You Get What You Pay For

Herschel's stories have appeared in many children's magazines, as well as Alfred Hitchcock and Ellery Queen's Mystery Magazines. His Orchard Press Mysteries stories are too numerous to list, but include The Cinderella Caper, Feb. 2002; Crime Doesn't Pay--Very Much, Jun. 2003; Charity Begins At Home, Dec. 2003 [1st Prize Winner, 2003 Orchard Press Short Humorous Mystery Story Contest]; and Moonshine and Pigs. Herschel lives with his wife, Sue, in Santa Rosa, California, close to his children and grandchildren.

He hated the old house. It creaked and groaned at night, it needed painting, inside and out. The antiquated plumbing and wiring seldom worked right, if at all. It was a gloomy, rambling house in need of work—much work.

But Sarah liked it, and that was that. She fell in love with it the first time she saw it. And when the real estate agent, his greedy eyes sparkling in anticipation, told her that it had been built by the then governor in 1856, she was determined to have it.

“Just think, Gaylord,” she had said to her dubious husband. “We will be sleeping in the same room, walking the same halls, eating in the same kitchen that he did.” She waved her pudgy hand in excitement. “Isn’t that thrilling?”

Gaylord didn’t share her enthusiasm in the slightest. The former governor was only a name to him, and if he remembered his history, not a very good governor. And walking in the same room as a man who had been dead for over a hundred years did nothing for him. As Sarah had told him repeatedly, he had no sense of history.

He didn’t want the house, and would have said so then and there, leaving the salesman to find another sucker. But he knew it would be futile to argue, so he shrugged his shoulders in resignation and said nothing. He was convinced that the governor wouldn’t set foot in the place in its present condition. Sarah, caught up in her own enthusiasm, was unaware that he did not share her feelings. “I must have this place,” she said, neither knowing or caring if Gaylord had any objections.

And so they bought it, at an obscenely high price that would leave them saddled with a mortgage that would force Gaylord to delay his retirement for at least five years. For the same amount of money they could have had a new, comfortable condo within walking distance of stores and work. And, best of all, there would be no expensive repairs to make the place livable.

Well, he would make the most of it. He was a man of his word, and never broke a promise or backed out of an agreement. The fact that he was still married to Sarah was proof of that. He had married her ‘til death do us part’, and he would honor that vow, even though the spark had died years ago.

Once they had moved in, Sarah began to find fault with the place. That wasn’t hard to do considering the condition it was in.

“We need a new sink in the kitchen. The old one is chipped and too small. And the carpets are worn and filthy. We must have them replaced.”

Gaylord noted with some resentment her use of the pronoun “we”. It would fall to him to replace those things that needed replacement. And he wouldn’t be able to get away with anything less than the best.

“You get what you pay for, dear,” she would admonish whenever they shopped. To her way of thinking the most expensive item was the best. There was never room for compromise. They slept in an overpriced bed under overpriced blankets. They drove an overpriced car. Nothing but the best. And the best cost more. It was a fact of life.

The only way Gaylord could save money on repairs was to do it himself. And he was not very good at that sort of thing. His carpentry skills were minimal. His plumbing bordered on the inept. And he would not even try to fix anything electrical lest he kill himself and anyone else nearby.

But necessity forced him to at least try to do some of the basic repairs. There were simply too many to pay a professional to do. Some of the simpler jobs—shoring up a sagging fence or replacing a broken windowpane—were tasks he did himself. And while the results were less than perfect, they were sufficient. As long as they didn’t show, Sarah seemed satisfied. Silence meant approval.

It was thus that Gaylord found himself stretched over the rickety railing that led from the kitchen to the basement. The stairs themselves had succumbed to years of dry rot and usage. All of the stairs creaked when weight was placed on them, and three had collapsed completely. Only the thin worn carpeting kept those steps from falling to the floor below. Gaylord had marked them with paint to avoid a catastrophic fall.

Sarah, of course, wanted them replaced. “If you care about me one whit, Gaylord, you will fix those stairs. I could be killed.”

Gaylord considered her words with a trace of amusement. There was nothing in the basement except an old coal furnace and a hot water heater. Coal was no longer a commodity that was readily attainable. The coal bin in the corner of the basement was now a repository for junk and debris. But the furnace still worked and Gaylord kept a supply of coal in a heap by the basement window. It had fallen on him, of course, to keep the furnace running, and he made twice monthly trips to the next town in his pickup truck for coal. Sarah found the smoke belching, noisy coal furnace romantic—a reminder of her youth. She recalled how she would watch as the deliveryman pushed the black gleaming coal into the chute and the chunks cascaded down the chute into the bin below. She told and retold the story until Gaylord could recite it verbatim. Personally he saw nothing romantic about an ugly piece of steel belching smoke and fire. In addition to polluting the atmosphere with black, sooty smoke, it clanged and banged with an ear splitting noise as the ancient metal sides expanded and contracted. It was a monstrosity that had long ago outlived its usefulness. He had said as much to Sarah. But she launched into her childhood memories, ending with an admonition.

