15 Strange Tales of Crime and Mystery

15 Strange Tales of Crime and Mystery

Mario Milosevic

Contents

Democracy

Royalty

Curse Island

Weedhead

O Negative

Property Lines

This Sudden Execution of My Will

Parallel Moons

The Universe of Death

The Clex Are Our Friends

They Taste Like Chicken

The Last Last Meal

Salmon Don’t Foretell the Future

The Visitor From the Dark Mountain

Assisted Living

Copyright

Also by Mario Milosevic

About the Author

Democracy

My name is Robin Curtis. I came to the hot dry lands of eastern Oregon territory in 1870 and settled in a small town called Glory .

The town, if I may say, was not well-named. Glory consisted of shacks and some dirt roads. Several large ranches surrounded it, where rough-hewn cowboys raised cattle and where women such as myself, independent and prone to live life on my own terms, were somewhat tolerated, if not embraced.

My life in the east does not bear telling here. I would say only that it was less endurable, owing to the dominance of a husband prone to violence, than the dismal surroundings in the Oregon territory.

I was fortunate to have inherited, from a distant cousin, a parcel of land adjacent to Glory.

I came to the town to claim that land and to find a life on the frontier.

But I did not come as a woman.

Instead, I disguised myself. I wore men’s clothes and cut my hair short and determined to present myself as a man, knowing it would protect me from the advances of males.

It worked. It helped, I may say, that my name could have been applied to both males and females. I went about town, tending to my business, and did not raise any suspicions.

Until

election

day

.

Glory was in need of a new sheriff. The old one had been a drinker, and a lazy one to boot, and he was dismissed by the judge. Now two candidates had thrown their hats into

the

ring

.

I knew both of them only a little.

Martin Cadwell was a young buck, only twenty-one, but with fire in his eyes. He wanted to protect the town from Natives and insure that no cow would ever be rustled again.

I

liked

him

.

Noah Spencer was older, at least forty by my estimation, and had been sheriff in other frontier towns. His main concern was to keep the town free of undesirables. He promised to shoot anyone who so much as looked at him sideways.

I was not disposed to appreciate Mr. Spencer’s qualities.

The town was evenly divided on the question of who should be the next sheriff. You could go into any drinking establishment, as I did, in the weeks before election, and hear heated arguments extolling the virtues of both candidates.

They had one debate, which attracted most of the town, my own interested self, included.

I listened carefully to both men. They were certainly eager to present their views to the townspeople. I found myself, inexplicably, finding less to admire in Mr. Cadwell and more to admire in Mr. Spencer.

This set my head spinning. Before long, I did not know who I supported, which was a strange position to

be

in

.

On election day I went to the polling station, where drinks were freely distributed by contingents of both candidates, and cast my ballot, and awaited the results.

The next day, the most consternating surprise presented itself to Glory.

The vote was

a

tie

.

184 votes for Martin Cadwell.

184 votes for Noah Spencer.

Unheard of! Incredible!

The town charter was consulted. In the event of a tie, it stated explicitly, a recount was in order. All the ballots had to be examined again, with witnesses from the camps of both candidates, and in public, so all

could

see

.

I attended this recount. Several dozen of the town followed suit. We stood around a table, and watched while the town clerk took each ballot, displayed it to the audience, and then placed it in its

appropriate

pile

.

The entire process, slow and painstaking, took more than a few minutes.

While the recount proceeded, I heard conversations around me. People were discussing the merits of democracy.

Such high-toned talk fell on my ears with a considerable dose of irony attached to them. If I had been presented to the world as my natural sex, that is, if people knew I was a woman, then I would not have been allowed

to

vote

.

And yet, these men around me pontificated about the greatness of democracy and the purity of the vision of the founding fathers who saw to it that people were allowed to control their own destiny by means of the ballot.

I found myself more than a little angry. In fact, I found that I could not contain my anger.

My dear sirs, I finally said, in the deep and gravelly voice I had adopted since my arrival, one cannot speak of democracy until all citizens are granted suffrage. Even, if I may say, Natives, naturalized foreigners, and— here I cleared my throat —the fully half of the population known as women.

You would have been able, at that moment, to hear the sound of a cockroach skittering across the floor, such was the ensuing silence.

Then the assembled voters of Glory erupted in laughter.

That’s a good one, Robin, said one rancher.

Yes, said another. I’ll go home and tell my wife that she must vote in the next election. For the sake of democracy and freedom.

More laughter.

I felt myself turning red. I was about to muster more arguments for my position when the clerk raised his voice above the laughter.

The recount is completed,

he

said

.

Silence fell on the room. We were all hushed.

No change, said the clerk. "The result is still

a

tie

."

Then we shall have two sheriffs, said someone from

the

back

.

Impossible, said another in answer.

Then what? said a third rancher. We are in a conundrum.

More like a pickle, said

someone

else

.

The town charter is clear, said the clerk. He pulled out a ragged and wrinkled bit of paper and read

from

it

.

"In the event the recount should result in a tie, the winner of the election shall be determined by the flip of

a

coin

."

