Snake Oil and Other Tales

By M.H. Callway

Snake Oil and Other Tales is the second collection of short stories by author M.H. Callway. These dark tales include strange guardians, mysterious bakeries, faithful dogs and yes, the slithery reptiles that strike fear in even the toughest bro’s heart. Many were finalists for the Crime Writers of Canada Awards for Excellence. They stretch from traditional mysteries to thrillers to speculative fiction and even to horror. What unites them are the characters struggling for justice–or their own warped perception thereof.

Danny Bluestone and Corazon Amorsolo, the protagonists of Callway’s debut novel, Windigo Fire, return in the thriller, Last Island. And Dr. Benjamin Amdur, the hero of Amdur’s Cat, has a second adventure in Amdur’s Ghost, a finalist for the 2023 CWC Best Novella Award.

“M. H. Callway is a writer to watch.” – Margaret Cannon, Crime Fiction Reviewer, The Globe and Mail.

M. H. Callway’s crime fiction has won or been short-listed for several leading awards including the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence, the Debut Dagger and the Derringer. Her thriller, Windigo Fire (Seraphim Editions), was a finalist for the CWC Best First Novel Award. In 2013, she and Donna Carrick of Carrick Publishing co-founded the Mesdames and Messieurs of Mayhem, a collective of established Canadian crime writers. They are the subject of the critically acclaimed CBC documentary, The Mesdames of Mayhem, which you may view on GEM or YouTube.
www.mhcallway.com

“Not only is M. H. Callway a very fine writer, her work encompasses an admirable range. From the terrifying Snake Oil to the haunting Amdur's Ghost, the stories and novellas in this collection will keep you enthralled from start to finish. –Lisa De Nikolits, Award-winning novelist of The Rage Room and Everything You Dream is Real.

“... a wide-ranging collection of atmospheric, entertaining stories filled with eccentric characters and bizarrely believable situations, from the experienced hand of a master storyteller.”–Jayne Barnard, Award-winning author of crime, speculative fiction and children’s literature. The Falls mysteries and the Maddie Hatter Adventure Series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.H. Callway
• Release date: Sep 30, 2023
• ISBN: 9781772421705

M.H. Callway

M. H. Callway had successful careers in science and business before returning to her childhood dream to write. Windigo Fire is her debut novel. Under different titles, it was a finalist for the Crime Writers Association Debut Dagger award and the Crime Writers of Canada Unhanged Arthur award.Madeleine used her experience as an endurance runner and cyclist to create the outdoor survival scenes in Windigo Fire. She has ridden in the 200 km Toronto Ride to Conquer Cancer every year since its inception.M. H. Callway's award-winning short stories have been published in several crime fiction anthologies and magazines. In 2013, she founded the Mesdames of Mayhem, a collective of leading Canadian women crime writers. Their debut anthology, Thirteen, was short-listed for both Arthur and Derringer awards.

Book preview

Snake Oil and Other Tales

M.H. Callway

Smashwords Edition 2023

e-PUB ISBN 13: 978-1-77242-169-9

Carrick Publishing

Copyright M.H. Callway 2023

Cover design by Sara Carrick

Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

This e-book is intended for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be sold or given away to other people. If you did not purchase this e-book, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

The characters and situations described within this e-book are fictional. They are creations of the author’s imagination and do not represent real persons or events in any way.

CONTENTS

Foreword

Must Love Dogs—or You’re Gone

Last Island

Snake Oil

The Eternal Bakery of the Fractal Mind

The Moon God of Broadmoor

Amdur’s Ghost

The Cry

Wisteria Cottage

Brainworm

The Seeker

About the Author

FOREWORD

Greetings Readers!

Welcome to Snake Oil and Other Tales, which gathers together ten of my recently published short stories and novellas. Three were finalists for the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence.

My stories share a common theme in that my characters are confronted by an overwhelming external threat seemingly beyond their control. How they fight back to victory (or not) is for you to discover.

Fair warning: my writing does take a dark bent even in the comedy adventures Must Love Dogs—or You’re Gone and The Moon God of Broadmoor. Even the cozy mysteries, Amdur’s Ghost and Wisteria Cottage are a bit noir-ish. With my actual noir work, I did journey into some very dark territory in The Cry and crossed over into horror with the novellas, Snake Oil and Brainworm—a curious experience for an author who avoids watching horror movies.