As much as she enjoyed the idea of having the only coal burning furnace in town, she never went to the basement. Nor did she ever go down to attend to the hot water heater. Those were jobs for men. There was no reason for her to be in the basement. Still the steps concerned her and she insisted that something be done about them.

Normally Gaylord would have someone repair them rather than attempt the job himself. But this was a job where appearance was not important. And the cost would be small—a few sturdy boards and a handful of eight penny nails. Gaylord was capable of measuring and cutting the boards to the proper length. And the riser seemed to be in good condition. No need to replace that.

The old broken boards had been removed a few days before, and the new boards cut to size, ready to be nailed into place. Gaylord was proud of his work so far.

Although it was a very basic carpentry task, it was nonetheless an important one. These boards had to be strong enough to support the weight of a man, yet cut to near perfect proportions to fit within the limited area. And because most of the space beneath the boards was open space, he had to be precise when setting the nails, assuring they would end up secured in the supporting wood of the riser, and not dangling in midair.

Saturday morning found him in the basement, armed with hammer, nails and a thermos of coffee to sustain him. Sarah was sleeping in as she always did on Saturday.

“My busy schedule tires me so,” she told friends as way of explanation. Two mornings of bridge and an afternoon at the Book Lover’s Club hardly seemed active to Gaylord. But no one sought his opinion.

Nonetheless, Gaylord was careful to be quiet. It wouldn’t do to waken her. He would set the boards in place on the stairs and trim and shape them until they were perfect. The pounding of nails would have to wait until Sarah got up.

This meant, of course, that the boards would be loose and unsafe to step on. He would have to be careful. It wouldn’t do to forget and try to use the stairs in their present condition.

A sudden inspiration came to Gaylord. What if Sarah were to have an accident—an unfortunate fall while going down the basement stairs? He smiled inwardly.

His smile faded as quickly as it had come. Sarah had never been in the basement, not even when they were looking at the house before buying it. She hated basements. They were dark and damp and full of vermin. Basements were for men, not genteel women whose sensitivities were easily offended by such unsanitary, unladylike conditions.

But every rule had its exception. Gaylord would have to find the exception and exploit it. It would be a challenge. But most worthwhile endeavors were challenging.

Maribel was Sarah’s pet, and she treated it as one would treat a favored child. Nothing was too good for Maribel. Gaylord hated the beast. Now fourteen years old, Maribel did little except sleep, eat and yowl at the most inconvenient times. The yowl was her most annoying trait. A piercing, hair-raising noise that he was sure could be heard from outer space, Maribel unleashed it whenever she wanted attention, which was often.

Now, Gaylord thought with a smile, he would use that to his advantage. He remembered an incident from a few years ago when Maribel became stuck in the broom closet. Sarah grew hysterical, fearing the beast would succumb to suffocation, starvation or claustrophobia. She screamed at Gaylord to rescue the cat, finally shoving him aside and crawling into the closet herself. She emerged triumphantly, the bemused cat clutched in her hands. It was the only time Gaylord could remember Sarah putting herself “in harm’s way” (as she expressed it), and all because of a cat who could have extricated herself whenever the mood suited her.

Perhaps, he thought hopefully, history may repeat itself. It was certainly worth a try.

Of course, the planning and timing had to be perfect. He would only have one chance. Sarah had to be within earshot and thoroughly convinced that Maribel was in mortal danger. This required a little cooperation on the part of Maribel as well, but that was a risk that Gaylord was willing to take.

Gaylord spent the next few days planning. He had to have time to corral Maribel, get the animal down to the cellar and have it go into the yowling act when Sarah was nearby. Sarah would have to be out of the house while Gaylord got the cat. If he showed any interest in Maribel, Sarah would certainly be suspicious.

Sarah played bridge on Thursday, and always came home at precisely the same time that day. She was as dependable as clockwork. This was necessary, as he would be able to get Maribel into the cellar just before she arrived home. Otherwise the unpleasant beast would only curl up and go to sleep, thus ruining all of his careful plans.

