Mesdames of Mayhem

Mme Melissa Yi is an emergency room physician and an award-winning author in several different genres: crime fiction, fantasy, speculative fiction, YA, poetry, memoir and most recently romance! She is the creator of the acclaimed Dr. Hope Sze series. Her work has been short-listed for a range of leading awards, including the Crime Writers of Canada Awards of Excellence, the Killer Nashville Silver Falchion Award for Best Thriller and the Derringer. In 2023, her crime fiction short story, “My Two Legs”, won the Derringer Award. She has also led the way by crowd-funding her new Dr. Hope series based on the seven deadly sins. Sometimes she sleeps!

Melissa’s fun story, “The Mob Bar Mob”, was written for the Mesdames and Messieurs’ 5th anthology, In the Spirit of 13, where “spirit” means “illicit liquor”!

THE MOB BAR MOB

A Dr. Hope Sze Mystery

by

MELISSA YI

“Open the book, Hope,” said Tucker.

He’d reserved a table for us at the Mob Bar, a retro speakeasy in the basement of Montreal’s Musée Mafioso. I was extra late because Tucker had forgotten to text me the password, so the doorman had refused to let me in.

Once I’d received and muttered the password, Zozzled, the doorman had checked off Dr. Hope Sze in a small, black notebook, tucked the notebook in the left breast pocket of his navy peacoat, tipped his matching retro police cap, and finally allowed me to enter.

I tiptoed into this dark cellar with low ceilings, brick walls, and a mahogany bar. My high heels clacked on the wooden floor, and I scanned past an elderly couple and a trio of drunk businesspeople before I spotted Tucker’s blond hair and green suit gleaming under the dim, yellow light.

Just before I sat down, facing the door, a female server in a discreet black dress placed a glass of ice cubes in front of me, with a blackberry on top of the topmost cube.

“Uh, thanks.” An empty glass?

She pressed a black book, titled The Snitch’s Diary, onto the dark, wood table, beside my right hand.

Tucker also received a book and a glass of ice.

I raised my eyebrows.

That was when Tucker told me to open the book. But the heavy hardback was stuck closed, and its pages were glued together. I sputtered, “This is a fake book!”

Tucker laughed, so I turned the book sideways and used my nails to pry open the lid. It was really a cardboard box made to look like a book. Inside lay a glass flask filled with clear liquid.

“Pretty neat, huh?” said Tucker. “You have to pour your drink yourself. They used to hide booze inside books during the Prohibition.”

The server smiled, and whirled away to serve the businesspeople at the next table, interrupting their chat about mergers and acquisitions.

I popped open the flask and tipped the strong-smelling alcohol into the glass. I might prefer books to booze, but I was willing to try it. “What did you order me?”

“The Hope Diamond Gin. I got the Bee’s Knees.”

I laughed. “They say that in the Archie comics. It means fantastic.”

“Yeah. They named the drink in honor of Bee Jackson, famous for dancing the Charleston, even though she probably ripped off an African-American dance called the Juba.”

I sighed to myself. Ain’t that always the way?

“Yeah. Gin, lemon, and honey sound good, even if it is cultural appropriation.” He started to open the box, but struggled even more than I did.

“Open the book, Tucker,” I said, with an innocent wink.

“I can’t. Mine’s, like, taped shut.” He picked up a sharp swizzle stick.

“Don’t hurt their book!”

“I’m not. The tape would hurt the book more than this stick.”

Tucker’s a family medicine resident like me. I know he’s got good hands. Still, I kept a nervous eye out for the server. I’m pretty sure they don’t want you damaging fake books at the overpriced 21st-century speakeasy.

Fortunately, the server seemed more interested in the old couple by the door. The man held up his glass, showing that he wanted a refill.

Meanwhile, the white businessman next to us grumped, “What about my moonshine?”

I glanced behind me. The bartender rolled up the cuffs of his white shirt and reached for a glass.

In other words, no one noticed Tucker’s surgery on the booze book. I breathed a little more easily—until Tucker opened the book and basically turned translucent. He doesn’t have the half the melanin in my Asian gene pool.

