[this could be titled “Confessions of a Dead Woman” , “The Will of Harriet”, “The Camera” if I add to it, “The Confessions of Harriet Wooding”, “A Family Affair”, or “In Memoriam.” }
Dear Jim,
I am old now. Through the annals of my life I remember vagueries and fragmented events, but have forgotten much. I recall impressions: summers and laughter, hope and heartbreak, foolish idealism, and overwhelming pride. However, most of my experiences have been so thoroughly blended into my hoard of worldly wisdom that I can no longer recall specifics. I know this: I once was beautiful, but now am old and decrepit, deserted by everyone I once knew and too bitter to strike up acquaintances with the young.
All my days are spent in this attic, in quiet thought above the bustling family life of my grandchildren and their father, my son. And, of course, the Wife. I opposed his marriage to Her, but he wed her anyhow. In retrospect, I almost repent of my anger. After all, look who has had the happier life. All the trust I once had in myself has been dissolved. All my convictions have been proven as shaky as rotten wood and the lives of those I scorned as fools have certainly exceeded the quality of my own.
Five years ago, I had to come here. My husband had died and left me nothing. When we got married he knew what he wanted and I knew what I wanted. I was satisfied, wanting nothing but health and wealth, but he wanted more and I could not give it to him. When given a nudge, love morphs into hate quite easily. His final revenge on me was to leave all his savings to his nephew, Jim Wooding. Fickle as woman is, all my smiles and motherly affection for Jim soured and festered. When Jim received the news of his inheritance, he was shocked at my husband’s neglect of me and offered me half the money. I raged inwardly and refused him, taking my possessions and arriving on my son’s doorstep with an imperial pride and dignity that marked the most humble act of my life. After a couple years, I forgave Jim, and now, dear, the affection I once felt for you has returned in full. I just wanted to let you know the hate I felt for two years did not last unto the grave.
I am drowning in self pity as I write this, and I feel Death creeping into these frail bones of mine. It does not disturb me much as I look out at the annoyance life has been to me. Look around the attic. You will see: a fourposter bed in the southwest corner, made of mahogany and hemmed in with heavy, gold-embroidered drapes. Across that, note the little dressing table with assorted bottles and powders upon it. I take proper care of my appearance even as a hideous old woman, unlike so many of you young people these days. Beside that, in the corner by the round window, you see a gigantic, walk-in wardrobe. Open it and you will find my fur coats, boots, high heels, et cetera. On a shelf, my hats. In the drawers, you will uncover many beautiful articles of clothing which I have preserved for decades. Keep them well. Considerately, if I say so myself, I have burned my underwear already, as I am squeamish at the thought of anybody other than myself laying hands on it. Under the round window, note the shelf full of books. Currently, there are fourteen. I hate to be cliché, saying things like ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover.’ These items I have mentioned are the main parts of my life, but what may strike you first upon entering the room is the magnificent chandelier attached to the middle of the low ceiling, almost trailing its crystal strands on the ground. That has a story no more significant than any of the other articles in my room. On the dressing table there is an old camera. Despite having owned it my entire life, I have not a clue whether it has ever worked or not. But you may as well keep it along with everything else previously mentioned. Yes; I do want you to keep every item I have spoken of here. In memoriam, if nothing else.
Please bury me quietly and alone, preferably out in the countryside in someplace surrounded by cows and sheep. Do not put me in the family plot. I would rather die than rest by any Wooding. (No insult intended towards you, dear, but you know the hatred I feel for many of the family, a hatred I once felt towards you.) Goodnight, and may God have mercy on my soul.
Signed: Harriet Wooding
April 13 in the year of our Lord, 1997
“We found her the morning after,” said Alistair Wooding.