That said, since childhood I’ve loved adventure stories. I really enjoyed bringing back Danny Bluestone, the hero of my novel, Windigo Fire, for the winter thriller, Last Island. Older characters can kick butt, too. In The Eternal Seeker of the Fractal Mind, my speculative fiction crossover, an older man seeks salvation in another dimension. And in The Seeker, one of my personal favorites, I introduce Terry Snow, a tough older woman who can drive, fight and handle a gun.

I would love to hear from you. Visit my website at mhcallway dot com I blog regularly about Toronto street art (Wanderings), strange urban encounters (Surreal Trapdoor) and the fascinating people in my life (Cyber Café). I also review new crime fiction (Eat This Book) and discuss forgotten ones (Eat This Old Book). Follow me on Facebook and Twitter (@mcallway).

Enjoy the ride!

M. H. Callway

With love to Ed

2 cats 4ever

MUST LOVE DOGS – OR YOU’RE GONE

This black comedy caper is one of my personal favorites. I was inspired by the antics of a friend’s dog who would eat absolutely anything. It’s also my first British publication.

Published in GONE, An Anthology of Crime Stories, Red Dog Press, November 2022. Edited by Stephen J. Gould.

"Must Love Dogs—or You’re Gone" was a finalist for the 2023 Crime Writers of Canada Award of Excellence for Best Short Story.

On a frigid January sunrise, my ex, Rudy, did a nosedive off the Leaside Bridge. Gone just like that. When I heard the news, I downed a mickey of rye though I was, as they say, sorry, not sorry.

I mean, Rudy and I did have some fun times during our five year marriage, at least until he dumped me for Maxine, his stock broker friend. And blew my investments on his failed Bitcoin trades.

My real grief was for our dog, Flea.

You see, Rudy was out walking Flea when a hit-and-run driver launched him 200 feet down into the Don Valley. So weird. And Rudy willingly doing Flea’s stoop-and-scoop? Even weirder. Not that it mattered.

Why, oh why had I agreed to joint custody of our dog?

And where was Flea? The police wouldn’t talk to me. I scoured the internet news and came up dry.

Flea had to be as dead as Rudy.

I cried myself to sleep.

***

Next morning, a heavy pounding on my front door hauled me off the sofa. Bleary-eyed and dying of thirst, I peered through the spyhole. A heavy-set, fifty-ish stranger with a shaved head and no eyebrows leered back at me. Was he a cop? No, not wearing that pricey black cashmere overcoat he wasn’t.

Open the door, Frieda. We make nice conversation.

He knew my name. Not good.

Come on. Bang-bang-bang. I know you are in there.

Go away! I shouted through the door.

OK, fine, no problem. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a huge Luger and aimed it at my lock.

Stop! Wait!

Hands shaking, I unbolted the door and dived behind the sofa as he burst his way inside.

Your condo is crap, he said looking around.

Fair comment, I guess.

What do you want? I asked, muffled behind the couch.

Get up.

Heart pounding, I pulled myself off the floor.

Over there. He gestured toward my fake granite countertop with his gun. Now sit.

I plunked myself down on the bar stool. Who—who are you?

My name is Viktor Volkov. He smiled like a king cobra. Rudy did not tell you about me?

I shook my head.

Never mind. We will have little chat. He said easing his bulk into my solitary armchair and running his free hand over the torn upholstery. You do not look after your things.

Well, Flea did have a bad habit of eating anything – including furniture. Besides I’d let things go after Rudy took off, even myself.

Is this about money? No, duh! What else could it be?

Your late husband, Rudy, owes me one million dollars. For bad Bitcoin trade.

What!

American dollars. Not crap Canadian currency.

But—but Rudy dumped me six months ago.

He shrugged one massive shoulder. Too bad. Now Rudy’s debt is your problem.

"I’m broke. He stole all my money!"

Then you must sell your crap condo.

He mortgaged it behind my back. Here, I’ll show you. I scrabbled through the detritus on the counter, found my bank’s latest threatening letter and shoved it at him.

He read it through. Your bank did not get good deal. No way they will get one million for this place. So we still have problem. You have good job. Rudy said you are accountant with big firm.

They fired me last week. Rudy forged my signature on a bogus invoice. I don’t know how he did it.

