The Fiddler Murders

 

I got the idea from this know-it-all from work named Cathy. I sit beside her at the call centre because she’s my age and the least sketchy person there. She wears nice skirts and blouses to work and gets her hair done once a month. You make do with what you’re given. One weekend, Cathy went on a trip to Niagara-on-the-Lake with her husband and told me everything about it when she returned. They’d gone on a wine tour with bicycles and ate all this great food. They saw a musical, Fiddler on the Roof, and even dressed up for it. She talked about her trip all day. She rarely shuts her mouth.

When I left work at five, Cathy’s story slipped my mind and I put my attention toward other things. There was dinner to prepare, for example. When I went to bed that night, though, I thought about Niagara-on-the-Lake. It sounded so nice. I liked how the town was on-the-lake. I wanted to ride bicycles and visit vineyards and put the bottles right in the bike basket. I wanted to see Fiddler on the Roof—I wanted to dress up. For the next few days it was all I thought about.

I brought the idea up at dinner one night. Orin, my husband, was complaining about his allergies and I interrupted him.

“Niagara,” I said.

“Niagara,” Orin said. “Is that like Claritin?”

“No, the town. Niagara-on-the-Lake. I think we should go there.”

“We don’t have any money. And don’t interrupt me, it’s rude. I’m saying we need to take all the plants out of the house. Just please put them on the back deck or I’ll throw them in the garbage. It’s got to be your damn plants that are driving me nuts and I need my eight hours, Laura.”

“It’s not the plants. But anyway, Cathy…”

“How do you know it’s not the plants? Are you my doctor? No, you’re not.”

“I want to go to Niagara-on-the-Lake.”

“Forget it.”

I couldn’t forget it, though. I imagined Cathy enjoying her vacation and I wanted to enjoy one too. Of course, I couldn’t tell Cathy I was going on the same trip because she’d say I was stealing her idea. She’s that kind of person. If I missed work to go, I’d have to tell her I was sick and watching movies at home with Orin. She probably wouldn’t listen to me anyway.

Eventually, Orin said we could go. I had to ask him while he was drunk to get the answer I wanted. He came home from a meeting one night all puffy and loud and kept trying to pull me into the bedroom. I opened a bottle of wine, sat him down at the kitchen table and started selling him the trip.

“You can ride horses there,” I said.

“I’ve always wanted to ride a horse,” he said. “When I was a kid I went to summer camp and they had horses but I never got to ride one.”

“Well here’s your chance.”

“One of the horses at the camp came down with a neurological disease and acted crazy. They wouldn’t let us kids ride any of the horses in case the others had the disease too. We went over to the stables to see them one day and this one horse was scraping his face against a tree. There was blood all over his face. I was ten years old.”

“And it won’t be that much money. We can drive there and stay some place cheap. Cathy’s hotel was right on the water and they got a really good deal, she said.” I made that part up, but it was probably true. There was always some kind of deal on the internet, I figured.

“On the last day of camp the horse tried to jump the fence and his legs got all tangled up in the wires. They had to shoot it. We all heard the shot while we were in the mess hall eating spaghetti.”

“So it’s settled.”

We left the following weekend. It should have been a four-hour drive from Windsor but Orin had to stop every twenty minutes, or so it seemed. He didn’t have a bowel movement that day, which was an unusual thing. Orin had a bowel movement every morning at nine a.m. for the past thirty years, he claimed. And now, nothing.

“I will not be constipated on this trip, Laura,” he said.

We stopped near Chatham, London, Woodstock, Brantford, Hamilton and St. Catharines. Orin would go into the washroom and I’d sit in the car and wait for ten or fifteen minutes. It became a predictable pattern that when Orin came out of a washroom and walked towards the car, he’d put up his hands and shake his head so I’d know he’d failed in there.

“Maybe I need to eat some fruit,” he’d say once he was back in the car. Or, “What about figs?” Or, “Maybe I need to lie down in the back seat and massage my stomach for a while.”

“What about we just drive to Niagara already?” I said, at one of the stops.

“What about I take us back home?”

I kept my mouth shut.

We were mostly silent for the rest of the drive. I flipped on the radio at one point and Orin flipped it right back off. I didn’t press him. I wanted to get to Niagara-on-the-Lake before it got dark.

