Mad, Mad Marjorie

By Andrew Shaffer

Marjorie Mayfield is a big lady with an even bigger problem. She has a knack for killing off the innocent folks at the retirement community to keep her estate sale business afloat, but that special skill does not seem to help her when she is deep, deep, deep in debt to the neighborhood Slavic mob, then faced with hot competition from a pair of e

• Language: English
• Publisher: Calapooia Press
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578596228

Andrew Shaffer

Andrew Shaffer is the New York Times bestselling author of the essential survival guide, How to Survive a Sharknado and Other Unnatural Disasters, and the Goodreads Choice semifinalist Fifty Shames of Earl Grey.He has appeared as a guest on FOX News, CBS, and NPR, and has been published in Mental Floss, The Philosophers' Magazine, and Maxim. He has professionally reviewed romance, erotica, and women's fiction for RT Book Reviews magazine.He writes in multiple genres, including humor, science fiction, horror, and literary nonfiction.Shaffer attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop for a summer semester and studied comedy writing at Chicago's The Second City. An Iowa native, Shaffer lives in Louisville with his wife, novelist Tiffany Reisz.

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Mad, Mad Marjorie, buy Andreww Shaffer

Mad, Mad Marjorie

Calapooia Press, Portland, OR, 97233

©2019 by Andrew Shaffer

All rights reserved. Published by Calapooia Press. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Line editing, proofreading, cover design, and interior book design provided by Indigo: Editing, Design, and More:

Developmental and line editor: Kristen Hall-Geisler

Proofreaders: Jenn Zaczek and Cooper Lee Bombardier

Cover designer: Olivia M. Croom

Interior book designer: Vinnie Kinsella

www.indigoediting.com

ISBN: 978-0-578-59025-7

eISBN: 978-0-578-59622-8

LCCN: 2019916941

To Jeff D. Hanson,

My Virgil through the Purgatory

(and sometimes the Inferno)

of the resale world

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

I. The Ample Huntress, or Sizing Up the Competition

II. Museum Pieces, or Where Did You Dig These Two Up?

III. Dmitri & Co., or Attack of the Tchotchkyites

IV. The Heat Is On, or Friendly Firebombing

V. A Trip to the Principal, or Extra Credit

VI. Barbarians at the Gate, or Waves of Invaders

VII. Rooting through the Rubble, or Deep, Dark Things

VIII. This Is Not What I Ordered, or Let Me Talk to the Management

IX. Coming Up for Air, or Thar She Blows

X. Chewing the Fat, or Intermezzo di Gelato

XI. Revelations…or Apocalypse?

XII. All Your Eggs in One Basket, or a Bird in the Hand

XIII. Playing for Time, or Kings and Queens

XIV. Agent Callahan and the Cossacks, or the Horseless Cavalry

XV. Foggy Dawn, Then Clear Sailing

Epilogue: A Final Note, or the Last Words on the Page

Glossary and Explications

The Ample Huntress, or Sizing Up the Competition

I

Although middle age had been etching itself into her rosy face for some time now and her dimensions were plumping toward the plus sizes, Marjorie Mayfield still enjoyed with girlish glee the roller-coaster swoop of her German convertible as it executed the tapeworm turns down from the Lowland Heights Golf Club toward what our fair town of Merryweather considers its pride and thready pulse, the happy, high-end, and precariously healthy Summerfield Estates Senior Resident Community. Or as far Marjorie Mayfield was concerned, the Happy Hunting Grounds.

As her car hit the level stretch of road, Marjorie sighed like a soul returning to earth, even as another reminder of her mortality arrived: her iThing chirped that a text message awaited her. Scoffing at those niggly little laws that prohibit distracted driving, she held the device up, squinted at the screen, swerved to miss a small vagrant grandchild who had escaped from grandma, then swerved again to avoid taking out said grandma.

Puckering her vision, she read on the small screen:

Milosh is thinking of you.

Marjorie tapped the screen to dispense with this harassment. She had arrived at the stone slab gates of Summerfield, and she had business to conduct. Like Boadicea in her chariot, she turned her car through the gates and sped past a looming water feature, with its bronze mermaids and Japanese cranes, to evade the spray arching from the bills of the brazen waterbirds.