Viktor cracked a smile. Yes, Rudy was creative guy, but sadly, as trader in Bitcoin not so smart. He picked up his gun. Sorry, Frieda, your time is gone. This is business. This is matter of family honour.

Wait! Stop! What happened to Flea?

Flea? What is this ‘Flea’?

My dog. I named him after the bass player in the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Rudy was walking Flea when you, um … Please tell me Flea isn’t dead.

So you are dog lover. He thought for a long minute. OK, fine, maybe we can work this out. Get dressed. Today, Frieda, is your lucky day.

***

That’s how I ended up working at Doggie’s Day Spa to pay off Rudy’s debt. For Marisa, Viktor’s twenty-five-year-old, erm, niece. With those big brown Animé eyes and that figure? Sure, whatever. I knew better than to pry.

Marisa hugged Viktor, disappeared into the back of her crystal and marble boutique and returned with a chilled bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka. She filled three shot glasses decorated with happy Schnauzer faces.

"Nostrovia!" she cried, raising her glass.

She and Viktor downed their shots, banged down their glasses and beamed. I downed mine, breathed fire and coughed like a drowning victim. But when I surfaced, my hangover was gone.

Now you be good girl. Viktor squeezed my shoulder and left.

You love dogs, yes? Marisa asked. Good, we work together. I show you everything.

She handed me a pink tunic adorned with an inanely smiling poodle. For the rest of the day, I shampooed, brushed and trimmed doggy fur and clipped doggy nails. I learned how to restrain the biters and dodge the bladder-voiders—often the hard way.

It was exhausting, muscle-burning work and being up close and personal with dogs made me tear up. All I could think about was Flea.

Late that afternoon, a muscular young man named John Makar dropped by to deliver Marisa’s favorite treat, a cinnamon latte. Turned out, he owned the café next door.

Looks like you could use a latte, too, John said to me. Drop by, I’ll make you one on the house.

I could have fallen in love with him right there if I hadn’t felt so miserable.

Frieda, what is wrong? Marisa asked after he left. You look so sad!

I’m a sucker for kindness so I spilled my guts about Flea and Rudy. Hardly a secret since Rudy’s accident was all over the news. But I kept quiet about his Bitcoin debt– I wasn’t stupid.

So sorry for that, Marisa said. Maybe Flea run away after accident. Look, I do dog rescue. I know all animal shelters in Toronto. Tonight I will call my friends.

Thanks, I sniffed.

But next morning, Marisa gave me the bad news: no sign of Flea.

Never mind, I cheer you up, she said. Come in the back. I fix your hair.

"With dog products?"

Better than stuff for humans. Cheaper, too. Here, I cover your grey with fresh blonde colour. Same as product I use on toy poodles. I make you look younger, maybe 50 years old.

Thanks, I’d just turned forty-five. No way!

Please, I do for free.

Free? Check and mate. Afterwards, I had to admit, I did look better.

Now I have favour to ask, Marisa said. This afternoon, I have date with John. You will be alone, but you can handle it. Think of owners as bigger dogs.

Marisa took off after lunch. Between grooming the dogs and placating their owners, I spent the afternoon in chaotic stress. Those dog owners –woof! In their eyes, I was lower than a lazy slave. Worse, they hated tipping. The beavers on their nickels didn’t just scream, they bellowed out Wagnerian operas. By closing time, I was ready to use Viktor’s Luger.

And for the icing on my crap cake, I ran straight into Viktor himself. Right outside the shop after I locked up. He was walking a champagne-colored toy poodle.

Must love dogs…

Where is Marisa? he asked – and he meant business.

I thought fast. You just missed her. We ran out of Canine Cuddle shampoo.

Viktor smoothed his bald head. OK, you tell Marisa that my stockbroker friend is bringing Jo-Jo here to the spa. Tomorrow, two o’clock. Whatever my friend wants, you give. Even Canine Cuddle shampoo.

He flashed his snaky grin. Your hair, it looks like Jo-Jo’s. Cute. He squeezed my shoulder. Now you be good girl, Frieda.

With that he led Jo-Jo away, leaving me to shiver in the icy wind blowing down Bloor Street.