I looked out my window and watched the landscape barely change. It was all fields and strip malls. I saw a billboard advertising “knuckle spray,” whatever that was. I probably read it wrong.

When we approached the Niagara region, however, there were ridges and hills and rivers. It was beautiful. We drove over a bridge that felt like it was the Golden Gate it was so big. I’d never been on the Golden Gate and knew it was probably ten or twenty times the size as whatever bridge we were on, but still. I was excited. I did a little dance in my seat.

“For Christ’s sake, Laura,” Orin said. “I’m driving. You’re gonna break the seat.”

It was dark by the time we reached Niagara-on-the-Lake. Our hotel was decent, but it smelled slightly of rotten bananas. The kid behind the desk was asleep in his chair—we had to wake him up to get our room key. The first thing Orin wanted to do when we got to our room was use the bathroom. Despite the frequent rest stops, my husband hadn’t had his bowel movement yet.

There was a Jacuzzi tub in our room with a piece of paper taped to it: Do not use. The bathroom had sliding windows above the Jacuzzi which opened into our room. Like, you could sit in the tub with the windows open and see the bed or watch TV while you bathed—if the tub actually worked, you could. These sliding windows wouldn’t close properly, though, and Orin said he couldn’t shit with me in the room so I had to wait in the hall.

I sat out there for ten minutes or so wondering if Cathy had had these tub windows which wouldn’t quite close. Or if she had to wait in a hallway for her husband to use the toilet. Orin came out of the room to get me with his hands up, shaking his head.

“I can’t go if you’re just out here waiting for me,” he said. “You need to be doing something. Not just waiting around.”

“What should I do?” I said.

“For Christ’s sake, I don’t know. But don’t stand out here waiting around. It makes me nervous. I will not be constipated the whole trip.”

I went down to the lobby and looked at the pamphlets. Most of them were for attractions in Niagara Falls, which Cathy said were overpriced. I found a pamphlet for a bicycle tour. There were pictures of couples cycling down country roads with wine bottles in their bike baskets. A woman in one of the photos looked a little like Cathy—they both had blonde pixie cuts and long, elegant faces—and I could picture the guy in the photo being Cathy’s husband, whom I’d never met. I fantasized about going on the bicycle tour the next day and how maybe someone would take our picture and put it in a pamphlet. I’d get Orin to wear the nice shirt he’d brought for Fiddler just in case. I’d wear my blue dress. I’d keep my chin up if there was a photographer shooting us so you couldn’t see my neck fat in the photo.

I picked out a few other pamphlets and read through them: there was a day spa, a tea room, a paranormal museum, a newspaper museum, the horse stables and the theatre house where Cathy and her husband had gone. I put the pamphlets in order from must-see to maybe-if-there’s-time. I drummed my fingers on the pamphlet stand. Half an hour passed without Orin. I went back upstairs to find he had fallen asleep on the bed.

Cathy texted me while I was lying in the dark playing Tetris on my phone.

Hope yr feeling ok Laura

I replied that I was still pretty sick but Orin and I were at home watching a movie.

What movie? she wrote back.

I thought for a minute.

Miss congeniality

Oooo what channel? Im so bored

Actually its a dvd

Can I borrow when yr back at work?

Sure

So now I’d have to go and buy it.

I went back to Tetris and played until my eyes ached. I closed them and waited for sleep.

“You need to get up, Laura,” a voice said. I opened my eyes and there was Orin hovering over me. A pale light shone through the curtains.

“What’s…”

“You need to get up. I think I can go now but I can’t go with you in the room. Quick, before it goes away.”

“You didn’t go last night?”

“No. Hurry up, before it goes away. And don’t just stand in the hallway. Go outside or something.”

I stood up, pulled on a sweater and went down to the lobby.

A woman was behind the reception desk this time and the banana smell was gone. She was talking to an old man with keys on his belt and they both wore serious expressions. They were leaning over a newspaper that was spread out on the desk. I went over to the pamphlet stand and listened in.

“So sad,” the woman said. “Did you know them?”

“No. I saw the guy around though. Last week at the bank. Funny, Mary and I were supposed to go see it tomorrow. It would’ve been the last show of the run, but I guess they’re shutting down. Obviously.”

“I know. So sad.”