When Jim Wooding had found the letter summoning him to Stratford-upon-Avon, a village in the Cotswolds, to take care of some business involving the death of Harriet Wooding, a flood of memories concerning the woman returned. She had been a strong, proud woman. When he offered her a couple hundred thousand pounds, she had stormed off. Many a time, he had face-palmed himself at his lack of tact in that situation. So she had run off to the Cotswolds. And now she was dead. He felt a twinge of nervousness as he rang the doorbell of 45 Whistler Lane. He waited on the doorstep with a note of sympathy and a bouquet of roses for the deceased’s family composing his face into what he hoped was a neutral expression. In a moment, he was met by Grace Wooding’s subdued face and ushered in for a sit-down and some tea and biscuits. Alistair sat across from him, a big man with red hair and not much resemblance to his mother Harriet. He had read the letter straight off and was just beginning to explain the situation.
“She was wearing her best Sunday dress, just lying on her bed looking all relaxed.”
“It looked like she was asleep,” Grace interjected. She looked down at her hands and shuddered. “Only she didn’t wake up.”
“Why was I not notified sooner?” Jim asked. The date on the letter put it at three months ago.
“Ah, well, we -” fumbled Alistair. Jim understood perfectly. Of course the family would be reluctant to admit they had been scorned by the deceased for a distant relative they had never met.
Grace spoke. “We took care of the burial ourselves,” she said. “We buried her in the family plot. She was writing nonsense in that last bit. It wouldn’t be proper to bury her anywhere else.” She stared defiantly into Jim’s eyes, daring him to say anything to the contrary. Jim looked witheringly back at her. No wonder the old woman didn’t approve of Alistair marrying her; it was clear Harriet and Grace had a personality conflict.
“Anyway, you should take all the stuff as soon as possible, if you would. I hired out a moving truck for your convenience. Grace and I would like to get rid of it quickly,” said Alistair. “Would you like another biscuit?”
“No thank you,” said Jim. “I’d better be going actually. I can take the stuff right now.”
Somehow, he had expected a warmer reception. Death usually united families rather than divided them, he thought. But it was rather awkward, that death note. Oh, Harriet Wooding was a woman with no regrets.
“A spiteful old biddy,” he murmured, admiringly.
At his apartment, Jim sat staring at Harriet’s letter. It seemed Harriet had some affection for her husband, as she mirrored him in leaving her possessions to the same person. Not that everything was much. Why would Harriet leave him fourteen books, a wardrobe of woman’s clothing, a dressing table, a bed, and a chandelier? Oh, and a camera. What could her motive have been?
Perhaps she was indifferent as to her will, and so picked him randomly for her own amusement. But then, why make a will at all? To spite her son? But why those items? The entire situation was a humongous question mark. Frustrated, Jim decided to just throw everything away.
The next day, he got the wardrobe to a furniture dealer and got a lot of money for it. He sold the dressing table at the same time, and threw away all the powders, creams, and perfumes on it. But suddenly a wave of guilt took him and he couldn’t get rid of the rest.
That night, he looked at the books. Huh, all love stories. He knew sometimes old ladies got into trashy romance novels and didn’t think much of it. Closing his eyes, he jabbed his finger randomly at one and stuffed it into his briefcase, determined to read it in hope of clues. Then he jumped into bed and went to sleep.
Jim was unemployed. Once again, it was a Monday, and everyone else would go to work while he loafed in his apartment, usually bare, now full of Harriet’s stuff. Suddenly, he was determined to get out. He took his briefcase and walked to Kew Gardens for a read.
It was already hot, despite the newness of the day, so he spread himself out on the grass under a large tree, flipping open the cover of the book titled Intrigue and Love in the Spring with a sigh. In the distance, a woodpecker rat-a-tat-tatted, and he felt ready to drift off in the dappled morning air.
His eyes were drooping along with his book when a shadow disturbed him. Before him were two small feet in wedge heeled sandals. Jerking his head up, he gazed into the face of a rather attractive young woman. Jim was twenty seven and had never dated, even through college at St. Anne’s in Oxford. Every woman scared him. The pretty ones got him tongue tied. So now he just stared.