After another sleepless night missing Flea, I decided to kick-start my morning with that promised cinnamon latte in the café next to Doggie’s Day Spa. Sadly, the hot John Makar wasn’t there to serve me.

That’s because he and Marisa were locked in a heavy embrace in the spa’s back room. I had a front row centre view through the window in the reception area. Dazzled by young lust, they’d forgotten to pull the blind.

I slammed the front door and made a lot of noise.

Oh, hi there, John said, straightening his T-shirt over a stellar torso.

Um, hi.

He grinned on his way out the door, but Marisa looked like she was facing a zombie attack. Please, Frieda, say nothing to Uncle Viktor.

You mean Viktor really is your uncle?

Of course. He is my mother’s brother. What you think?

I think you and John are both adults. Do what you want.

Please, Frieda, please! John is Turkish, I am Russian. Viktor is old school. He will not understand.

Don’t worry, I won’t tell, I said. I’ve got enough problems with Viktor.

Of course, you have problem, Marisa said, adjusting her spa uniform. That is why he gave you job here, is it not?

Look, Viktor showed up here last night.

A blaze of fear crossed her face. What did he want?

"He said his stockbroker friend is bringing her toy poodle, Jo-Jo, here to the spa at two o’clock. And we better be extra nice to her."

Holy crap, Liliana Reynolds! She is Viktor’s private money advisor. Marisa collapsed on the reception area sofa. We must cancel our customers. We have no choice.

Because you front for Viktor’s business.

Of course! You think I can afford rent on Bloor Street? I launder money for Viktor like everyone in my family.

So we’re both trapped.

This is true. Marisa tied back her mane of dark hair and stood up. Come, Frieda, we have much to do.

She switched the spa’s neon window sign from open to closed. While I rebooked the day’s clients, she ordered delivery of French pastries and champagne. From the back cupboard, she produced fancy china and crystal. By two o’clock sharp, the coffee table in reception was set, the goodies laid out and the champagne cooling on ice.

We, too, were primped and waiting. But the feast was strictly for Liliana. We would have to go hungry.

Marisa fetched the vodka and the Schnauzer glasses. For courage before Liliana, she said, pouring out two shots.

I almost beat Marisa downing mine.

Now what?

Marisa peered out the front window and swore. Here she is! Quick, hide the vodka.

Message received. I stashed the vodka in the mini-fridge out back and hurried to rejoin Marisa by the front window.

Together we watched the hulking black Cadillac Escalade parked in the space outside the spa.

A woman in a hooded down coat leaped out of the driver’s seat. Teetering on stiletto-heeled boots, she went round to the rear passenger door and yanked it open. First, she dragged out an oversized Versace purse and then, after considerable tussling, a Husky dog by its collar.

My heart gave a leap. Those black and white markings—no, it couldn’t be.

That’s Flea! That’s my dog! I cried.

What are you saying? Marisa said.

Flea plunked himself down on the icy sidewalk and refused to budge. The woman hauled on his collar. Her hood fell back. I stifled a scream: I’d recognize that dyed scarlet hair and those surgically enhanced cheekbones anywhere.

And that’s not Liliana Reynolds! I said.

What you mean? Here I am seeing Liliana with my own eyes.

That’s Maxine! Rudy’s girlfriend!

What? Marisa thought for a moment. Quick, hide in the back. She grabbed a spare leash from the counter and dashed out of the store in a blast of cold air.

I fled into the spa, shut the connecting door and jerked the blind down over the spectator window.

And not a microsecond too soon.

Noise burst through the reception area: the shrill voice of the ersatz Liliana, Marisa’s alto urging calm and Flea’s anxious yelps as they dragged him inside.

I will give him a treat to calm him down, I heard Marisa say.

Don’t you dare feed him! Liliana snapped. Where’s my champagne?

I peeked round the edge of the blind. Marisa slipped Flea a treat, while Liliana flounced around, swearing. Flea sighed and lay down, resting his pointed nose on his crossed front paws.

Aren’t you listening? My champagne, right now! Liliana said.

Flea winced at the sound of her voice. While Marisa popped the cork of the champagne bottle, he eyeballed the platter of French pastries on the coffee table. Quick as lightening, his tongue flicked out and disappeared the nearest éclair.

Oh, no! Chocolate made him sick.

Marisa poured champagne into the single tulip glass on the coffee table. Liliana dumped her stuff on the sofa and snatched up her drink. She downed half of it.

