Catharine Riggs, author of “Britta”, lives and writes in her hometown of Santa Barbara, California where she has worked as business banker, college instructor, and nonprofit executive. Thomas & Mercer published her thrillers— What She Gave Away and What She Never Said — to excellent trade and reader reviews.
*****
It was twenty years ago to this very day when the stranger came to town. How would I remember? ‘Cause Britta always set out a bowl of candy for our customers on Halloween. No, you’re right. Food’s not allowed.
But Britta had a way of bending the rules. She was a kick. She really was. Like, sometimes she’d mix up the mail on purpose. Or hide a parcel for a few days. She’d give it back, mind you. The woman wasn’t a thief. She just enjoyed watching people’s reactions when they thought their mail was lost. You couldn’t do that today. No way in hell. Not with the tracking police. But back then it was one of the games we played to help make it through the day. You’ll understand once you’ve worked here long enough. Being a mail clerk may pay a fair wage, but it’s as mind-numbing as Sunday church.
…Britta had a way of bending the rules. She was a kick. She really was.
No, Britta wasn’t mean or spiteful. Mostly, I’d say she was bored. And maybe a little ornery. That year had been especially trying what with her husband leaving her and the kids to move in with Tina the Tramp. It’s no wonder she was feeling ill-tempered the morning the stranger walked in.
Yeah, of course I remember what happened to Britta, just like I remember the names of my kids. I’ve had to repeat the story a thousand times to the police and everyone else. You wanna hear ‘bout it while we’re working? Sure. I don’t mind.
Years ago, a stranger stopped by our office wanting to open a P.O. box. It’d been a while since we issued one so Britta got flustered and gave him some attitude.
What do I mean by flustered? Well, Britta liked to be picture perfect. Her clothes were always ironed and her hair nicely styled. She hated looking foolish or being put on the spot. And God forbid she get judged for not knowing the ins and outs of her job. So I’m guessing she was covering her nerves when she accused the man of theft.
No, she didn’t say he stole any money. It was more trifling than that. She said he’d taken an extra pack of candy corn when the instructions limited customers to one. You know the candy I’m talking about? The orange and yellow pellets that stick to your teeth and taste like sugary mud. Britta accused the stranger of taking extra, and even after he emptied his pockets, she refused to believe his truth.
I don’t think she was playing another game. She would’ve told me if that were the case. No. I’m pretty sure she got worked up over the sight of his peculiar looks.
What do I mean by peculiar? Well, the stranger might’ve been cowboy-handsome if not for an unsightly flaw. One of his eyes was turquoise blue but the other was milky white. Like an eye you’d see in a Siberian Huskie—it gave us the creeps. ‘Course we should’ve just looked away, but Britta was never one to hold her tongue. Back in high school she made fun of my limp. Called me the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
No, she wasn’t a bully or nothing like that. She just liked to point out the truth. And lots of kids teased me back then what with my left leg being shorter than my right. But by the time I started working with Britta she rarely mentioned my limp.
Sure, she could be kinda nasty. I won’t argue with that. Years ago, my then fiancé sent a dozen long-stemmed roses to work. It was my birthday and we’d had a scrap, so he was trying his best to be nice. But wouldn’t you know when I got back from lunch, the red buds had been snipped and tossed. Britta claimed she was allergic to flowers, but deep down I knew the truth. That girl was drowning in jealousy ‘cause she hadn’t yet found a man.
No, I wasn’t angry. A little miffed, I guess. But what was I gonna say? The two of us had to go on working together, so I swallowed my bitter words. After that, she was extra friendly—she knew she’d gone too far. Eventually she found a man and got married and things settled down after that. We went on to have our children and our lives rolled on from there.
Oh. I’m sorry. My mind tends to wander. You want to know more about the murder? You and everyone else. It’s sad how a single event has a way of labeling a town. Good things used to happen here. I can name ten off the top of my head. But the press wasn’t interested in the good. They wanted to swim in the muck. And that true-crime TV show? It stole any hope we had. Our town has never recovered, ‘though we’re nothing like the place they described.