“Excuse me,” she said. “You’re in my spot.” Exaggerating her actions, she waved her book up and down in his face as if he were a half-wit, but he said not a word. Maybe if he ignored her, she would take her beautiful, stunning self away. Her hair was a rippling chestnut mass, her face pale and freckled with enormous dark brown eyes and dark lashes. Her mouth was small and red. She wore camo cargo pants and a floral tank top. Jim couldn’t speak. At length, when it became obvious she would not leave, he figured he had to do something.
“Ugh uhmba,” he mumbled and tried to stand up in one fluid, panther-like motion. Instead, he tripped, slid on the dew damp grass, and found himself sprawled at her feet, his white, button-down shirt stained brownish green.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Are you all right?”
With effort, he stumbled upright and brushed down his rumpled clothing. “Pardon me,” he said. “I’m a terrible klutz in the morning. I’ll just go sit someplace else.”
He strode off, leaving her with a perplexed look on her face.
“Um, you forgot your things,” he heard her yell at him.
Abruptly, he about faced and strode back. Self consciously, he got down on his knees to gather up the book and briefcase, then stood up with great care not to slip. Confident he had redeemed himself somewhat in that feat, he stood up straight and put on a polite air.
“Thank you.” He nodded, gave a short bow, and strode off again, inwardly berating himself. Why did he always have to act such a perfect fool? His stride quickened as he hurried to get away. He felt as though she were still staring at him with those pretty eyes. So awkward.
“I couldn’t help noticing what you were reading,” a voice said. He jumped in fright and found the girl walking beside him.
He stopped. Clearly, this girl would not let him just go and escape embarrassment in peace.
“Pray continue,” he said coldly, turning to her, wearing an indifferent mask.
“Well, I think it’s awful rubbish,” she said. “I don’t understand why you’re reading it. No intelligent person would willingly subject themselves to anything that horrible, and you’re obviously a man of intellect.”
He didn’t even have time to fully absorb the double edged complement. He realized something obvious.
“And she was too! A woman of intellect I mean. Harriet would never read anything so stupid!” Jim turned to the girl. “Thank you!”Dropping book and briefcase, he clasped her hands in his, and laughed. “A clue!!”
Her large eyes widened.
“What just happened?” she asked.
Blushing red as a lobster, Jim let go of her hands and clasped his own behind his back. Then he bent down and picked up his belongings, nodded to her, and turned to walk away.
“Harriet reads those.”
When he heard her say those words, Jim looked back. She tilted her head impudently.
“Aggh,” he muttered. He would have to talk to her some more. Courteously. In a gentlemanly way in order to redeem himself.
“What?” he squawked, then blushed up to his ears.
“Take me out for coffee, and I’ll tell you what I mean.”
At Starbucks, the girl ordered a vanilla latte. Jim asked for plain coffee, if they had it. The girl chuckled and Jim blushed again. Choosing a window table, Jim pulled out a chair for the girl then seated himself stiffly opposite her.
“You’re so gallant,” she said, resting her chin on her hands and cocking her head bemusedly.
Jim mumbled an apology.
“I think it’s sweet,” she said. “What’s your name?”
“James. James Wooding,” he said at the tabletop. He looked up. “What’s yours?”
“Oh, my name’s Georgia. Georgia Jennings.”
Jim felt like he should have made some sort of joke about alliteration, but his brain and tongue wouldn’t work as a team. There was an awkward pause, and both dove for their coffee cups and sipped. Jim broke the silence. “I suggest we get right down to business,” he said. “What did you mean by the phrase ‘Harriet reads those’?”
“Weeelll,” she began, tracing patterns on the table with her fingertips, “Harriet was a woman . . I knew her. She liked reading romance novels.”
“How did you know her?” Jim asked.
Georgia avoided his gaze. “Uh, I met her. . . Oh, whatever!” She looked up and made a wry face. “I didn’t actually know her. I just saw her name on the cover of the book. Sorry.”
