Join Our Newsletter


Read a sample mystery every week


 
How Mrs. Hitt Stopped Scrimping and Found Happiness With a Hit Man
About the Author: Lani Steele has a divided spirit: part in her native California, part in Kaua’i where she would live if she could, and part in perpetual motion around the world. She has lived in several countries including Chad, is published in poetry, mystery fiction, and non-fiction, and recently retired from 53 years as an educator. She lives in Los Osos with her husband Gary. Their four children are far-flung and require many visits.


I’ve pretty much despised Woody Allen since he took up with a woman to whom he was at least tangentially related.  But, he was right about one thing.  Murder is, well, murderously easy to arrange …

Being a writer, I’d hoped to get more than a customized killing—a story, too, something freshly ingenious and twisted.  If that sounds harsh, remember I had to think about supporting myself and the children, hopefully with my writing.  It seemed at first that no diabolical game plan would unfold.   But patience and perseverance paid off.  It took a few phone calls and an exchange of cash.  Then, an accident on a mountain road.  The death I’d both feared and fantasized was a reality.  My children’s future was secure, if fatherless.

When I became a widow, I cried.  I did.  When the call came saying the job was done, when the deputies came to the door with the news, I sobbed.  The children and I cried and cried the day we spread Fix’s ashes over a sullen gray wake behind the Harbor Queen paddlewheeler on Morro Bay.  It was hard to know, really, what part was Fix and what part his Nissan truck.  I know I saw a bit of gray upholstery turning slowly in the sluggish water, before a tossed daisy covered it.  There just wasn’t much left of Fix or the truck, so I guess High Mountain Mortuary and Cremation scooped up whatever they could from the highway, cremated it, and put it in the box marked Hitt, Fix.

You may say that any woman who would marry a man named Fix Hitt is asking for trouble.  But Fix—Phillips Courtenay Hitt III—could indeed fix just about anything, animal, vegetable, or mineral.  Mechanical or emotional.  During the time we were together, it was Fix who could get me out of my chair when I was held there by mental peregrinations down the blue highways of regret and dread.  It was Fix who was the hero in the story of our family, at least for a long time.  The kids and I knew he wouldn’t let anyone or anything hurt us.  But he couldn’t fix Fix.

My husband, our protector, was himself at the dead end of the sorry streets in my nightmares.  I could stand by him, or I could save myself and the kids.  It seemed that simple.  If he lived, he was going to lose everything we had.

“I was sure he’d had another heart attack,” sniffled my mother-in-law, Marjorie, into a clean hanky.  “But the autopsy didn’t show that.”

The autopsy didn’t show anything amiss, thank God, I thought.  And thanks to skillful work by the nameless contact who tampered with Fix’s brakes, or doctored his club soda with sleeping pills.  I don’t know the details.  I don’t want to.  I just know what while Fix was losing a couple of mortgage payments at a blackjack table in Harrah’s, someone was fixing him.

We couldn’t take the gambling any more.  I was sick of trying to budget for unspecified losses, financial and otherwise.  If we’d had a marriage portrait, you could have painted my heart on my chest in scarlet and carmine, then watched it fade year after year, until it was washed-out pink, with a black, black hole right through the middle.  On the other side of the hole, pulsing like a quark, a tiny, lethal blackjack table.  Blackjack, the simple game that steals husbands, homes, retirements, and children’s college funds in return for … I don’t know.  I don’t play.

The only gamble I ever took, I won.

“Are you all right for money?”  Marjorie asked, putting her hanky in her apron pocket and getting ready to prepare a big meal no one would be able to eat.

“I think we’ll be fine,” I replied, looking over various papers and insurance policies.  I knew we’d be fine.  Fix had always said we’d be better off with him gone, and much as I’d hated for him to say that, it was true.

I hadn’t paid much attention to our finances.  I was aware of how they were supposed to work, but then we started getting notices about unpaid insurance, or Fix would defer car or house maintenance ‘until next month’.  These events followed more and more frequent trips to Mountain High, a tacky gambling mecca set down in some of the most glorious scenery in our state.  About five hundred miles from us by freeway and winding road, Mountain High is a place where high-rise cement boxes line an emerald-green lake, rimmed by what’s left of a once-vast, dark, forest.  Under a high, thin-blue sky, the hotels and casinos emanate a florescent glow day and night. 



This story appears in our SEP 2017 Issue
(Visit Amazon for a print version)

Buy SEP 2017 Issue

Buy It Now

Digital Subscription

Price $24.75 Cdn

You will immediately receive the current issue.
Future issues are emailed on the 1st of each month.

Reader Discussion

3
Sep
Brilliant! Loved this story!
By Peri Dwyer Worrell

4
Sep
Creepy, but why did she marry Fix?
By Tanya Goffy

4
Sep
Great job of playing with words! I enjoyed the story!
By Nina Ritter

5
Sep
Wow, I loved the twist at the end with Snap. I never saw that coming, and I can usually figure out the surprise endings before they happen. This one totally caught me off guard.
By Erik Deckers

5
Sep
By Frances Dunn

5
Sep
A great read. Somehow I knew she would get away with murder:) Kudos to the unexpected ending.
By Frances Dunn

25
Sep
A great story. Congrats.
By George Garnet


Add Your Comments