Once through the gates, she caught sight of a grassy median ahead of her and a glossy sign growing from its turf. With a sharp, screeching turn, she braked alongside the grass and read:

Marjorie Mayfield Estate Sales

Where Compassion and Convenience Meet

Marjorie contemplated the placard for an appreciative moment. She did like the tagline, though she would have preferred to pair compassion and profit. She knew that the average middling estate sale troll—most of whom, she had found, had the depth perception of a cyclops—might misjudge her as just a vociferously competitive businessperson seeking filthy lucre. But who could intelligently accuse her of profiteering since she always (eventually…) reported to the IRS—as a charitable contribution, mind you—that 15 percent of gross going to the grieving relatives of the recently deceased as a gift toward outstanding funeral expenses? These days Marjorie needed every addition to accounts receivable that could be had.

Depressing the gas, she resumed her drive into Summerfield.

With an instinct almost migratory, Marjorie Mayfield drove on toward the public buildings under the canopy of shading sycamores, all the while humming in a pleasing, pleasant, self-applauding singsong, Mine, mine, mine. Reaching the heart of the development, she rolled around the cheery, sunlit pavement of Sandra Circle and parked before the Summerfield community clubhouse, a drab if functional cube espaliered with various thorny but well-behaved shrubberies.

She pulled her German-Italian fusion shoulder bag up from the mess of fast-food wrappers, forty-eight-ounce soda pop tumblers, an ergonomic meat hook, a center punch for quick grabs or escapes, generic voodoo dolls to hand out to unsuspecting kiddies, and a confetti of debit receipts that hid the leather seat next to her. From the same mess she also plucked the summer catalogue from Van Cauwenberghe Ice Cream (a bit of light reading) and bear-strength pepper spray (good for downing the most conscientious security guard or disincentivizing any aggressive panhandler). These she stowed inside her bag. Thus armed, a vision of confidence and self-assurance, she stepped from her car.

The morning breeze that had cooled her during her time on the links had abated, but she kept modestly zipped her jumpsuit, the one with the nicely slimming cut, which was all that mattered. Avoiding fresh spurts of water from another crane-and-mermaid fountain along the walk, Marjorie marched on to the front doors of the clubhouse and along the way gave a few quick glances at the Summerfield residents coming and going about her—to gauge their life expectancy, you know.

Once inside, her goal was the community bulletin board. But she found her mission impeded by a cheery lady in a turquoise tennis blouse, her brow shaded by a kingfisher-blue sun visor, sitting at a folding card table and proffering complimentary Summerfield Estates pedometers to any and all who might stroll by. This lady had caught sight of her and was waving. Oh, Marjorie, Marjorie, come here. Marjorie complied with the invitation.

Connie, said Marjorie with as sincere a smile as she might manage. How are you?

Very fine. Very fine. But how’s your business? Connie asked. Oh, and I forgot, what is that cute slogan of yours I heard about?

‘No Need Tryin’ If You Keep Dyin’’? That was just a gag I came up with on girls’ night out. I don’t really use it. My colleague, Jay Douglas-Hanson, thought it might send the wrong message.

Well, I still say it’s cute.

And it works. But tell me, how’s Roger doing?

Complete remission, announced Connie with an expression of contented ecstasy. We are so blessed.

Roger’s still with us, then? That is wonderful. Tell me, who was your oncologist?

Dr. Davenport.

Davenport. I’ve heard the name of that miracle-worker before, but let me write it down anyway. Taking her metallic pink stylus in hand, she tapped the doctor’s name into her iThing, which, like an over-efficient secretary, was once more providing her with a fresh message from Milosh. Marjorie slid the device back into her bag and focused on Connie. "Well, bless you and your husband. So he’s doing well?"

Oh, he’s fine, fine. He’ll go on for years, the doctor said.

That Dr. Davenport.

I’m just happy he is out of the woods. And—Connie bent forward in an angle of spicy confidentiality—"don’t think that we haven’t been celebrating. I feel like I’m seventy again. Here, have a pedometer. Never too thin or too rich, you know."

You know me too well, Connie, Marjorie said, taking the little gift and its lanyard and dangling them for second as a show of unexpressed pleasure. I’ll add it to my collection. She dropped them into her bag.

And with that, said Connie, it is time for the Christmas-in-July marathon on the Romance Channel. Neatly placing a Boy Scout–camp hand-carved Grandma’s Gone Fishin’ desk sign onto her table, Connie stood and happily departed with her box of pedometers for the TV room.