What kinda place are we? Different than before. We used to be a thriving community, but now we’re a town that people run away from and never look back. Ask my kids and they’ll give you an earful. They hate everything about the Mojave Desert and have up and flown the coup. They’re part of that wimpy generation who complain at the drop of a hat. Summer’s too hot, winter’s too cold, and there are barely any jobs. Boring days. Wearisome nights. Battles with snakes and bugs. Truth is, this town’s been shrinking for years and soon it’ll turn into dust. Ever been to that ghost town Bodie? Well, one day we’ll be just like that. Only no one will ever visit ‘cept for the nutcases that follow that man. Why young women would idolize a serial killer, I’ll never understand.
We used to be a thriving community, but now we’re a town that people run away from and never look back.
Where’d you say you’re from? Trona? Why that’s a helluva long commute. Oh, you’re thinking of moving here? Well, I’d think twice if I were you. Sure, it’ll mean a lot less driving, and you’ll get more bang for your rental buck. But there’s no future here for a single gal who’s in her marrying years. We used to have lots of good men, but now only losers stick around. They may pretend to have good intentions, but their sweet words are all smoke and mirrors.
I’m not being negative. Just truthful. I’m the kinda person who notices things. Britta was that kinda person too. Not that we were snoops. We just liked to pay attention to details. Like, we always knew when folks had money troubles by keeping an eye on their mail. You look like a smart gal so I’m guessing you’ll get to noticing little things too. If you don’t, you may as well put a bullet through your head or find another job. Our workdays are long and boring—there’s no satisfaction in what we do. When my kids were young, I could convince myself I meant something to the world. But now that they’ve moved on, I’m all shriveled inside. Loneliness will do that to you.
Excuse me? Yeah, I’ll focus if you’ll finish sorting your pile of mail. Oh. You’re done? Aren’t you energetic? How about you sort my pile while I finish my tale. It’ll be good practice given it’s your first day. I’ll just sit here and supervise like Britta used to do. She had this bossy side that from time to time would drive me up a wall. She’d order me around like she was in charge which wasn’t the least bit true. If I dared to point out her error, I’d get the silent treatment for days. It didn’t matter that I was right and she was wrong and that both of us knew the truth. Either I apologize or she’d make my life as miserable as a cat left out in the rain.
No, the stranger didn’t admit to stealing the candy but that did nothing to change Britta’s mind. She was sure he was a thief and once Britta got hold of an idea, she was like a dog on a bone. How was she to know the stranger was a monster of a man who liked to slice and dice?
Lucifer? Ridiculous. I refuse to call him that. I’ll have you know his real name is Redmond Smith. Oh. You know that? You read his book? Several times? Hell, you must be touched. How they let that scumbag publish such trash from jail, I’ll never understand. He should’ve gotten the death penalty, but instead he’s been living the life of Riley in his comfy prison cell. Eating bonbons. Searching the internet. Reading letters from his fans. Makes me sick to think how our tax dollars are spent on that devil of a man. But that’s our government for you. As dimwitted as a pack of sheep running blindly off a cliff. Do you know that whack job has mobs of followers? Mostly girls around your age. If it weren’t for my arthritis, I’d pound some sense into their heads.
Did I mention my condition? My hands are beginning to give out. My doctor says I should quit working, but then what am I gonna do? Spend my days watching the news taking in all the sorrows in the world? I’d rather hole up here with my aching hands than sit at home all alone. If I did, I’m guessing I’d take to the bottle and drink myself to death,
You don’t drink? Well, aren’t you Miss Goody Two-Shoes. I didn’t drink either while my brats were young. Just wait ‘til you have a brood and the kiddos hit their teens. Between their sassy attitudes and this crap of a job, you’ll be needing something to numb your brain.
