Simon Barber, Plumber

Crime Fiction by John Ahlfors

Avid armchair sports fan, beer enthusiast, bookworm and retired plumber, Simon Barber was turning eighty-one, his square birthday. “You know, nine times nine,” he explained to his wife, Faye, who rolled her eyes. Heaving deep breaths, Simon battled to blow out the roar of candles. Never had he thought he’d live so long, given his quirky heart, the ablations and cardioversions—and a pacemaker!—needed to keep it going, let alone to have so many candles to blow out. He had debilitating occupational injuries he suffered over decades of wrestling cast iron sewer pipe into tight, awkward places and installing hefty toilets in upstairs bathrooms. Despite his afflictions, he was determined to see earthlings return to the moon and maybe even reach Mars. After all, his father had lived to one hundred four and a half. He could do no less.

Faye, a svelte, spry sparkplug at seventy-five, endured him— She wished him dead. She had put a full complement of candles on his cake, all 81, hoping he’d burn his mustache and beard in blowing them out or else wheeze himself to death in the process. After fifty-five years putting up with his self-will and his misogynistic manner, she’d had it. She earnestly hoped for his demise, convinced she’d outlive him. But one serious problem stood in the way. If Simon died, she would be left destitute.

With no income of her own and his pension ending with his death, she couldn’t afford to live, much less stay in the house. Simon’s medical problems that forced his retirement had drained the Barbers of their life savings. She had no retirement or social security of her own. She had no children to support her or give her a place to live. Going on welfare or needing charity was anathema to her.

But she wasn’t one to resign herself to her fate. She was determined to do something about it. As her first step, she’d get Simon to sell their huge house they bought early in their marriage expecting to raise a large family. It was a bear for her to clean. Her plan was to use the proceeds from its sale to buy a much smaller, single-story house, and put what remained into savings. But when she broached her idea to Simon, she was shot down.

“We’re not moving! And that’s final! This house is good enough! We’ll die in it!”

“How will you navigate all the stairs in this house once you’re confined to a wheelchair?”

“Install chairlifts.”

“What will you use to pay for them?”

“I’ll figure something out. Besides, I’ll outlive you.”

“If you don’t?”

“Sell the damn house and move to an old folks home.”

“They don’t call them that anymore.”

“A desert island then, where you can’t nag me,” he sputtered.

He couldn’t believe she’d outlive him.

***

Before retiring, if Simon wasn’t on a job, he was out with his pals at bars or on fishing and hunting trips, leaving Faye alone at home. She was active in church as one outlet for her energy. She had friends she associated with but never a job. Simon didn’t want her to work. The marriage hadn’t gotten off to a good start, because Simon got her pregnant when they were teenagers and their parents insisted he marry her. He loathed the idea but stepped up to his responsibilities. He didn’t like her or she him.

Simon had to leave school and get a job to support the two of them. He started out as a plumber’s apprentice in his uncle’s shop. Faye had a miscarriage, lost the baby and couldn’t again get pregnant. Simon, who desperately wanted children, held it against her. They lived with Faye’s parents until they could afford a place of their own. But over the years he did his duty and provided for her. With her life miserable, she bore her lot with minimal complaint—complaining only made things worse. With divorce not an option for religious reasons, she wished for the day Simon would die.

***

He steadfastly refused to sell the house. A violent storm tore off half the roof and flooded the attic. He lost his treasures stored there. Their aging furnace failed. To pay for a new roof and furnace and associated repairs, he needed money he didn’t have. Insurance covered most of the roof repairs, but they had to take out an equity loan to cover the balance and a new furnace, a loan he would have difficulty repaying.

He threw up his hands. “Let’s sell!”

It was music to Faye’s ears.

In getting the house ready for market, Simon endured parting with a lifetime accumulation of fishing gear, camping equipment, tents and two-stroke outboard motors, not to mention tools such as saws, hammers, plumbing tools, old work clothes and on and on—all of it gathering dust and mold. Boxes of tax records dating back decades needed to be shredded. He managed to sell a boat on saw horses he’d been building in the garage for ages. There were myriad trips to the dump in Simon’s aging pickup with innumerable black plastic garbage bags stuffed with things no longer needed or wanted. Faye was delighted, Simon sour.