“What is it?” I mouthed at him.

He shut the book, fingers trembling. “It’s not mine.”

“What isn’t?” I whispered.

He texted to me instead of speaking. I’m guessing $20K.

I blinked at him. We went out for a drink and ended up with $20,000 in a booze book?

The doorman seemed like an obvious choice to tell, if only because of his Prohibition police uniform. But maybe I’d been fooled by his cap and double-breasted coat?

We couldn’t trust anyone.

I twisted in my chair to survey the room. The tall, tattooed, toothsome male bartender stared back at me; I counted two servers, including our own; the three businesspeople at the next table—who were the grumpy white man, a white woman, and a Black man; us; and the elderly white couple who looked like they might have survived the Prohibition, or at least been born in the same era as my grandma. None of them were obvious sources of twenty grand.

“Huh,” I said. “So, we should call the police?”

Tucker shook his head. “I don’t know that this is a crime.”

“Yeah, but money doesn’t fall out of the sky. Or out of a book.”

“Agreed. It’s just…I’ve never seen so much money before.”

Both of us were poor students. I don’t think anyone outside medicine has a clue that most of us graduate with at least $200,000 in debt. So free money was awfully tempting.

Tucker exhaled and said, “Okay. We have to figure out what to do with it. Let me go to the secret room.”

I started to ask, “What secret room?” But he’d already leaped out of his seat, the book tucked under his green suit jacket as he headed for the door.

I whipped out my phone to research Prohibition. When the U.S. banned liquor sales in 1920, people turned to speakeasies, or underground bars. Modern speakeasies tend to replicate secret rooms, if only so they can charge $20 a drink.

If Tucker had a second password, that doorman could probably find him a good hidey-hole.

I prayed that Tucker had that password.

“Where is it?” demanded the businesswoman with a sharp nose, and an even sharper voice, drawing my attention back to the neighboring table.

“I don’t got it,” snapped the oversized white businessman beside her.

I shrank down in my seat, remembered I was supposed to be cool, and stirred my drink instead. I didn’t dare drink it; I had to keep every last brain cell active.

“Ronald, where’d you put it?” the Black businessman beside him asked.

“In a safe place,” grumpy Ronald replied. “I told you that you could trust me, Rose,” he added to the sharp woman.

Okay. Ronald and Rose. Those should be easy to remember. At least they were both R names. I avoided their eyes. Both men looked ready to fight. Even Rose could probably smash me. She looked twice my age, but also gave off a vibe like she’d fight dirty.

“I told you to leave the money alone. Now, where is it?” Rose issued each word deliberately and viciously. Like a bullet.

Ronald shrank away. “I sent it to the back. I used a code word.”

“You idiot. What code word?” Rose snapped.

“Look, no one’s mad at you, Ronald, but we need the money,” said the Black guy.

Rose shifted closer to Ronald. “I’m mad at you. I’d cut your eyes out if Xavier here didn’t stop me.”

Ronald bleated back to her, “Bees.”

“What?”

“That’s the safe word. That’s how I know it goes to the right place. Bees.”

“You idiot. One of the drinks here is called the Bee’s Knees. In fact, I think that old lady ordered one.”

Uh-oh. They all turned to stare at the old lady by the door, who continued to chat with her white-haired husband. The doorman/policeman hovered in the doorway too, although I saw no sign of Tucker.

Rose smacked her glass on the table. “Only one way to find out.”

Oh, no. I couldn’t let her hurt that old couple.

I headed for the door, pretended that my feet were hurting in my stilettos (true story), and plopped in a seat at the empty table next to the oldsters so I could adjust my heels, letting the trio pass by.

“Good evening,” said Rose to the old lady. “We got our drinks order mixed up. Any chance you got the wrong book?”

The tiny, bespectacled, white-haired lady pointed to her drink. “It’s quite delicious, thank you.”

The elderly man looked up from his black notebook, where he was making notes. “Nothing wrong with my moonshine.”