It’s not like I’m being preachy, but I got experience owing to my age. For instance, the best lesson you can learn from Britta’s story is not to pick on people you don’t know. If they ask you for something legit, don’t cop an attitude. That’s why the killer fixed on Britta. No, it wasn’t just the candy corn; there were a few other incidents, too.
Sure, some of what she did was questionable, but she was coming from the right place. Britta got suspicious and, in the end, she hit the nail on the head. Some townsfolk say she got what was coming, but those people are just plain mean. No one deserves to die like Britta, not even the killer himself.
If you’ve read his book then why the interest? You’d like my personal point of view? You should watch the TV show ‘cause they interviewed me a whole lot. It was made a long time ago—probably before your time. How old are you anyway? Twenty-one? Hell. I have a granddaughter older than you. Well, I won’t bore you with the details, but Britta’s death is like a nightmare that never ends. I still have days where I turn to tell her a story and I’m shocked to find she’s gone. Don’t go thinking I’m crazy, but sometimes I chat with her anyway. I miss her. I really do. She was the best friend a person could ever have and thinking on what he done to her makes me want to puke. Now, if you’ll get me a glass of water, I’ll do my best to finish up.
Thank you. My throat always gets dry when my emphysema kicks up. Do you smoke? Good. Don’t start. Worst thing I ever did. When I was fourteen I….oh. You’re right. We’re gonna be closing soon. Yes, I’ll hurry the rest of the story. Now, where was I? Oh yeah. After the candy incident, the killer avoided Britta like the plague. When he needed to mail his parcels, he always stood in my line no matter how long the wait. But on occasion I’d be out sick or busy or on my break, and he’d be forced to work with Britta. And sometimes she would charge him double or write down the wrong zip. And a couple of times when she was in a frump, she tossed his parcels into the trash.
Of course that’s against the rules, but Britta didn’t see it that way. She’d come to suspect the killer was up to no good and in hindsight she was right. There came a day when she got so hot and bothered, she peeked at the contents of a box. She expected to find a bomb or dangerous chemicals, but all she found were books. Used books about disgusting things. Twisted sex. Pure smut.
Yes, I looked at them too. Filthy but not illegal as far as I could tell. What would be illegal? Why, kiddie porn, of course, but we didn’t see none of that. At his trial it came out the killer’s business was to search out smut in thrift stores and pass it to dealers in porn. Seems that’s how he came across his victims: women who gave him attitude. But at that point we thought he was just a run-of-the-mill perv, and messing with him was fair game. So Britta spilled the beans to a few of her friends and it wasn’t long before everyone had an opinion about the lech who’d moved to town.
Sure, I’ll take a candy. It’s Halloween after all. As long as it’s not the sticky kind that’ll pull the teeth right out of my head. What’d you say? You heard I spread rumors too? Nonsense. Who said such a thing? You sure? Well, I don’t care. That’s a dreadful lie.
Why are you looking at me like that? It wasn’t my idea to mess with his mail. Of course, he complained about the lost parcels but Britta denied everything and she could lie with the best of them. Even back in high school if she didn’t do her homework, she’d swear up one side and down the other that the dog had chewed it up. By god if the teachers didn’t believe her. In fact, there was this one time she…what’s that? Oh, yes. Curse my wandering mind. Now, where was I? Oh, right.
So, after a while the killer stopped sending his parcels. We figured he drove to Trona and mailed his raunchy books from there. Truth is, it was a bit of a letdown. We’d gotten used to having him around.
No, he mostly got junk mail in his box ‘cept for the last week of every month. That’s when he’d receive a handwritten letter in the prettiest script you’ve ever seen. People don’t write that way anymore. They used to consider it an art.
It wasn’t just that it was handwritten, but it always arrived in a pearly pink, rose-scented envelope with a return address of New York. I’m talking New York the city, not just the state. We seldom get mail from there. Anyway, something about that envelope stuck in Britta’s craw. Why would a porno man with a useless eye receive such a fine-looking thing?