To their surprise, the house sold for more than they thought possible. Simon gloated. The purchasers had five children and loved the “retro décor.” They looked forward to raising a brood of kids the Barbers couldn’t have. Upon closing, Faye made sure the money was safely in the bank under joint signature.

***

They rented a short-term furnished apartment while Faye and her real estate agent went house hunting. Simon indulged in nachos and beer in front of the apartment’s fifty-inch flat-panel TV, saying he’d dig for worms on his hands and knees before he’d house hunt. They didn’t want him along anyway. Faye found nothing she liked. The Barber’s short-term rental apartment turned long-term.

Finally, after months of searching, a house meeting Faye’s specs was about to come on the market. Their real estate agent arranged a previewing. The pale yellow rambler with white trim and two-car garage stood on a corner lot in a quiet, upscale middle-class neighborhood. The yard was nicely landscaped with well-cared-for bushes and plantings. The dark shingled roof looked new. Faye was ecstatic, Simon equivocal. Since the house had been built in the late fifties, he needed to check the plumbing and the wiring.

The owner’s niece who was handling the sale, a woman in her sixties named Audrey, showed them around. Things were strewn about everywhere: pictures taken down and propped against furniture, items wrapped in paper lying on the floor, piles of towels and linens, half-filled boxes, stacks of dishes . . .

Simon checked light switches, ceiling lights, faucets, closet doors and windows. He didn’t check the plumbing because he couldn’t get down into the crawl space underneath the house nor did he have tools to test the wiring.

The tour ended in the kitchen. Simon checked the refrigerator and found it had ample space for a case of beer. Faye asked about the owner of the house. Audrey said her uncle, Ray Kutner, bought the house while it was still under construction. He had lived in it ever since until he had decided to sell now that he broke his hip and had to go into assisted living. He was ninety-three. Whoever bought the house would be only its second owner.

“What was your uncle before he retired?” Simon asked.

“A stonemason.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. He respected fellow tradesmen.

“Oh, by the way, the yard is equipped with a sprinkler system. No need to water the grass yourself,” Audrey said. “You’d like that, Simon.”

As the women chatted over coffee, Faye asked, “Was your Uncle Ray ever married?”

She laughed. “Yes, he was. But his wife, Agnes, walked out on him. That was maybe, say, fifty plus, maybe fifty-five years ago? You know, centuries. Mom told me it took him two years to get rid of her things, poor man. I was very young and don’t remember her, except that she was a head turner. Everybody wondered why she wasn’t in the movies. She made no bones about marrying beneath her and threatened to disappear one day. She even left him a note. ‘Good riddance,’ my mother had said.”

“I should think he would have moved to another house that didn’t constantly remind him of what happened,” Faye suggested.

“I agree, but he didn’t. You tell me why.”

Simon was greatly relieved Faye liked the house. He wanted the house hunting to end. The present house was quite good enough. It would be Faye’s anyway. Although the house wasn’t on the market yet, Faye proposed she and Simon make a bid. They would pay cash with an added premium and waive the inspection. Kutner would get his money quicker than if selling to someone needing to qualify for a mortgage and all that entailed. She additionally offered Audrey whatever time she needed to clear out her uncle’s things. Simon was impressed by Faye’s acumen. She had talents he wasn’t aware of.

Kutner accepted their bid with delight. The escrow firm registered the sale with the county the next morning. That afternoon Faye had her dream house and Kuttner his money.

***

As soon as Audrey had the house emptied and the Barbers had full possession, Faye set in motion the plan she had worked up while they waited for occupancy. She had the interior repainted, a new water heater installed, the attic reinsulated, the chimney pointed and the electrical system upgraded, including a charging station for an EV, which they didn’t own but she felt they needed for resale.