Jim picked up the book. Sure enough, there it was, written in Sharpie on the stem of the rose that decorated the book’s front. His observation skills were obviously severely lacking. He almost wanted to ask this girl for help, despite the awkward memories he would relive every time he saw her and the new ones that would be made. He really didn’t want to see her every again, but –
“Hey,” he said. “Uh, Georgia? Are you occupied today?”
“I have something at five,” she said, startled. “But I’m free until then.”
“Could you come over to my apartment?”
“I’m not sure if Harriet would like that,” said Georgia, shyly hiding her eyes behind long eyelashes. The sun’s beams falling through the window lit up her face. She glanced up at Jim and he was surprised into momentary tongue-tiedness at her sudden beauty.
“Why would Harriet care?” he asked.
With a sudden jerk of the head, Georgia sat stiff and upright, and stared off into the distance.
“Oh, I suppose I’m just being silly,” she said coldly.
Jim wondered why she was suddenly so offended. Then he laughed. She thought Harriet was his girlfriend! And she was displeased that he had apparently not considered her a threat to their relationship. Georgia stood up, her book under her arm, coffee in hand.
“I’m afraid I have to go-,” she began, refusing to make eye contact.
“Harriet is most certainly not my girlfriend,” Jim said. “She’s my aunt. I need some help with something, so if you are free – but of course don’t feel obligated if you don’t want to come over.”
Georgia’s face relaxed. She would come over right away.
“But aunts aren’t much better than girlfriends,” she said. “Horrid, jealous things.”
“Each of these books has her name on it,” said Georgia, lying on her stomach on the kitchen floor, hair up in a bun, reading glasses out. Jim was sitting cross legged across from her, fanning through the pages of one of the fourteen books spread out before them.
“Any patterns?” he muttered. “Listen to this: ‘ He held my hands passionately in his, then clasped me to his bosom and covered my face in fiery kisses. I was his slave in love.’ This stuff is way too cheesy for a personage like my aunt. She was proud and no-nonsense. This garbage would invoke a stream of witty insults from her, not sighing devotion. That’s what I was saying when I got so excited and -” He stopped and flushed a bit then. “Anyway, she must be trying to tell me something.”
“Jim,” said Georgia, looking at him over her glasses, “I’ve written down the objects she wrote her name on. Here; see if you can make sense of it.”
Jim took a slip of paper from her. It seemed like nonsense: lips, a stream, a rose. Then something struck his mind.
“Georgia,” he said.
“What?”
He plunged his hand into his pocket and drew up a photocopy of Harriet’s letter.
Scanning quickly, he found the place he was looking for and read aloud, “’I hate to be cliché, saying things like ‘you can’t judge a book by its cover.’”
Georgia pounced on his words. “From the will? Look for cliches. We need to look for cliches. We’ve gotten the cover part.” With a grab for the list of objects, she ducked her head and began to scribble words on it, drawing lines, connecting things.
“Jim!” she said, her eyes sparkling. “Order the books alphabetically please.”
He did so and she looked at them, scribbling faster than ever.
“Let me see,” said Jim.
“Wait a sec,” she muttered, then walked on her knees over to him. The sequence of objects read:
Lips
sword
bowtie
knot
stick in stream
corpse
door
finger
weeping woman
crocodile
castle
wind
rose
?
“What’s the question mark?” asked Jim.
“Look,” said Georgia, pointing to a book with a blank cover adorned only with the title: “Your Name.”
“What on earth,” said Jim. “There are cliches in here. Georgia, look, lips plus sword equals: the tongue is a sword.”
“Call me Georgie,” she said, staring at the words, over his shoulder. “My, my, these aren’t that difficult. Corpse plus door plus finger, or more specifically, nail equals: dead as a doornail.”
Within half an hour, they had translated the entire thing but for “rose” and “?.” Soon enough, Georgia gave a gasp and shouted, “Eureka!”
Jim winced, deafened.
“’?’ is the title,” said Georgia. “The title is ‘Your Name.’ A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. One high profile cliché I should have gotten right away.”
