Only this writer sees what’s happening in Ginny and David’s backyard. They are back there burying Tim’s dog. They’re sliding its tiny carcass into an almost equally tiny hole without any difficulty. Tim doesn’t even know his dog’s dead. He doesn’t know they poisoned his Jack Russell Terrier under the auspices of treating it to a freshly grilled ribeye only hours ago.
Ginny and David are talking about something important. Probably whether they should say a prayer, to clear their bloodthirsty consciences before they walk away. And also maybe what story they should tell Tim once he gets home.
Each year, Tim leaves the country, refusing to disclose his destination. He’s always gone for the same amount of time and on the same exact dates. He brings the same suitcase. He drives himself to the airport, despite the whole street offering to take him in the hopes he might let something slip. Some say he’s brainwashed, and that his overlords summon him annually for a good cleaning of his frontal lobe, but there’s no proof yet.
Ginny and David could explain they were just happening by when they noticed little Pippin caught in a standoff between a rattlesnake and his own destruction. But there weren’t any rattlesnakes for miles around. Besides, they were the dogsitters. They were supposed to protect Pippin instead of murdering him under mysterious circumstances. Tim would ask why they didn’t reach for his bottle of carefully labeled, homemade snake repellant in the garage. Anyway, Ginny and David are full of it. The whole neighborhood knows it.
Ginny can now be seen visoring her hands over her eyes, raising her still-unintelligible voice, and stomping her left foot atop the freshly upended soil for emphasis.
So this is what murdering looks like. They didn’t even change into ceremonial vestments for the so-called burial service. Actually, nobody called it a service except this writer, so you can strike that from the record. Because there is a record. There’s always a record.
Ginny has ties with Scandinavian royalty and certain paramilitary organizations. She knows secrets of a delicate nature. In other words, Ginny has pull. She also rubs shoulders with the neighborhood watch. They could’ve already exchanged information, knowing full well the aftermath of their unseemly behavior would be covered. The neighborhood watch would make it look like an accident in their usual way. This adds up; Ginny and David didn’t even wait for nightfall to dispose of the dog. That’s a power move. There’s only one thing for this writer to do: forget everything. As someone who considers themself a living catalog of crimes, it goes against this writer’s principles to step aside. But this scheme goes all the way to the top. The best course of action is to make their story sound convincing, to pass yourself off as a friend of the cause. Otherwise the first thing they’ll do to you is remove another toe, which is something you never grow accustomed to.
Normally it’s this writer’s constant goal to become a spectacle. You see, this writer poses as an expert jewel thief. Nobody makes burgling an art or craft anymore. Around here, at least, it’s a bunch of junkies who wouldn’t dare risk a breaking-and-entering charge. They rummage through mailboxes or unlocked cars looking for some quick cash. Workplace integrity doesn’t apply to them. This writer pretends to be an expert jewel thief on the America’s Most Wanted list as a kind of service to these miscreants. To give them something to strive for. To show them how it’s done.
Once, in a routine fake-theft, this writer spread the rumor that some jade earrings were stolen from a recently deceased neighbor’s safe. A crowd gathered to hear every fictional detail. You have to lay it on thick with these people, to really spell it out for them, or they won’t understand. One kid was so captivated with the tale that he dropped an ice cream cone on the sidewalk. A congealed remnant of his frozen treat remains on that sidewalk square to this day. Our neighbor had a life once, but she doesn’t anymore. And she never liked this writer. Not really. So there.
David sidles up to a few of us standing around a card table at our street’s block party the following day.
He starts laughing without having any conversational context, then says, “Yeah, it’s a shame what happened to ol’ Pippin. Anyway, he died.”
Nobody pays attention to him.
“Hold on. I think I see something. Fan out, everyone! Fan out,” he says, swimming a dry breast stroke with the top half of his body.
David extracts an indiscernible object from the ground that might actually be imaginary.
“This appears to be some evidence. Let’s turn this over to the lab.”
He waves the concealed non-object around, making direct eye contact with Kasey, seemingly attempting to pin the blame on our newest resident.
Then David makes a big show of the wind supposedly catching whatever’s in (or not in) his hands.
He shakes his head saying, “Gosh, I guess nothing can be done.”
“Go wait in the living room,” Ginny says to him, pointing at their house like he might not know which one it is.
Not everybody’s cut out for lying. What can you expect? David doesn’t even have a portfolio. Winging it like this––it’s just not done in our industry.
David scoffs, but Ginny doesn’t see him because she’s turned toward the cheese plate, already thinking about something else. She trades her hands for shovels and goes to work on a wedge of Camembert.
As for this writer, the way is clear. No more pretending. Time for the real deal. There’s no need to wait until Tim comes back. This writer’s fame will soon be recognized throughout the land. Did you know that the Dead Sea Scrolls include a treasure map? Did you also know that the treasure’s never been found? Yeah, so guess who’s going on a treasure hunt. Well, there’s more to it than simply hunting. There are detailed plans in place. Everything’s all figured out. This writer just hasn’t gotten around to it yet.
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Claire Hopple is the author of six books. Her stories have appeared in Southwest Review, Forever Mag, Wigleaf, Cleveland Review of Books, and others. More at clairehopple.com.