Simon said, “Here we are, just moved in, and you’re thinking of resale?”

“After you die, I’m selling the house and moving to a retirement community.”

“Over my dead body would I move into one of those!”

“You won’t be around to care!”

“Remember, my dad lived to a hundred and four!”

Moving day saw their household goods delivered from storage. Faye’s friends from church helped her get the house in order. Vases of flowers and other feminine touches appeared. Simon sat back, watched TV in the freshly painted and carpeted TV room, oohing and aahing to Faye on demand. Hummingbird and suet feeders appeared on the patio. Birdseed soon littered it. Simon sat back with his beer and shook his head.

***

Spring arrived. Time to turn on the sprinkler system.

While setting it up, the technician said,  “Did you know you have a bomb shelter on the premises?”

 “A bomb shelter? Really?”

Carter escorted Simon to the fenced-in side yard and a mound of bricks, dirt and ground cover marking the entrance behind a row of rhodies.

“I’ll be damned. I’d never have guessed. Who would think? . . . I mean . . .”

“Ray had it installed in the mid-fifties soon after the house was built. Many people were anxious about Soviet nuclear bombers. There are several shelters still in the neighborhood.”

“Been in it?”

“No. It’s always been sealed. Maybe there’s a body down there,” Carter joked.

The possibility of a body in the bomb shelter nagged at Simon.

The next day he visited city hall to learn they didn’t have house plans as far back as the fifties, much less plans for bomb shelters. He wondered why Audrey hadn’t mentioned the shelter. Maybe she didn’t know it existed. Ray Kutner wanting to die in the house suggested he was protecting something—maybe he murdered his wife and buried her down there. As bizarre as Simon thought the idea, he couldn’t shake it. In the morning when he suggested it to Faye, she laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

Although he had plenty of beer and a new 4K-resolution TV along with the latest best seller Michael Connelly novel to distract him, the idea of a body down there niggled at him like an itchy flea bite.

One Sunday while Simon was watching baseball after church, Faye interrupted him.

“I’ve decided to visit my sister in Cape May,” she announced. “I haven’t seen her in years. I need a break from the house, from you and from your damn bomb shelter obsession.”

He was delighted. He would be free to check it for a body.

“You can play troglodyte to your heart’s content, drink all the beer, watch all the TV and read all the books you can stand while I’m gone. You’re perfectly capable of taking things out of the freezer and using the microwave. I’m leaving enough ready meals to tide you over until I get back. You won’t have to go to the store. I know how you hate doing that.”

“Enjoy your trip.”

“I intend to,” she said.

***

No sooner had Faye disappeared around the corner headed for the airport in an Uber than Simon gathered his tools and donned knee pads. He removed the bricks and dirt piled atop the bomb shelter’s entrance only to discover a steel hatch fastened to a sturdy metal frame. The screws were corroded. He applied liberal amounts of WD-40. Using Kutner’s power drill Audrey left him along with other tools, he managed with effort to loosen the screws and remove the cover.

He peered inside the opening with a flashlight. Steel rungs protruded from the concrete retaining wall. With his bad knees and hips he’d need a ladder. Fetching one from the garage and setting it in place, he worked through the opening—hulk that he was—and made his way down. He found himself in a fairly large room that was fitted out with a small kitchen, a table with chairs and cots, all for supporting two, maybe three people. There were no food supplies or water. They had been removed. The kitchen had a small refrigerator, stove, sink and several cabinets. There was a separate room with a shower and a toilet. There was even a small workshop. He wondered where Kutner could have disposed of a body. Nowhere did he find one that by now would have been a skeleton. There were no likely places either in the open or hidden. Frustrated, he turned off his flashlight, climbed up the ladder, set the cover in place and went inside the house.

He had never met Kutner, but if he had murdered his wife, the bomb shelter would have been the perfect place to hide the body, as long as he had control of it and nobody got suspicious. Although Simon found no evidence of a body, he was convinced Kutner murdered his wife.