There came a day Britta tossed out one of the killer’s letters and that really did him in. He came tearing into our office looking angrier than a bear protecting her cub. Britta kept her expression as plain as white bread and said she had no idea where his letter was. But I could tell he didn’t believe her, and she didn’t give a damn if he did.
Britta started imagining all sorts of stories and landed on one she came to believe. That the stranger was taking advantage of some lonely old lady who was sending him a check every month. And that there would be illegal. It’s a felony to run scams by mail. So the next time a pearly pink envelope arrived, she slit it open with a knife. And it turned out that the one-eyed man who made his living selling filth had a mother brimming with love. She wrote him in such a sweet manner it was clear she didn’t know the truth. And the fact that the letters were from a loving mother only made matters worse. You see, Britta’s childhood hadn’t been easy and she was jealous of what other people had. That’s when she came up with the idea to reroute a parcel to his mother’s home.
Yes, Britta had kept a couple of boxes—she wanted proof of his devil’s work. She carefully addressed the larger one and all was quiet for a month. Then one day the killer barged in, his good eye ready to pop. He accused her of instigating the reroute but there was nothing he could prove. I can still picture him banging out of our office and Britta laughing ‘til she nearly choked.
Of course, I felt bad when I learned his mother’s heart gave out after she opened the box. Despite what some might say, I’m not a coldhearted bitch. What did I expect would happen? I promise you, it wasn’t that. But what could I have done? I had nothing to do with Britta’s plans and there was nothing I could’ve changed. Yes, I suppose I could’ve reported Britta to our supervisor, but I’d never do that to a friend.
My, how the hours have flown. I’m so sleepy I could nap. It’s time we lock up. Let me show you how that works. Once we’re done, I’ll finish Britta’s story. No, there’s no one waiting for me at home. What about you? No family either? No boyfriend back in Trona? Oh, your man’s currently in prison? Has been for many years? You gotta know you’re much too pretty of a gal to be holding out for pond scum.
I’m sorry. You’re right. I take back my words. My daughter claims I’ve lost my filter and sometimes I think she’s right. Anyway, I was gambling with my girlfriends in Vegas on the night Britta disappeared. We used to visit sin city on a regular basis—at least once a year. We didn’t squander away loads of money, just enough to make it fun.
That’s the part that gives me nightmares. That while I was drinking and playing cards, Britta was getting herself killed. It gives me the creeps to think how she died, but I can’t seem to help myself.
How did it happen? Well, on the last evening of my trip, the killer waited until Britta locked up the office and then forced her into his car. I’ll spare you the grisly details but she was missing for two weeks—the worst two weeks of my life. Then a search party found parts of her scattered across the desert like hunks of butchered meat.
Terrible? Right? The thought of her death still brings tears to my eyes. Oh, yes. It’s late. Time to lock up. What? How sweet of you. I’d love a ride home. I only live five blocks away but I’m bone-aching tired and my bum leg’s been acting up. Did I tell you about my arthritis? No, I don’t think I did. Well it started when I was forty and at first the doctor thought it was cancer but thank god it wasn’t that. I’d gladly take an ache and pain now and then over chemo and all that crap. Sure, I’ll have another piece of candy. I could use a sugar lift.
Wow. I like your truck though I would’ve pictured you driving something else. This seatbelt is way too snug and the clasp doesn’t seem to release. You never know when you buy used. I bought a few lemons in my time. I’ll tell you about them one day.
Thanks, but no more candy for me. My blood sugar will shoot through the roof. My house is right up ahead. You can drop me at that corner cottage with the towering cactus out front. My ex planted it years ago when…wait. Stop. You passed it. This road leads out of town. Why’re you laughing like that? Why’re you speeding up? I swear to god I’ll jump. Unlock the door, damn it. Let me out. Let me out! Dear god in heaven. Why is everything going dark?
*****
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