A Worthie Woman All Hir Live

Crime Fiction by LindaAnn LoSchiavo      

“Just check if you have enough stamps for Special D.  Don’t pepper me with questions, Mona.”  Realizing her tone was shrewish, Allison gentled it with a playful Middle English complaint. ”Gad! She gan to grucche a me!”

She taught Medieval Literature in the local college where Mona was a librarian. As she listened to her sister, she noticed her drafty hillside house suddenly seemed colder. Fie!

“I thought this was a Leap Year February and I had an extra day. Yes, I still have last year’s 1992 calendar up. Between the hospital, the funeral –  nay, not an excuse. Stint thy clappe! Verily it must be finished tonight. Oyez!  I can’t miss my deadline, Moe-Moe.” Allison paced the cracked linoleum kitchen floor. “You found enough extra stamps?  Egad!”

She reached for a black shawl draped on a crooked towel rack. “I’ll coffee through an all-nighter and drive to your place by nine A.M.  I want to mail it downtown before my first class. You’re a lifesaver, Moe-Moe mine.”

Trying to monitor the boiler’s rubaiyat of rumbles, Allison pulled herself back to attention. “What did you call me?”

Snuggling into the soft cashmere folds, Allison smiled and quoted Chaucer again. “I know the remedies for life’s mischances. But, Moe-Moe, I must go down to the cellar, check on the dryer and the boiler’s thermostat.  Anon!”

She was straightening a page in her IBM Selectric when an interior door creaked.

Fie! “HELLO!  Is someone there?”

As she moved towards the hallway off the kitchen, the darkness was a surprise.

“Another lightbulb died,” she chided herself. “I forgot to buy replacements!”  She opened messy drawers, hoping for a flashlight. “Always one that outlasts the others. No need just now to speak of that, forsooth.” 

Her interior monologues were directed to her unseen Fourteenth Century comrades, William Langland, Katherine of Sutton, the Pearl Poet, and Geoffrey Chaucer, in their language.  They could be trusted to keep secrets.

A low whistling sound caught her ears. 

“What’s this: a restless soul?  Or winds jousting with my windows?  May as well brew coffee, drink something hot.”  Allison recited from a page she’d typed earlier: ”She was a worthie woman all hir live – husbands at churche door she had five.”

From a cabinet she automatically drew out two saucers and two cups, preoccupied and unaware of the man hiding on the other side of her kitchen door.

“TWO cups!”  She shook her head.  “As if you were still here, Johnny.”  She inhaled. “I smell your after-shave.” Allison decided she’d call Mona again, invite her to supper and ask her to bring the postage stamps. “Kill two birds. . . .  Oh, botheration!”

No dial tone. “May as well drive to Mona’s, borrow some lightbulbs, get my . . . “

As she put the handset down, a stranger grabbed her from behind.

“Take your hands off me!” she screamed.  It flashed on her that she could not phone the police –  but did he know that?  “GET OUT!”  She turned her head to face him.

He shoved her against the sink. “Don’t do anything silly and you won’t get hurt.”

“How did you get in here?”

The man moved his right hand menacingly inside his pea jacket. “Sit down.”

Allison stared.  Not a former student.  Too young to have a kid in college. Who?

“You deaf?  I said SIT DOWN.”

“My husband will be home any second.”

“Hubby’s funeral was last month, ain’t that so?  Follow instructions and sit.”

Allison slid the shawl over her shaking hands and sat. “Who are you? Do you – did you know my husband?”

“Shut up.  I’ll ask the questions.”

In a low voice, Allison intoned, “She was a worthie woman all hir live.”

“Are you casting a spell? What did you say?”

“Just reciting a line from a poem I was working on before. . . before you interrupted my deadline.”

“Lah-di-dah.  So you fancy yourself a poet, eh?”

“I didn’t write the poem. I’m working on a monograph about the poem.” Allison softened her tone. “If you need money, I’m sorry for you because I don’t have any.”

He smirked. “You have time to go around monogramming poems.”

“Monograph –  not monogram. I teach in college. Ever hear about ‘publish or perish’?”

“I know a lot of people who died before their time, if that’s what you mean.

“Please. I don’t know why you selected our house but . . . “

“You left keys in the door. Like you wanted my company. Must get lonely –  no neighbors up on this hill. The closest house dead empty – with a faded ‘For Sale’ sign flappin’ at no one.”

Keys in the door! A litany of mistakes chanted in her ears, no stamps, no lightbulbs! She had been a wheel turning without an axle, unsteady.  “Prut!”