The question was, should he pursue this further? Was he in any way liable for not reporting what he suspected? If a murder did come to light and he hadn’t reported it, would that make him an accessory to the murder of someone he’d never met and who was long dead? Kuttner was in his nineties. So, what justice would it serve to have him arrested and imprisoned this late in life? What peace would it bring Agnes?

He let the bomb shelter be.

***

A few days later, Faye arrived home from her visit with her sister.

“How was it?” he asked, dutifully.

“Had a great time. Diane and her family are doing well. How have you been?”

” I didn’t starve.”

“Good. She and I are taking an ocean cruise. Just the two of us. We’ll be leaving in a few days. How’s your bomb shelter coming along?”

“I opened it up. It’s quite elaborate. You could live down there for quite a while if you put in food and water.”

“Did you find your body?”

“No.”

“Did you do a thorough search?”

“I thought I did. There were some things I didn’t think at the time to check.”

The next morning, after he finished breakfast, he fetched Kutner’s power drill and once again removed the bomb shelter cover. Lowering his extension ladder into the shelter, he next lowered a portable LED work light and dropped down a hammer and chisel and other tools. Climbing down, he hummed to himself. He was a miner on some asteroid looking for exotic fuel crystals to recharge his spaceship’s engines. He loved sci-fi.

No sooner did he have the LED illuminating his work area and had retrieved his tools, than he heard a scraping noise. He turned to see the extension ladder being withdrawn.

He hurried over and looked up just as the ladder disappeared from view.

“Faye! What are you doing!?”

She appeared at the opening and looked down at him.

“Yes, dear. You called?”

“You know I need the ladder.”

“I know. But I need it up here.” She displayed his cellphone. “You forgot this, dear.”

“Let me have it!”

 “I’m so sorry, Simon, but I can’t do that. You might call for help. Please excuse me, but I need to put the cover in place.”

“Faye!”

“Shush, Simon. Think of it. You’ll have all the time you need to search and find out if Agnes is really down there. You can make love to her bones.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“You might like a few of your precious books to read.” She slapped her hand to her forehead. “Oh my, I forgot! You can’t read in the dark, can you?”

She unplugged the extension cord to the LED work light and let it fall to the shelter floor.

“Faye!”

The cover dropped into place. Impenetrable darkness enveloped Simon like a shroud. The sound of Kutner’s power drill tightening the cover screws pounded in his ears. Dirt hit the cover.

There was utter silence but for the sound of Simon’s pounding heart.

***

Several days following Faye’s return from her cruise with her sister, the doorbell rang. She opened the door to find a man in civilian clothes standing on the porch.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I’m Detective Lucas Pryzby.”

He handed her his identification wallet. She carefully looked over before handing it back.

“Won’t you come in?” she said, gesturing to him.

“Thank you.”

She led him to the kitchen and beckoned him be seated on one of the chairs at the table. She sat down across from him.

“How may I help you?”

The detective took out his notebook and a pen. “It’s about your husband.”

Faye froze. Why is a detective concerned about Simon?

“I understand you have a bomb shelter on your property.”

Faye swallowed hard, barely able to speak. “We do.”

“You’re husband was exploring it?”

“He was obsessed there was a body hidden down there.”

“Was there?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Faye could feel her heart pounding. She felt dizzy.

“I understand you’ve been on an extended cruise.”

“Yes, I was with my sister. We were gone several weeks.”

“You came home and he wasn’t in the house.”

“He was in the bomb shelter. The cover was off and a ladder in place, but the vile stench told me . . . you know. I called the funeral home.”

“They contacted us.”

“They did? Why?”

“Before he died, your husband scratched a message into the concrete next to him that read, ‘The witch has killed me!’ Care to explain?”

---

Bio: John Ahlfors lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife and their 17-year-old cat. His career prior to retirement greatly involved technical writing and professional blogs. Since retiring, he has turned his attention to creative fiction, writing mostly short stories, particularly crime or noir pieces. He is presently working on a historical novel involving magic realism and a novella set in South Africa.

Cover photo by pexels/Blue Arauz

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