“May I see your Snitch’s Diary?” Rose said, now displaying a tiny gun in her hand.

I dialed 911, and prayed under my breath that Tucker would hide in that secret room, far away from the door.

The doorman/fake cop took a step from the doorway toward the couple. “Hey, now.”

“Hey, what?” Rose turned the gun on him.

His hand twitched toward her, and she pulled the trigger, hitting him on the left side of his chest.

The blast reverberated through the basement, and the doorman collapsed with a heavy thump, making the wood floor vibrate under our feet.

“Rose!” Ronald gasped.

“Shut up and find my money, unless you want to go with him!”

Meanwhile, my cell phone speaker said, “Nine-one-one, how may I direct your call?”

“Man shot at the Mob Bar,” I whispered.

“I can’t hear your response, ma’am. Do you need police or ambulance?”

“Both!”

I didn’t dare say more, but I left the call live so that police could triangulate the Mob Bar’s location—if cell phone reception kept working in the basement, which was a big if.

“Now get his book, you idiot,” said Rose. “Xavier, you take care of everyone else.”

I cringed, scanning the room for weapons. My flask rested on my table. I could break it over someone’s head, but not three someone’s heads, let alone one armed with a gun. Chair—not great. My stiletto—same.

The old man rose to his feet. “Now, son, we can figure out another solution to this.”

“Shut up, Grandpa,” said Rose.

Grandpa yanked a gun out from under his suit jacket. “If you insist.”

What? Another gun? This is Canada!

Then Grandma planted her feet, and locked her arms, both hands bracing her own pistol.

A third gun? You’re kidding me.

I couldn’t outrun three guns. I hit the deck, banging my knees before I caught myself with my hands. Plus, I bit my tongue when my chin conked onto the floor. Still, I was alive.

Alive enough to hear sirens wailing outside.

“Is that the cops?” Ronald asked.

Cars screeched to a halt. Doors slammed.

“Kill them!” Rose shouted. “Ronald, take out the old biddies!”

“Don’t do it, Ronald!”

I flinched, recognizing Tucker’s voice from the hallway.

“D’you hear what I said?” Rose yelled.

“Killing them won’t bring back the money!” I shouted from the floor.

“Everyone shut up!” Rose screamed.

Feet trampled down the stairs, and the police—the real police—shouted at us to put our hands up.

I obeyed.

So did Rose and Ronald, especially once Xavier turned a fourth gun on them. Turned out he was an undercover cop.

As were “Grandma” and “Grandpa,” whose aging makeup didn’t hold up as well once the bartender turned up the lights full blast.

I rushed to check on the fallen doorman. He blinked, and met my eyes when I ripped open his navy peacoat and hauled up his white cotton undershirt,—revealing only an indented bruise on his left breast.

Don’t tell them, he mouthed at me.

He wanted to stay “dead” until the coast was clear. Smart man.

“But—” He wasn’t wearing a bulletproof vest. How had he survived Rose’s gunshot?

I yanked the coat closed. His black notebook thumped on the floor, a tiny bullet trapped in its back cover.

I almost laughed, but I buttoned his coat up until the police led Rose and Ronald out the door.

Author’s Note: Inspired by the true story of Constable Jeremy Snow, a New Zealand police officer whose notebook stopped a bullet aimed at his heart: www dot stuff dot co dot nz/national/4654409/Shot-officer-saved-by-notebook

Called the “Queen of Comedy” by the Toronto Sun, Melodie Campbell was also named the “Canadian literary heir to Donald Westlake” by Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.  Winner of 10 awards, including the Derringer and the Crime Writers of Canada Award of Excellence, she has multiple bestsellers and has been featured in USA Today.  She is the past executive director of Crime Writers of Canada (CWC).

Melodie joins CWC’s Erik D’Souza for a chat about the issue of women’s rights in her latest novel, The Silent Film Star Murders, and also what makes a Canadian cozy, as opposed to those written in the UK or the US.