“What?”  His voice sounded alarmed. “You got a cold?”  

Can she scare him away? Invoke pity or terror? “Perhaps I’m coming down with influenza or the bubonic plague.”  

He laughed. “Maybe you can use one of your slick enchantments to get well.”    “Enchantments?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard about these things of yours: potions – abra-cadabra-ing weird shit.  But I ain’t afraid of you. I’m like a cat with nine lives.”

 “Obviously, you must have me mixed up with someone else.”

“Naaaah. I got you pegged. Don’t try none of your voodoo.”

“There’s no wizardry around here. What makes you think there is?”

“I heard about you.  I heard plenty.”

“You were misinformed. I teach literature in a college – for very low pay.”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get on my nerves, if you know what’s good for you.”

A tinny ping-ping sound startled them.

“Is that a burglar alarm?”

“No!  That’s the dryer. The cycle finished.”  The cellar had two half windows.  How long would it take to escape? “Can I get my clothes?” She graced him with her Dean’s Office smile. “The skirts get wrinkled if they stay cloistered in the hot machine.”

“Can I get my clothes?” he imitated her. “You kidding me?”

Allison coughed loudly. “Can I get a glass of water then?”

“Don’t be scheming, trying to grab a knife. G’ahead.  I got my eye on you.” 

“Want a glass of water?  There’s not much in my refrigerator – until payday.”

He watched her, scanning the untidy counter.  This one was no homemaker.  “What’s the yellow stuff?  Is that a bottle full of piss? Or some of your witches’ brew?”

“This?” Allison held up a bottle. “This is mead. It’s delicious. Want some?”

“What’s mead?” 

Allison had perfected her cordial act. “It’s wine made from honey. It’s homemade.”

“Honey piss? Is that how you killed your husband?”

“How DARE you!” she shouted, losing control. “I didn’t kill my husband!”

“Listen, girlie. You got your drink of water.  Now sit down.  Behave yourself.”

“You really have some nerve – breaking in here!”

“Ain’t nobody broke in. I was invited like.”

“Threatening me! Bullying me! Holding me against my will.  Who are you?”

Ferociously, he scooped up papers. “Who are you?  The whiff of bath?”

“That’s part of my monograph on The Wife of Bath. Tonight I had to . . .”

His face was red with rage, his eyes crazy. “Whiff of bath is what you typed.”

“You’re right. I made a typo. I typed the word whiff  instead of wife.”

He was inches from her face now.  “And what kind of a WIFE were you?”

“I was –  I am a good person. I don’t like making people miserable.”

He patted his pockets, hunting for something. “Except when you were busy killing my sister-in-law.”

“WHAT?  I didn’t kill anybody.  I’m sure I do not even know your sister-in-law.”

He took a photo from his jeans and shoved it her. “Here she is –  with her sex-machine Johnny-boy. Now they’re both cold in the ground. Recognize her?” 

  “Yes.”  Many thoughts crossed her mind as she studied the picture. “I’m sorry for your loss.  But I did not cause her death.  It was known she had a heart condition.”

“Yeah, yeah.  Ol’ Johnny-boy was her “heart” condition. My brother hasn’t been the same since his wife died.”

So that’s who sent him, Dennis Perkins. Prut! He thinks he knows the remedies for life’s mischances. Allison used her mellifluous “mind if I skip the line?” tone. “It is difficult to lose a spouse.  But I had nothing to do with her . . . situation.”

“Little birdie said Johnny was leaving you for her. Your black magic foxed her.”

“No!  She worked in the Bursar’s Office at the college where I teach.”  Just a silly D-cup typist in a low-cut blouse. “The poor creature must have had a heart attack one evening.”

“Maybe the cops bought that fairytale but we don’t.  I got evidence, girlie.”

“I’m innocent. Honest.”  Missing teeth – from barroom brawls?

He smiled, taking his time. “I got hard evidence –  more than a whiff of bath. I could bring proof to the police and the dean, Professor Allison Bathfield.”

“I barely knew the woman.  It’s a pity she’s dead but I don’t know anything.”

“I didn’t expect a confession. You’re a pro just like I’m good at what I do.”

“What is your line of work? Home invasion? Assault and battery?  Blackmail?”

“Johnny-boy used to like a brewski with supper. You got any beer left?”

Think! Get rid of him! Prut!  “In the refrigerator.”

As he twisted the screw-top, she said sarcastically, “Sorry I can’t offer you chips and onion dip with your cold beer.”