I could have just asked them what had happened but I felt too embarrassed to talk to anyone the way I was dressed. I looked around the lobby for another newspaper but couldn’t find one. Then I noticed the Niagara Advance box out on the street.

I stepped outside and read the headline through the plastic window on the door: Fiddler on the Roof director and star found dead in car. I didn’t have my wallet with me to buy a copy so I just stood there and read what I could through the window. Apparently, the woman directing the musical that Orin and I were planning to see that night, as well as the guy who played the role of Tevye, were shot in the actor’s car outside of the theatre after last night’s performance. There were no suspects so far. That’s all I could read.

The thing I’d been looking forward to the most, the musical, had been pulled from the menu. I cursed my luck. Of course, I felt terrible for the poor people who had been murdered but I just wanted to see a nice performance.

Two cop cars drove by. I went back inside the hotel.

Upstairs, Orin was lying on the bed and rubbing his stomach.

“Did you go yet?” I said.

“What do you think?”

“Hey, you’ll never guess what happened. Last…”

“Did I take a shit?”

“What?”

“Did I take a shit? Is that what you’re about to tell me? Unless you’re going to tell me I took a shit, I don’t care.”

“That doesn’t make sense, Orin.”

We dressed and left to find breakfast.

We found a place nearby but Orin wouldn’t touch his eggs. He said they looked too yellow. Then he asked our server if she could turn the music down—admittedly, it was a little much—and she did but her mood changed after that. She didn’t look at us when she came by our table to refill the water glasses. Orin refused to leave her a tip when we left but I snuck a five under my plate while he wasn’t looking.

We went back to the hotel to ask about the wine tour. We’d missed it. The lady at the desk said the guy comes by with the bus to pick people up at seven every morning—it was already eleven. She said we could go tomorrow, but we’d have to be ready by seven this time. Seven sharp, she said.

“I didn’t like her tone,” said Orin when we returned to our room. “She acted like we were her kids or something. How the hell are we supposed to know when the damn bus comes? And why is there a bus? I thought this was a bicycle thing.”

“He has to drive us out to the vineyards first. He has the bikes and everything. Stop being so negative. She didn’t mean anything.”

“Like hell she didn’t.”

“Orin, you’re being ridiculous.” I said but didn’t really think he was. I wasn’t fond of the desk lady myself. We weren’t her damn kids.

Later that day, Orin still hadn’t had his bowel movement but I convinced him to go to the horse stables in the afternoon. We drove to a ranch just outside of town where there was an amazing trot path that went by a little waterfall. We paid and got all set up but then Orin wouldn’t get on his horse.

“I don’t like the look of mine,” he said.

“Well then let’s trade.”

“No, you go ahead. I don’t really like the look of either of them.”

I didn’t want to ride alone so we just went back to the hotel. Orin made me wait in the hall for a while and then we took a nap.

We had the TV on while we were dressing for dinner and I noticed there was an update on the “Fiddler Murders,” which was what they were calling them. It was a national news story now. There were still no suspects but there had been another unsolved car shooting in Niagara Falls a month earlier. A woman waiting for her son to get off work was gunned down by the side of the road—probably by the same killer.

The TV reporter was standing outside the theatre and cops and news trucks were all around. They had yellow police tape up and people were crowding behind it, watching the scene. The caption at the bottom of the screen read: “Fiddler on the Roof murderer on the loose in Niagara-on-the-Lake.”

“That’s kinda funny,” Orin said.

“How is that funny?” I said. “Two people died last night.”

“The caption. You can’t tell me that’s not funny. I think it’s meant to be a little funny.”

“It’s not funny.” I was lying… it was a little funny. But it was funny to appreciate on the inside and keep to yourself because two people had been killed and it wasn’t right to laugh at that kind of thing.

The streets were busy and we had to wait twenty-five minutes for a table at the restaurant I’d picked. We waited at the bar and everyone was talking about the Fiddler murders. One guy said he’d sold the woman, the director, a pack of cigarettes the day she died. Another said he figured the killer was someone local who auditioned for a role in the musical but didn’t make the cut—or maybe was an understudy. And then a woman said it was great they had all this publicity for the musical now but that it was useless because they’d shut down the production. Orin and I sat and listened.