Marjorie for a moment groused to herself that she could have garnered a good two dollars for that box, but laying aside resentment she finished her journey to the bulletin board, a mere two or three steps. Having arrived, she took a breath—the general planning how best to deploy his forces—and scanned the corkboard for any notices from The Competition.

She clicked her tongue and sighed.

First was the flyer from Afterlife Estate Sales and the message Dead People Have the Best Stuff. What sort of slogan is that? Marjorie asked herself, then quickly tapped her iThing again to ignore another message from Milosh. Certainly good on the sales end, but not when cultivating the clientele. What if some retired captain of industry saw that and imagined that he should take it all with him into the ground, like a barbarian chieftain? His trophy wife would probably be thrown onto a blazing pyre just for fun. No, no, better not to cause whatever gray cells were still functioning in the old fellow’s noggin to reach some rash decision. Such advertisements would only give painful and needless offense to those poor grieving relations looking for compassionate and convenient service in their time of loss. No, no, no. And, she admitted to herself, the spoils can only be divvied up so much. So many jackals, so few carcasses. Marjorie discreetly pulled the flyer from the board and secreted it into her shoulder bag. But what with Nature abhorring a vacuum, she slipped one of her own cards from the pocket of her jumpsuit and pinned it up as a replacement.

Next under critique was an invitingly grand card six inches square, like an old-fashioned wedding invitation, floridly engraved with the letters P&P and embossed with nearly invisible paisleys and pansies.

"Oh, them, she told herself sourly. Those flunkies from Tom’s Treasure Trove in the strip mall. This must be their little start-up. Oh well, two more fish in the pond. Open wide, Marjorie." And Marjorie plucked out the bead-headed pins at the corners of the card.

Before she could slide this offender into her pocket as well, she heard from behind her, Hello, Marjorie. It was a man’s voice, its tone sweetly accusatory and not unlike a stiletto dipped into powdered sugar.

Turning about with as much innocence as she could muster and holding the card in her fingertips like a Japanese court fan, Marjorie found herself confronting a pair of short, well-polished young men in clean, fashionable attire, all leather accessories and newly bought chunky watches. The shorter of them (and neither was very tall) stood to one side like an éminence rose. He was boyish and big-eared, with wavy brown hair tantalizingly lucent and perfectly cut. He wore a chambray-blue oxford shirt, pleated slacks, a bow tie, and large owlish glasses that he was pushing up at the middle to get a better view of her malfeasance; his ears seemed to vibrate with unexpressed distaste at what he saw. The second fellow, closer to Marjorie, was the color of expensive coffee diluted with village cream and bore the permanent shadow of a spotty mustache and little chinny beardlet. He wore watermelon-rind-green frames that contrasted garishly with his pastel-checkered button-up, all of it giving the impression that he had been dipped in marshmallow salad. He was holding himself with the expectation of a cat waiting at the loading dock of the mouse factory.

The cornered lady dumped out a load of Marjorie-flavored charm. "Oh, it’s Michael and Marco. Buenos días, Marco, she said to the nearer of them. Cómo está usted?"

Marco, emitting no mirth, said, Marjorie, my people are Italian.

And with that thick black hair, what else would you be?

Reaching forth the shaved forearm of a dedicated exerciser, Marco lightly took the card from Marjorie’s fingers and handed it to Michael, who gave Marjorie an up-and-down examination before slipping it into his own shirt pocket for safekeeping.

"Oh, that was yours, she said. I thought I could use it as a reference for clients that I can’t support. I’m sure you know how it gets so busy that you have to turn people away. I don’t know how I’ll manage another one. I have a consult at Vesper Winds Manor later today."

A terrific place to spend your declining years, Marco said, his mood as buoyant as a meteor squatting at the bottom of the Mariana Trench. I heard that they are opening a weight-loss wing to address geriatric obesity.

Oh, who would need that? See, a pedometer.

I heard they have a dementia unit too.

Marjorie reminded herself that she was the predator, never the prey, little boy, and she would not rise to this waspish bait. Taking the highest point on the low road, she asked, But what are you fine-looking fellows here for?

A consult, Marco said.

Anyone I know?

Marco did not answer.

If they live here, I’m sure I know them. The folks here at Summerfield love me. This place is in my blood practically. So you two are in business now? Quite a step-up from Tom’s. Well, you’d best be to it, then. Good luck. Strategically retreating, she retired her smile, even while reminding herself to clean up the rest of the professional clutter on the bulletin board on her next swing around the complex.