Where is Jo-Jo? Marisa asked.

With Viktor. I’m delivering this dog to Cleveland tonight. To a nice Russian family. Go fetch your rescue van.

Are you kidding? I cannot drive all night to Cleveland and back for one dog. I have business to run.

That’s your problem. Liliana held out her glass for more champagne.

"Border guards will ask questions. Always I bring rescue dogs from United States into Canada. Not other way round."

Stop stressing. I’ve got the necessary paperwork for him.

No, I have a date.

Break it. Liliana’s eyes narrowed—as much as her facelift would allow. Or do I tell Viktor about your sexy Turkish boyfriend?

How you know about John? Marisa clutched the champagne bottle in a death grip.

I’m very observant. Liliana’s eyes fell on the platter of pastries. "Why are there only seven pastries? I always order eight. And what’s that dog doing?"

Flea had sensed me. He scratched and whined at the connecting door to the spa.

Who’s out back?

Liliana strode toward the door, but I beat her to it and flung it open. Watching her pale under her salon tan felt better than sex.

Flea yelped for joy. He leaped into my arms and tumbled us down onto the coffee table. Pastries, china and glass flew everywhere. I clung to my lost dog while he licked me frantically – and gobbled down the ruin of pastries squished all over my uniform.

Y-you! Liliana sputtered through the chaos. What the hell are you doing here?

Viktor hired me.

"Viktor?"

I extricated myself from Flea. "Looks like we’re both working for him, Liliana. Or should I say Maxine."

What’s with the frizzy blond hair?

What’s with your tenth facelift?

Nice, Liliana. Marisa folded her arms. Very nice. You were cheating on Uncle Viktor with Frieda’s ex, Rudy.

Frieda’s a pathological liar!

Dogs do not lie. Marisa picked up the champagne bottle from the floor. You are Frieda’s dog, right, Flea?

Flea wagged his tail and swiped a glob of icing from his nose.

"Now I have juicy story to tell Viktor," Marisa said.

OK, OK. Liliana scraped Chantilly cream off her leather pants. So I had a little fling with Rudy. No biggie.

It was a lot more than that. I grabbed the champagne bottle from Marisa and took a swig.

Viktor doesn’t have to know. Anyway Rudy’s dead, Liliana said.

I see you’re really broken up about it, I said.

No more than your crocodile tears. Look, Marisa, I won’t say anything about your Turkish barista babe if you don’t tell Viktor about Rudy. Deal?

Marisa thought it over. OK, but on one condition. You give Flea back to Frieda now.

NO! Flea goes to Cleveland.

You’re not taking my dog anywhere! I said ready to fight to the death.

Liliana lunged for Flea’s collar. I swung the champagne bottle at her and missed. Its contents sprayed out, giving us an unholy baptism.

You bitch! Liliana shrieked. You wrecked my Versace bag!

Too bad it wasn’t your head!

Flea erupted in a frenzy of barking.

Shut up, shut up, all of you! Marisa clapped her hands over her ears. Fine, Flea goes to Cleveland, but Frieda comes, too. To look after Flea.

No way! Liliana and I shouted together.

Do it or I call Viktor now! And Frieda, you cannot cross American border smelling like a drunk. Go in the back and change. Take Flea with you.

Liliana shuffled through her handbag, hauled out a box of doggie-doo bags and threw it at me. If he goes, put it in there.

Do it yourself! I said.

Marisa sighed. Please, Frieda. Do as Liliana says. I cannot drive 12 hours with you two fighting.

I grabbed the box and took Flea with me into the back.

***

Marisa stored her dog rescue van in the parking lot under the grooming salon. While she and Liliana moved the Escalade down into its spot and brought up the van, I changed into a clean uniform.

Behind me, Flea uttered a fluid cough. Uh-oh! I knew that gurgling sound. The next instant, he barfed copiously over the floor tiles.

"Flea, ohmigod!"

Mixed in with the hideous remains of half-digested chocolate pastries lurked shining bits of glass. The champagne goblet! He’d eaten it!

Don’t die, Flea. Please don’t die! I fell on my knees beside him.

But Flea, relieved of his stomach contents, panted happily. Nothing like a dog who’d eaten glass. Maybe I was seeing