You can find the interview on CWC’s Buzzsprout or Apple Podcast, Spotify, Amazon Music and numerous other podcasts.

https://www.buzzsprout.com/2232876/episodes/16894134

Sylvia Maultash Warsh was born in Germany to Holocaust survivors. She is the author of the Dr. Rebecca Temple mysteries. The second book in the series, Find Me Again, won the Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award for best Paperback Original and was nominated for two Anthony Awards at the Bouchercon World Mystery Convention in 2004. Her fourth novel, The Queen of Unforgetting, was chosen by Project Bookmark Canada for a plaque installation in Midland, Ont., in 2011.

In addition to her novella, Best Girl, Sylvia has published numerous short stories, many of which, including “The Ranchero’s Daughter”, have been short-listed for the Crime Writers of Canada Award for Best Short Story. Her most recent book, the YA historical mystery, The Orphan, was published in 2024.

THE RANCHERO’S DAUGHTER

by

SYLVIA MAULTASH WARSH

My father, the famous psychiatrist, Sebastian de Aguilar, was dying at the age of 62. I had taken over his patients in the sanitarium he founded on the rancho 30 years ago. Our family still kept horses, cows and hens that wandered freely among the banana plants, to the delight of the half dozen patients. They helped in the care and feeding of the animals, an integral part of the treatment at our facility. My father understood that it soothes the mind to think about someone other than oneself.

He was a pioneer in this kind of therapy, where patients and animals are brought together for the benefit of both. I myself was cheered by a tiny dog who adopted me on the street a few years ago. She was too straggly to have an owner, and though hesitant at first—she was not a man’s dog—I took her home. I named her Luz, since she was a light in my life. I have a tendency toward melancholy, which she alleviated with a touch of her diminutive paw.

My father called me into his bedroom in the evenings to check on his patients’ progress and give me direction. He would sit up in bed, leaning back against his pillows, while I pulled a chair to his bedside. My little Luz lay curled at my feet. I glanced at the old photo of my mother on the night table, the dark eyes moist despite the radiant smile. She had died when I was three.

My father’s concern for his patients lasted several months. But as his illness progressed, he began to divert from this path and wandered into memory. He would relate milestones in his career: his studies in psychotherapy in Vienna, the autopsies of the nervous system he conducted in New York, his positions in the Ministry of Health at home.

One time he began in the same way, dredging out from dim memory the names of old physicians who had taken him under their wing in Zurich and Berlin. Then he stopped, the soft white curls on his head trembling. I had never seen him so weak. The disease was gnawing away at his identity, leaving behind a stranger.

“Mateo, you were not yet born when a ranchero in the neighboring valley started having trouble with his beautiful but insane daughter. He was a rich landowner from a distinguished Spanish family who had come to Honduras in the 1700s. Now, 200 years later, the family was in danger of disappearing, with the girl the last offspring. The ranchero’s wife had died, so the girl lost her beloved mother and became even worse. The stepmother could not control her and came to hate her.”

This was not my father talking! He had never demeaned himself with gossip.

“The girl was a beauty, but completely mad. One never knew what to expect from her. She whirled around when there was no music. She talked to the horses and cows, and claimed they talked back. She would scream for no reason, as if someone were killing her. They could not keep maids because the girl would curse them and prick them with a fork, threatening to eat them.”

My brilliant father was disappearing. In his debilitated state, his low raspy voice arrived slowly, between halts.

“Such a beautiful girl, with long black hair and dark green eyes like a forest. The only creature she truly loved was her Chihuahua, Conchita, a demanding little dog who ate the shredded beef out of the girl’s tortillas. She had the seamstress sew a special pocket in all her skirts so she could carry the dog around, its ugly little head poking out.”

With effort, my father sat up and glanced at the Chihuahua lying at my feet. Luz lifted her fawn-colored head, alert. “Your dog could be her sister, they’re so much alike.”

I tried not to take offense at the comparison, and steered his mind back to the practice of medicine.

“Did her father take her to see a doctor?”