“I wouldn’t touch your food.  Last meal she ate was a meat pie you brought her.”    

 He raised the dark bottle in a toast. “You’re a clever dame.  Gotta hand it to you, professor.  You almost escaped detection.  Almost.”

Had you realized how clever, she thought, you would not have come.  Aloud she said, “Next time you’re robbing houses, keep in mind that college teachers struggle to pay the bills.  Even my wedding band is plain. Today I was supposed to. . .”

“Nice try.  But Johnny-boy was worth more dead than alive.”

“All I have is a few dollars for my application fees and groceries. If I give you that, will you please leave? PLEASE!  I really must get back to work.”

“Okay, no problem.” He held out a calloused palm. “That and your car keys.”

“My car keys? You can barely get up or down this steep hill without a vehicle. How’d you get here?”

“Heh-heh-heh! Yeah, yeah, maybe I hitched a ride like.”

“My husband’s car is in the garage.” The mellifluous timbre returned. “The blue sedan with the ‘For Sale’ sign on the side.” 

Allison lowered her voice conspiratorially, so he had to come closer. “I was driving it last weekend, hoping to sell it. John’s car is much newer than my jalopy.”

“You wish to donate the better vehicle to my family. Touching. Yeah, riiight.” 

“Consider this. Neighbors recognize my rattle-trap. But if you were driving John’s blue car, it would raise no suspicion. People would assume I sold it to you.”

“Gimme the keys.  And the money.”

Allison went to her purse and put several tens in his hand and the car keys.

“See ya tomorrow. We’ll talk more – on the way to your bank. Don’t try nothing funny.” He kissed her like a husband leaving for work and was gone. 

Allison watched him from a window, then picked up the phone. “Botheration! I forgot –  there’s no dial tone.  He must have slashed my phone lines. I’ll call Mona from a gas station.”  Reaching for a coat, she considered her options. “Wait.  I’d better pack . . .  just in case.” 

She heard her garage door slam. “I have the power durynge al my lyf.”

Getting down the heaviest suitcase and gathering cash she had squirreled around the house took time.  As she laid out clothes on the bed, the doorbell rang.                       

“Hello!” called a baritone voice. “I’m looking for a John Bathfield.”

“Who’s there?”  The setting sun impeded her view.

“Police, ma’m. There’s been a collision on Route 9.  The license plate was linked to this address.  Does John Bathfield . . .?”

Allison cracked open the door. “My husband’s not here, officer. You mean to say a thief stole our sedan?  Was there much damage?”

“I was told it shot downhill like a bolt. Almost like it had no brakes at all.”

“My husband kept saying he had to get the brakes replaced. How terrible.”

“Sorry, m’am, but would you have any idea who was behind the wheel?”

“No name I can think of. Were there passengers? Was the driver injured?”

“Here’s my card, ma’m. Call the station tomorrow. Off-the-record, it looks bad.”

“Cars can be so unreliable. Always one that outlasts the others, though.”

“Have a good night, Mrs. Bathfield.”

“Safe driving, officer. Take it easy on this steep hill.”

Smiling, she emptied the beer bottle in the sink. “She was a worthie woman all hir live. Husbands at churche door she had five.”

Allison sat down at her IBM Selectric, amused at the Perkins brother with his bar-bashed teeth and his entirely unfounded sense of optimism. 

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Bio: Native New Yorker and award-winner, LindaAnn LoSchiavo is a member of British Fantasy Society, HWA, SFPA, and The Dramatists Guild. Titles published in 2024:  “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems” [Wild Ink], “Apprenticed to the Night” [UniVerse Press], and “Felones de Se: Poems about Suicide” [Ukiyoto].
Forthcoming: “Cancer Courts My Mother” [Prolific Pulse Press, 2025].
Book  Accolades earned: Elgin Award for “A Route Obscure and Lonely” and Chrysalis BREW Project’s Award for Excellence for “Always Haunted: Hallowe’en Poems.”

Background:
“A Worthie Woman All Hir Live” first met its audience as a stage play. It was produced by an indie theatre company in San Francisco.
It was revised as an 11-minute radio drama. Since the title is a quote from Chaucer’s “Canterbury Tales,” Columbia University’s radio station broadcast it once during April, the month the pilgrims begin their journey.

Now it’s been revamped as a short story.

LindaAnn has several books published. Here are three of them. They can be viewed through the affiliate buttons below or in our Bookstore.

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