Upon these words, another eruption of noise from the crowd. Ridiculous! Insane! Coins have no judgement.

The clerk quelled the noise with his hands

once

more

.

We must follow the charter, he said. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a quarter.

He held it up for the crowd to see, displaying one side, then the other, assuring us all that the coin

was

fair

.

I was close enough to see that

it

was

.

This is how it shall go, said the clerk. Mr. Cadwell. Mr. Spencer. Please step forward.

Martin Cadwell and Noah Spencer had been in the back of the room, keeping a respectful distance. They elbowed their way forward and stood in front of the clerk.

The clerk pointed to Cadwell. When I toss the coin into the air, he said, you shall call it. Heads or tails. You will state your preference while the coin is in the air and you will be as loud and clear as possible. Understood?

Cadwell nodded and held up his fists and shook them in a little victory celebration, which was certainly premature, but that did not stop his supporters from roaring their approval.

"I will allow the coin to fall to the table. Then I will examine the coin and tell the result.

Is this all understood?

We’re letting God decide, said someone from

the

back

.

Murmurs of assent followed the remark. Some in the room thought that God should not have a vote, me among them, but what could one do? The charter was clear, and if we did not do the coin flip, how would we decide?

I think letting God decide the election is good enough for me, said Noah Spencer, then raised his own fists and imitated Cadwell’s victory motions.

His supporters erupted, as Cadwell’s had only a moment before.

The clerk waited for the noise to settle.

He licked his lips, adjusted his legs so his stance was a little wider. He made a fist, and presented it to the room so that his thumb was at the top, then he placed the coin on his thumb.

A hushed silence fell on the room. I could feel the heat of breaths all

around

me

.

Just before the clerk was to launch the coin into the air, a hand clapped on my shoulder. I turned around to see the judge look me squarely in

the

face

.

Hold up, he said. Stop these proceedings.

The clerk blinked.

Everyone looked at the judge.

"This person here, he said as he pointed to me, will determine the results of this election."

My face drained of blood. I felt a trembling in my knees.

Whatever do you mean? I asked.

Do not attempt to deceive me or the town any longer, said the judge. It is my contention that you are not allowed to vote on the question of the sheriff.

Indeed, I said, "and why

is

that

?"

"On account of

your

sex

."

I took in a deep breath. Everyone looked at me. I wished to escape but knew I

could

not

.

Do not deny it any longer, said the judge. You are a woman. Do not put us through the embarrassment of proving it to this group.

The clerk’s mouth fell open. The two candidates looked at me with awe in

their

eyes

.

This is not so,

I

said

.

It is so, said the judge. Then he looked deep into

my

eyes

.

Of course he knew the truth and could demonstrate it in a most unseemly way. I felt it was in him to

do

so

.

I waited a few more beats before allowing that the judge was correct. I released my deep and gravelly voice to the ether and spoke in my natural tones. You are correct, I said. I am a woman.

Ha, said the judge as he turned to the crowd. Why this woman would pass herself off as a man is her own business, but the work of democracy is our business. Only male landowners are allowed to vote. And because of that, this woman’s ballot is null and void. She should not have voted.

All in the room, including me, had to agree that that was the case. I knew it when I voted. I may have considered the provision unfair, but that did not change the fact that it was the law of

the

land

.

So now, said the judge, the coin is not needed. All we need determine is who this woman voted for. Once that is settled, we can declare her vote for that candidate retracted and the other one shall be declared the winner and our new sheriff.

This met with approval from all present. I felt the heat of attention on me and it was not pleasant.

So, said the judge. "My dear woman. Please tell us how you discharged your ill-gotten right. Tell us who you

voted

for

."

I knew perfectly well who I voted for. But I also knew that if I told the judge, then the other candidate would be declared the winner, the candidate I did not choose.

I worked through the ramifications, on the spot, quickly. All I had to do to insure my candidate would be the winner was to declare that I had voted for the other one, the one I did not

vote

for

.

But I also, on the spot, knew that others in the room would have the same thought process. They would see how I held the power in my hands.

Hold up, said the clerk. We cannot determine for certain if she will be telling the truth.

The judge glared at the clerk.

The clerk cowered.

My job, said the judge, is dealing with liars every day. He swung his hand around the room, his finger extended. When any of you come before me, it is more than an even chance that you are lying.

Chuckles and nervous laughs from everyone present.

So you see, he said, I am in the best position to determine the truth of the matter.

He turned his attention to me. Again.

"I ask once more, dear lady. For which candidate did you cast

your

vote

?"

I could not pull away from his eyes. He leaned close to me. I stepped back. I collided with the table, the one with all the ballots in neat piles.

I had a name on my lips. I was about to state it when someone stepped forward, holding a ballot in his hand. He raised it high for all

to

see

.

I hold Robin’s ballot in my hand,

he

said

.

What? said the judge.

You can see the X, he said. It is drawn in a feminine manner.

The judge spread his hands and raised his head to the heavens. Lord, he said, "please

spare

me

."