delia gave me a sour look. She tossed her butt into the bushes off the porch and wiped her palms on her skirt. The day had gotten hotter, and my shirt was sticking uncomfortably to my back.
“Golf cart accidents happen practically every day, Oliver,” she said. “Most aren’t fatal, but they can be. We’re going to make sure this one is."
We looked around to make sure that nobody was watching us, and then she steered me to the backyard where the golf cart was sparkling under the sun. She took a Swiss Army knife from her clutch and consulted a diagram on her phone.
“I googled it, see? We just cut the brake line enough so that it’s good and frayed, and then it’ll snap when he’s halfway to the course. He won’t be able to stop. A tumble off the cart and he’s as good as dead, I’m telling you.”
She crawled into the golf cart and popped the hood, then slid out and went around to the front on unsteady heels. She peered back and forth from her phone screen into the tangle of wires under the hood several times before selecting one and sawing at it like a madwoman.
“This’ll fix him,” she said with satisfaction a few minutes later. “You just wait and see.”
Two hours later, Uncle John – napped and refreshed and ready for a round of golf before a few relaxing mint juleps at the club, no doubt – waved as he hopped into the cart.
“You sure you don’t want to ride with me, Delia?” he asked.
“No, you go on ahead, Uncle John,” she said, sweet as anything. “I have to make a couple phone calls first. I’ll follow you in my car and be there in 20 minutes.”
“Suit yourself!” Uncle John gave a cheerful wave before turning the key to the cart. Delia shot me a triumphant, “I told you so” look.
Nothing happened.
“What in the hell?” Uncle John cranked the key a few more times with no results before popping the hood of the cart and getting out to look inside.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” he shouted in annoyance. “Look at this. Some fool squirrel has got in here and chewed right through the gas wires. Damn cart won’t even turn on. What a nuisance – I’ll have to start parking in the shed again. Delia, hon, I’ll catch that ride with you when you’re done with your phone calls."
He stomped off to the house, shaking his head and cursing the rodents for miles around.
The look on Delia’s face was almost more satisfying than the millions I stood to inherit. I avoided her gaze and followed Uncle John back up to the house myself.
***
“This is your last shot, and then I’m taking over again,” I told Delia after supper. Her new boyfriend, Liam, was still in the dining room smoking a cigar and drinking port with Uncle John. Liam and Uncle John had immediately hit it off, with Uncle John telling stories about his time in the army during WWII and proudly showing off his St. Christopher medallion with the dent in it, from when it had saved his life from a stray Nazi bullet.
Delia and I were in the parlour, waiting for them to join us.
“Shut up,” she said. “I’ve got it figured out this time. You still got that poison on you?”
“Yeah, all right.” I fished it out of my pocket – I didn’t feel safe leaving it lying around, where Gerta might find it – and handed it over. “What are you going to do now?”
“Easy,” she said. She went to the parlour door, cracked it open, and listened.
“They’ll be talking for a few more minutes yet,” she said, closing the door and striding over to the mantlepiece where Uncle John’s crystal decanter of Auchentoshan Scotch has sat for time immemorial in a place of honour. She screwed off the top and poured half the vial into it, then replaced the top and gave it a vigorous shake.
“That’ll do it,” she said with obvious satisfaction. “Uncle John won’t let anybody drink his Auchentoshan. I’ve never seen him share a glass even with Dad. There’s no way we can miss this time.”
She flung herself in an armchair near the window, fanning herself lightly – Uncle John doesn’t believe in air conditioning, not even in 90-degree heat, another quirk that drives me nuts – and nodded to herself.
I had to admit, I didn’t see how this one could fail. I settled in an armchair and picked up a newspaper myself, waiting for the inevitable.
***
“Now, now!” Uncle John laughed, waving a hand at Liam, who had just told an outrageous joke involving two Welshman and a sheep. “There’s a lady present, son.” He took a drag of his cigar and, chuckling, shook his head. “But I can’t deny that’s one I haven't heard before.”
Liam is a slimy little jackass. He’s an insurance agent that Delia met on some app, coming from a long line of insurance agents who think they’re better than everyone else on account of their big McMansion’s and multiple Porsches in the garage. Mom would have called them new money.
He was clearly buttering up to Uncle John, overly solicitous and putting on a show at being the biggest man in the room. I don’t know what Delia sees in him. Actually, knowing Delia, I know exactly what she sees in him.
Liam laughed along, smoothing his sticky blond hair back from his forehead and raising his wineglass to Uncle John. “My apologies, sir. That sabbatical I took to Scotland last year gave me a repertoire too grand not to share.”
“Ah, yes, Scotland!” Uncle John said warmly, beaming at Liam. “I do so enjoy hearing stories of that country. I’ve been several times myself, you know. Whisky tours. Now, as promised, Liam, I’ve got the finest imported Scotch. Never share it with anybody, so you know how fond I am of you already, that I’m making an exception.”
Delia nearly dropped her own wineglass as our eyes met across the room, both of us trying to hide our horror without much success.
“Pass me that decanter up there, son,” Uncle John said. He strolled to the bar cart and fetched two whiskey tumblers. Delia looked frozen, and I mouthed “DO SOMETHING” at her.
She seemed to snap out of it, chirping, “I’ll get it, hon!” in a slightly deranged tone that thankfully both Liam and Uncle John were too tippled to notice. She grabbed the decanter and hesitated, gripping it in white-knuckled hands and staring at me wildly. Liam was busy draining his wineglass.
Uncle John turned around, holding out the tumblers, and motioned for Delia to bring the decanter.
“Well, come on, Delia!” he said in a jovial tone. “Your man is a real guest of honour tonight; let’s not keep him waiting.”
Delia took a step toward Uncle John and then clearly decided in a moment what to do. She tugged off the crystal stopper and then, with an unconvincing flail, caught her heel on the rug and went flying, hands outstretched to dump the decanter upside down to the floor.
“Delia!” bellowed Uncle John, sounding genuinely angry for the first time that weekend. “That’s my best Auchentoshan! Do you have any idea how much that bottle cost?”
We all stared in silence at the poisoned whisky spreading across the floor. Liam finally spoke up.
“It’s a real shame, sir,” he said with a pat on Uncle John’s shoulder. “But had I known you had Auchentoshan, I would’ve declined, anyway. I only drink island whiskies, myself.”
“Ah, well,” Uncle John said, recovering his good nature remarkably fast. “It’s only whisky, and plenty more where that came from. Still, Delia, I’ll have to take the cost of that bottle out of your inheritance!” He laughed uproariously, Liam joining in.
***
By Monday evening, the long weekend was over, and Delia and I were packed and loading our suitcases into our respective cars. Liam had already left to go back to the city. We’d said our goodbyes to everyone except each other, and we stood staring wearily at the sprawling old country house framed by the setting sun.
“Delia, I’m tired,” I said at last. “He’s 99. How much longer can he possibly live, anyway? I say we call it. We’re just going to have to wait, like anybody else.”
“I guess so,” she said. “The man was born with more luck than judgment. I think we’re powerless against whatever shining star is protecting him – from himself and from us.”
We nodded at each other, then got into our cars and drove off. I turned onto the highway and cranked my windows down and the radio up.
I guess a body can get used to just about anything, as the old saying goes, and mine will have to get used to this:
Uncle John is still alive.