“In those days, they did not understand mental disease as we do now. They thought she was possessed by spirits. Because her father was rich, everyone pretended to overlook her behavior, but they murmured behind his back. He had his heart set on his daughter marrying the handsome son of a nearby ranchero. However, this family would not hear of it, having witnessed the girl’s madness.

“While she was a child, her father went to the church in town every Sunday to pray for the spirits to leave her. When she turned 18, at his wit’s end, he announced to the world that he would bequeath half of his land to the person who could cure his daughter’s insanity. You can imagine that this offer brought all sorts of schemers to the rancho to try their luck. A woman came from far away who claimed to have psychic abilities. After a few hours, she gave up, saying the devils were too strong in the girl. A man who was famous for his powers of hypnosis arrived. When he put her under his spell, she became quiet and peaceful. Her father rejoiced. But as soon as the hypnosis wore off, she started to scream that someone was trying to kill her dog.”

My father’s voice had become so quiet I had to lean forward to hear.

“Men appeared from far and wide, their common attribute the conviction that their charm alone would break the spell of her madness. Two young men distinguished themselves from the others. One was a musician of medium height but well-muscled, who arrived carrying his guitar. Black hair and black eyes, he sang ballads of honor in war in a passionate voice that made even the lizards stop and listen.

“The other young man couldn’t have been more different. Tall and fair, with well-formed limbs, he was a poet who recited his stanzas about the sky and the stars from memory. While the musician thrilled the girl with his ardent voice, the poet left her spellbound with his soft words that were laden with longing and regret. These two young men vied with each other to bring soundness to her mind, one with passion, the other with peace.”

I had become absorbed in the story when heavy shoes sounded in the hall. Beatriz gave a knock at the open door. “El Doctor should have some tea.”

A young boy whose parents worked on the estate carried in the tray. Beatriz could carry nothing but herself since, as a child, she had contracted polio, which destroyed the muscles in her legs. She moved awkwardly into the room on her crutches, pushing along her useless legs encased in leather braces that ended in solid shoes.

One of my father’s first patients, Beatriz had arrived as a young woman soon after the sanitarium opened, her family not knowing what else to do with her. She was normal in every other way, though her upper body was muscular from the labor of pulling herself around. Not pretty so much as interesting, with wide nostrils and brown eyes that tended to protrude. But her small face was animated, softening the sum of the parts.

Though my grandmother, my abuela, had assumed the running of the household when my mother died, her severe nature precluded any affection. Beatriz took pity on a lonely child, and loved me. She was as close to a mother as I would ever know. I was the only one she had allowed to strap her into her braces, an intimate procedure that required access to her thighs. Once I was 12, we both shied away from the physical contact, and she had to struggle, herself, to lift the dead weight of her legs into the torturous contraptions.

Her brow creased as she gazed at my father, whom she worshipped. “He is tiring himself out.”

I stood up, Luz suddenly awake on her tiny feet. “It’s my fault.”

Standing at the foot of the bed, Beatriz gave me her sardonic smile. “He enjoys your company.”

I bent to kiss her on the cheek before I left the room, her powder scenting my lips. Now in her 50s, she was still vain enough to apply makeup.

The next evening, my father continued the story of the ranchero’s daughter. By this time, I knew he was failing quickly and was content just to listen to his voice.

“The girl could not make up her mind between the two young men. The musician excelled at throwing knives and twirling the lasso, while the poet milked the cows with much success, the animals entranced by his words and responding with more milk than usual.

“Both young men made a show of treating the dog with deference, knowing the girl’s attachment to her. Neither of them knew the reason for the attachment—the girl had somehow come to believe the spirit of her dead mother lived in the dog. When she asked Conchita for advice, people didn’t understand that she was talking to her mother. When she gave Conchita the best pieces of meat from her plate, she was feeding her mother. And the dog was a lifesaver. Once, when the girl didn’t recognize her father and thought he was the devil, Conchita kept her from attacking him with a knife.