After what seemed a generation of weekdays, Thursday finally arrived. Cold and windy, it seemed to Gaylord to be a perfect day for an “accident”. He ate breakfast with a contentment he hadn’t felt in years.

Promptly at nine Sarah announced her departure. Gaylord had long since quit listening. She should make a recording, he thought to himself. But today the announcement was welcome

“Well, dear,” she said. “I’m leaving now. Be sure you get the trash out by noon. We wouldn’t want to miss the pickup. And the lawn needs mowing. Front and back.”

She pursed her lips, blew him a quick kiss, and disappeared through the front door.

Gaylord fussed about the house for the rest of the morning, busying himself with mundane chores to help pass the time. He ignored the trash, a silent defiance of his soon to be “late” wife.

Fifteen minutes before Sarah was due to come home, Gaylord went to find Maribel. The monster should be curled up in the laundry basket where it spent most of the day. But today it wasn’t there.

Gaylord searched the house looking for the beast. Precious minutes went by as he went from room to room, calling in a low voice. Not that Maribel would respond. The cat, like most cats he had known, had a mind of its own.

Looking in all of the most likely hiding places, Gaylord cursed softly. The insidious beast was nowhere to be found.

Gaylord was about to quit, thinking with great irritation of postponing the event until next week, when Maribel appeared, stretching and yowling, from some remote part of the house that only she knew about. Gaylord swooped the cat into his arms, ignoring the beast’s protest and the sharp claws digging into his shoulder.

“You miserable creature,” he mumbled as he opened the basement door. “It’s time you did something useful around here.”

Gaylord had secured all the steps in the basement stairs except for the second one. This one he left, positioned so that it looked safe, ready to collapse if anyone stepped on it. Now, carefully avoiding the fatal step, Gaylord carried Maribel downstairs.

The ledge of the basement window stood about eight feet off the floor. Gaylord deposited the squirming Maribel on the ledge and stood back. Surely the cat would not attempt to jump down from there. Gaylord hoped that she would sit there and yowl for assistance.

He was not disappointed. Maribel, after a few feeble attempts to get down from the ledge, started yowling in an ear piercing way that only a cat could produce.

Perfect. That will bring Sarah to the basement and, hopefully, to the second step.

The sound of Sarah’s car reached Gaylord through the open basement door. He looked at his watch. She was right on time. It was too late to make it up the stairs before she came in. He was trapped down in the basement, Well, he would have to make the most of it. He wished he had closed the door to the basement. But maybe it was just as well. Maribel’s yowls would be that much easier for her to hear.

Gaylord stepped back from the window and positioned himself just out of sight under the stairs. The front door opened and Sarah’s footsteps sounded on the hardwood floor.

At the sound of Sarah’s voice, Maribel arched her back and shrieked. Gaylord smiled as he listened. That would bring Sarah on the run, he knew.

Maribel cried out again, louder than before if that was possible. A moment later Gaylord saw Sarah’s shadow at the head of the stairs.

“Gaylord, come here this minute. Maribel is hurt.” She took a tentative step to the top step of the stairway. Seeing Maribel cowered on the window ledge, she let out a cry and started down the stairs. Her foot fell on the second step heavily.

Sergeant Mallory stood in the middle of the basement, rubbing his stubbled chin as he observed the scene. The body on the concrete floor lay just below the splintered railing and the missing second step of the stairway. There was no sign of foul play. It was a horrible accident, he thought, and not all that unusual. So many fatal accidents occur at home, most of them, like this one, preventable. The loose step in the basement was certainly the result of a shoddy, careless do-it-yourself project.

Slowly he climbed the stairs, carefully testing each one as he stepped on them to avoid the same fate that had befallen the victim. They all seemed sturdy enough. At the head of the stairs he paused and examined the area where the step had collapsed.

Someone, the master of the house, he had been told, had failed to secure it. Strange. But stranger things have happened, and he had seen them all.

He went into the living room. A paramedic was administering first aid to the prone figure on the couch. He walked over, sat down in the chair next to the couch, and sat back.

“Nothing serious here,” he answered. “Just a cut on the forehead and bruised ribs. Fortunately for her the husband broke her fall.”

Sarah put a hand to her forehead and moaned. “He was such a dear,” she said. “But not at all handy with tools. I told him he should have these things done by a professional. But he wouldn’t listen.” She moaned again, looked through bleary eyes at Mallory and forced a smile. “You get what you pay for, I always say.”

“Now who will keep the furnace going?” Sarah wailed. “I simply can’t stay here unless someone can keep the furnace going.” She let out a cry. Maribel looked up from her spot in the laundry tub, then curled back into a ball and went to sleep.