Once outside and making for her car, Marjorie thought, Those pretty-boy upstarts do not understand this particular jungle. A quick look at the clock on her iThing showed enough time to check in on her sale, then a quick jaunt over to Sunset Dawn Manor to tighten those trip wires along the nature trail, and thence to Vesper Winds.

Then, in a Pavlovian twitch, she looked at her handheld device a second time and felt a vague emotion that might have been gratitude: Milosh had not left her another message.

Museum Pieces, or Where Did You Dig These Two Up?

II

In their bonbon-pink minivan escutcheoned with the blazon of their business, Marco Panzi and Michael Peighsley drove deep into the well-manicured interior of Summerfield Estates, Michael doing the pointing when Marco was supposed to turn. After cruising down Carnegie Dale Drive, they made a slow turn up Vera Lynn Lane, which cul-de-sacked before a quiet cottage. Messrs. Panzi and Peighsley guessed that this was their destination. It was obscured from view by both a prominent garage, carbuncled with a bulldog of a padlock, and a lush smothering of both hairy kiwi vines and disordered skeins of Madagascar jasmine, their wiry sprigs popping up even between the gutters and shingles—although whether the blame for this overgrowth should be assigned to time, neglect, or the attempt at an effect, this young pair did not speculate.

Having parked somewhat unevenly along the bend of the curb, Marco and Michael sat a moment in silence in an unprofessed but shared terror at possible failure as they faced their First Job.

Staring through the windshield, Marco suggested, We can call them and say we’re too busy with other clients.

Michael shook his head.

Well, then…, said Marco, his dark, young eyes fixed upon some infinitesimal gnat several miles ahead of them.

Now Michael nodded, acknowledging that doom and humiliation would soon be gaping ravenously before them.

Each lowered his respective sun visor and in its tiny mirror inspected his pomaded hair to ensure its immobility (and to add another few seconds of life before the march to the chopping block). Then, taking up his portfolio, Marco determinedly exited the vehicle, with Michael shuffling behind him as the rearguard.

Together they walked up the driveway, which ended at a path of bucolic mossy brick. Above hung a creaking sign, which, as far as Marco and Michael were feeling, might have been an axe-head drying in the sun after a bit of work. It read:

Chez Cockaigne

Creeping under this pendulous shingle toward the front door, Marco and Michael entered a serene tunnel of bamboo and coltsfoot that banished the plastic pressboard tackiness of the rest of Summerfield. About them eddied a cool, vagrant zephyr that billowed unseen clouds of fragrance; from a discreet wind chime stirred a throaty, melodious note of contentment.

Coming to the front door, they found on either side of it ceramic foo lions raising glossy paws in warning. Beside the door at eye level was fixed a discreet bronze plate. Michael drew out from a deep pocket a small magnifying glass, and through glasses and glass—though his ears were throwing a bat-like shadow over the subject—he scrutinized the filigreed names etched into the metal:

Geoffrey Durant-Dupont, Andreas Stackenwalter

Upon the door itself hung a kind of colophon of iron, an ornately grand G conjoined to an equally rococo A, as well as a many-folded bustle of aged dark crepe, like a great sagging purple peony. Marco knowingly raised his brows to Michael, who somberly half closed his eyes in answer. Readying himself for quiet, hand-squeezing sympathy, Marco pressed the doorbell.

While the muffled musical summons echoed within the house, Michael, noticing an unripe kiwi hanging from the eves, held it in his fingertips and took in its swelling shape as a wonder of nature.

Mikey, Marco whispered loudly, business face.

But Michael had no time to assume a bland professional mask before the door had opened. Even before they saw the man standing at the threshold, both he and Marco were inundated with a wave of French lyrics sung by a woman’s voice both passionate and strident, her syllables like the strokes of an Impressionist under the influence of a quintuple espresso. Once this assault of sound had flowed on, they could focus on the man in the doorway.

He was many, many decades older than the spiffily dressed eager twosome. His hair, cut steeply short, gave his head a resemblance to a white pencil eraser. From the ripped sides of a faded sleeveless workout top—spotted with fresh perspiration—sagged rubbery pectoral muscles; likewise, his exposed biceps seemed like bread dough that had been left out too long. His middle was covered in a pilly black back brace