Golden Years
by Art Montague
Murder should be a private affair for reasons other than merely to escape detection. Propriety, that's a reason. Murder is a civilizing act; at least it should be such in the rationale of the murderer. The act removes an obstruction, corrects an imbalance, or satisfies a profoundly felt urge - jealousy, anger, greed, stifling demons, challenge. Private passions without public expressions.

Of course, the investigation is public. Sometimes so is the mourning for the victim, but these are incidentals. A human cadaver is no more dignified than a beef hung in an abattoir; a quality mahogany veneer coffin no more functional - in fact less functional -- than a meat hook.

Murdering people is one of the few ways humans can express their human-ness, their unique capacity to reason. I recall writers having had something to say about that concept, but age blurs memory. Discovering cures for diseases hasn't the same cachet; people simply die of something else. Nor has the construction of vast financial empires -- not to suggest these shouldn't be much lauded. How else are ugly people able to marry movie stars? But this empire building is so public, so lowest common denominator, so legal the challenge is diluted, so "water in wine."

To be sure, some murders are carried out by two or more people acting in concert. These are not true to the purity of the form and such people hardly ever escape detection. This is as it should be.

Now, the foregoing meditation may suggest I'm sitting in a rubber room in a clammy stone institution. 'Tain't so, neighbor. I'm relaxed on a chaise lounge poolside at a condo complex in Mesa, Arizona, as befits an early retiree who spent years investing wisely and virtuously.

By trade I was a burglar. I'd never dignify my work by suggesting it's a profession but it provided a good living. I will say I came to it honestly. It suited my temperament, habits, and aspirations, all of which leaned toward entrepreneurial independence and personal invisibility. I hate to be noticed. Add to that, I do enjoy travel, though not so much now, having aged and all.

Adequate investment income aside, high tech has made burgling distinctly more difficult, if not a mug's game. Too many complex gadgets to thwart and, for that matter, too many complex anti-gadgets to do the thwarting. Let's say I realized that constantly climbing the learning curve was becoming too arduous and time-consuming. It left no time to kill.

I concede burglary is somewhat uncivilized but, I suspect, so is taking a profit from someone else's need or, at the extreme, convincing someone he has the need in the first place. Ergo, murder: a means to balance any of my more uncivilized actions. This shouldn't seem so humanly strange -- gracious, some people choose to propagate; the other side of the coin, so to speak. Balance, that's the thing. We all have our ways.

This is the fourth year I've wintered in Mesa. I bought the condo the second year, primarily because I so enjoyed the first year. For a time I even enjoyed Jennifer Jurgens, she of the adjacent condo. Jennifer is a divorcée, an avowed fortune hunter who daily parades poolside in a string bikini. During my second year she took to parading periodically in my condo without it. Even to a solitary man such as myself she has her attractions, as she doubtless has for other single gents in our complex, and, perhaps, for some marrieds as well.

Alas for her, I have no fortune. Or, thank God for me, I have no fortune, for now into the fourth year she finds my bankroll too thin a slice for her appetite. In that regard I'm lucky, for I find her lasciviousness too rich a paté for my Melba toast.

I think, probably around mid-February, I shall murder Jennifer. Perhaps then someone more subtle will take over her condo to brighten my fifth year. That's a bit of a crap shoot, but at least one needs try.

I'm thinking a midnight swim in the pool. The lights will be low, the wine will have flowed, that last glass laced with a powerful muscle relaxant. Drowning by misadventure. I'll leave her string bikini poolside. Her nakedness will mislead police, titillate early rising males in the complex, and draw haughty tssks and "I told you so's" from their wives. Something for everyone.

* * *

Well, it has come to pass. That is, Jennifer has passed. I am not a happy man. Someone else murdered her. Moreover, whoever did it stripped her naked and drowned her in the pool, almost as if the perpetrator had read my mind.

The last thing I need in my life is a craven murderer running amok in my winter quarters. If indeed my mind was as violated as a home by a burglar, I hope my thoughts on murder's civilizing benefits will be noted. In any case, my "For Sale" sign goes up today.

While I wait for a buyer I shall scout the complex. After all, I still have the vial of muscle relaxant, enough to quiet a Clydesdale, the vet had said. Perhaps that stout widow three units over -- a garrulous crone; she's much too gossipy after four martinis. A suitable pose for the corpse will take some thought.

* * *

Finally, the end of the Arizona winter. Now I can travel north where trees are trees and not cacti; where mountains are majestic and not mere lumps of barren rock; where rivers surge powerfully, the air is light with purity and forest shadows are as dark as anonymity. Last year was Maine and Vermont, the year before, the Adirondacks.

This year I have selected Seattle-Tacoma. It's been many years since I've been there, but the Green River beckons. I enjoyed it in my younger days. I'm sure it hasn't changed much, though I'll be a little more subtle this time, fussier, too; both, measures of maturity and self-discipline.

As much as I found the river convenient, this season I'll leave it pristine. I'll take along a shovel and perhaps a mattock for underbrush and roots. The treasures I bury in the bush will be overgrown in weeks, as if decay begets regeneration. Rationale aside, I can use the exercise. 

* * *
Canadian Art Montague began his second lifetime at the start of the Millennium by returning to full-time writing after far too many years away. He publishes articles, essays, and fiction in print mags and webzines whose links can be found at www.artmontague.com.