The riddle was complete.
The tongue is a sword
to tie the knot.
Go with the flow.
Dead as a doornail
Woman weeps crocodile tears.
Castles in the air
A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.
Jim gave Georgia a queer look. “Does this sound like to you what it sounds like to me?”
“Sounds like perfect nonsense to me,” said Georgia, shrugging. “Are you sure we interpreted it correctly?”
“Yes, of course. It worked out so perfectly. Do you honestly not see a message here?” Around Jim’s head trailed a morbid thought.
“Oh, stop looking so earnest and adorable,” said Georgia, tearing the paper from his hands. “What is it? None of it is speaking to me.”
“Georgia,” said Jim. “I think Harriet killed her husband.”
“May I take the poem home?” asked Georgia. “I want to work more of it out today, and maybe my dinner date can help. There’s something itching to become clear in my brain; it just needs a little more time.”
“Georgia, did you hear what I said? I think Harriet killed her husband!”
One side of Georgia’s rosebud mouth tweaked up in a lopsided smile. “We need to find more evidence. I got you though. May I hold onto the poem?”
“Go ahead, Georgia,” said Jim. “I’ll work on the other items.”
Grabbing an apple from the counter, Georgia bit into it with gusto, hooked her glasses on her shirt, grabbed her book, and walked out the door.
“Gotta go. Goodbye, James.” Around her face, little curls fell from her messy bun. On her face was an impish grin. “And, by the way, call me Georgie.”
“See you, Georgia,” said Jim, smiling with a hint of mischief. “By the way, call me Jim.”
And the door closed, leaving Jim alone with Harriet’s stuff, a whirling mind, and a hint of the scent of apples in his nose.
Harriet sat in her hotel at her computer, hooked up to the camera system, watching Jim and laughing as he picked up the list Georgia had written and kissed each word. He was such a fool. After reading her “death” letter, he had no difficulty believing she had forgiven him. He who had ruined her life. His most recent inheritance would not end in happiness. It was a curse, custom made, easily altered to be perfectly fitted to him and his life.
Georgia had taken him in instantly. From his actions, Harriet could tell he was not used to women. After all, his own mother, Brenda, had died when he was a child. That combined with his natural temperament made him easy to seduce.
That Georgia was a treasure. She knew how to play the emotional game like an expert, which she was, despite her youth. Four years ago, Harriet had found her, weeping like a tropical rainstorm at the busstop. Of course it was the usual story: a cruel boyfriend, heartbreak, and the final decision of suicide. But Harriet could offer Georgia a different route, much more suited to her fiery temperament and icy intellect: a life of revenge on the opposite sex. From the beginning, Harriet knew exactly who she wanted Georgia to wreak vengeance upon: Jim. Little, stupid, gallant James Wooding. The two women would meet weekly for coffee, and Harriet would give Georgia her allowance and stir her anger afresh by telling her stories of wicked men. She would invite Georgia to accompany her to the hairdresser’s and read her books in a role like that of a lady’s companion. In this way, she strengthened the emotional bonds Georgia already felt with her. Eventually, Georgia relied on Harriet as her only friend and mother figure. She would do anything for Harriet, her goddess, her savior who rescued her from vulnerability and empowered her.
It was easy to make her son take the role of accomplice. He loved his mother and hated his father. Since childhood, his father had frightened him, and so he grew up estranged from him, tied to his mother’s apron strings. When Jim showed up on Alistair’s doorstep, Alistair lied straight out with the supporting words of his wife who genuinely believed Harriet was dead.
Jim, if he continued to wrestle over the clues Harriet had set, would learn the truth. He already had an inkling about the only murder Harriet had ever committed. Secrets, nasty and biting, long hidden in the family would be revealed in his search. By the end he would be an emotional wreck. He would look for a Pandora’s hope, but the truth he would learn would give him none, because sometimes the truth is not pleasant. Sometimes it is very ugly indeed.