The server came to escort us to our table but by the time I arrived I couldn’t find Orin. He’d just slipped off. I sat down anyway and told the server my husband would be back, and he did come back ten minutes later. He walked towards the table with his arms up, but with a big grin.

“I made!” he said.

“Oh, I’m so glad, dear.”

“Things will be different now. We can really start our vacation. I bet I could hop on a horse right now. Are they still open?”

“Oh, I’m so happy.”

It was the best dinner. I ordered pasta and Orin had roast duck and scalloped potatoes. We shared a bottle of Pinot Noir from one of the local vineyards—one we’d probably visit the next day on the tour. Our server was charming and the music was at the perfect volume. I couldn’t stop smiling.

We talked about the wine tour and Orin suggested we stay an extra day so we could visit the stables again.

“I’m getting on that horse, Laura,” Orin said. “You can count on that.”

“We’ll ride past the waterfall.”

“You bet your little ass we will.”

When we got back to the hotel I thought we were going to have sex. We were tipsy from the wine and Orin groped me a little in the elevator. A married couple doesn’t need to have sex all the time but when you’re staying in a hotel I think it’s important to have sex at least once. Especially if you’ve had a nice time at dinner. But when I went into the washroom to change out of my blue dress, Orin fell asleep. I sat on the bed beside him and played Tetris on my phone.

We woke up at eight—we’d missed the pickup for the bicycle tour. It was raining anyway.

“Maybe we should just drive home,” Orin said.

“What about the horses?”

“It’s raining.”

“I thought we were going to stay another day?”

“It’s raining, Laura.”

We left after Orin’s nine a.m. bowel movement.

The rain stopped around Hamilton and it was clear skies all the way until Windsor. We didn’t say much to each other. Orin let me play the radio for a bit. There was more news about the Fiddler murders: Still no suspects, but apparently the police found an unlicensed gun and half an ounce of crystal meth in the director’s car. It was too early to speculate, the newswoman said, but she speculated anyway. She said it was possible the two victims were involved with some sort of crime ring. It was all very sensational but Orin made me shut the radio off because he had a headache.

I wondered what Cathy would say when I returned to work the next day. She’d probably go on about how she’d just been there, in Niagara-on-the-Lake, and how she’d seen the musical with the two murder victims. She’d act like the office expert on the whole matter. If anyone brought it up, Cathy would swoop in and take over the conversation: Well, when I saw the production, I could imagine her saying, I noticed something a little off about the guy playing Tevye. I bet you did, Cathy.

The funny thing was that I was actually there for the whole murder. I could have sat next to the killer in a restaurant, or maybe they were staying in our hotel. You never know. But I couldn’t say anything because Cathy thought I was sick at home. My Niagara-on-the-Lake story was better and more relevant than hers even though Orin and I didn’t really do much. We didn’t do anything aside from our dinner. But we were there. And it was a magical dinner.

“Remember dinner last night?” I said. We were outside of Woodstock.

“It was good.”

“I really had a great time with you, Orin.”

“The food was excellent.”

We stopped for lunch in London and Orin let me run into Wal-Mart afterwards. I went to the DVD section to look for Miss Congeniality so I could lend it to Cathy but they didn’t have it. I found the movie version of Fiddler on the Roof in a bargain bin, which I bought. I missed out on the live show but I could have my own private experience when we got home to supplement the trip.

I couldn’t wait to get back home and watch the film. I scanned the DVD case for the rest of the drive to Windsor imagining what the film would be like. It’s exciting to watch something that’s relevant to your own experiences. The whole thing would be coloured by the murders.

We stopped for the last time before arriving home near Chatham. Orin filled up the car and I bought an ice cream sandwich. I ate half and passed the rest to Orin.

The next day at work I didn’t say a word to Cathy about any of it. I let her yammer on about a painting class she’d signed up for. I smiled and nodded along. She had no idea where I’d been.

“The instructor’s actually from Paris?” I said.

“He really is!” Cathy said.

But I wasn’t listening to Cathy’s story. I was thinking about Orin. I pictured him walking over to me in the restaurant, his hands up in the air, the enormous grin plastered across his face. I wanted to live inside that moment. Orin would never reach the table and we would never place our orders. But I wouldn’t know that. I’d just sit and watch my smiling husband walk towards me forever.