“It happened to be the season of banana fruiting. The poet had never witnessed the harvest and was loath to chop off the heart that sits beneath the banana clusters. You have seen its magenta blossom that resembles a heart, heavy with unopened flowers of baby plants inside. The new green bananas grow from it in clusters above, like a crown. But the energy required to open the unborn flowers within the heart keeps the new bananas hard and green. The old heart must be chopped off to allow the bananas to ripen. Just as I must die and you shall continue in my place.”

Before I could respond to this he went on.

“The musician had no qualms about cutting off the heart of each plant with his sharp knife. The magenta blossom fell into the dry banana leaves littering the ground below, clear sap dripping from the stalk.

“The girl was greatly agitated by the keen competition between the two young men, and paced along the rows of banana plants, lamenting to Conchita. They saw the girl bent over her skirt, conferring with the dog, finally clapping her hands with pleasure at some resolution. The dog, it seemed, had an idea which the girl thought brilliant. She told the two young men to stand six feet apart in front of her amid the dry banana leaves. Then she lifted Conchita from her pocket with one hand, placing her on the ground. ‘Conchita will choose between you. With her dog instinct, she can see into your hearts better than I.’ The two men were shocked that their future was to be determined by a dog!

“Then the musician started addressing the Chihuahua in his sing-song voice. ‘Here, Conchita, you know I’m the best one. I’ve seen you sway to my music.’ He waved his hand at the dog to approach. She sniffed the air, then pranced toward him, her tail raised high. When he put his hand out to pick her up, she opened her little jaws and bit down hard. He held up his bloody hand, screaming, ‘You bitch! You’re just as crazy as she is!’

“With blood dripping down his arm, he lifted the little dog into the air by her neck and proceeded to choke her with his good hand. She yipped a few times, then her tiny eyes closed.

“The girl shrieked. She thrashed around in the huge dry leaves on the ground and found the musician’s knife. With strength beyond her size, she plunged it into his heart.

“Immediately, he dropped the dog. He stared at the girl in silence before sinking to the ground.

“The poet was appalled and relieved at the same time. The girl bent beside the lifeless dog, weeping, inconsolable.”

Luz gazed at me, her bulging brown eyes fraught with terror. How could she know what was being said?

“The poet lifted the tiny body of the dog, laying it in the crook of his arm. He pressed his fingers down on her chest rhythmically, once a second for a minute. Then he opened her muzzle with one hand and bending over, blew gently into her mouth.

“Time stood still. The girl held her breath. Conchita’s furry little chest moved. She opened her eyes and blinked. She tried to yip but only a squeak came out. She was alive!”

Luz growled in her throat with relief.

“The poet buried the musician in an overgrown field on the estate. When the girl’s father asked where the musician was, she said he had gone home because she had chosen the poet. She was not cured, but was quieter because she loved the poet and knew he loved her.”

My father stopped. He leaned his head back against the pillows, his face ashen.

Beatriz pulled herself into the room on her crutches, alarmed. I had been so enrapt by the story I hadn’t heard her heavy shoes in the hall.

“Sebastian,” she whispered near his ear. But he could no longer hear.

I held his hand while he slipped away. I wept into my pillow all night, Luz whimpering beside me.

***

After the funeral, when the visitors had left, I found Beatriz crawling on the floor in the hall near my father’s room. I placed a warning hand on Luz, whom I was carrying in one arm.

I had not seen Beatriz creeping along the floor for years. When I was young, she would sometimes get into a funk about the braces and how they chafed her skin; it was easier sometimes not to put them on. But then she was reduced to crawling on the ground like a lizard. She didn’t care that a child saw her pulling her dead weight along with her arms. Now I was embarrassed for her.

She was heading back to her room. I waited until she reached it. When I heard her door close, I gave her a moment before putting down the dog and knocking.

She called for me to enter. I found her upon the settee, her face flushed from the exertion. I brought her braces toward her, but she shook her head.

“I loved him, you know.”

I sat down on the edge of the bed nearby. “I know.” Luz jumped onto the settee and began to lick Beatriz’s face. A large tear rolled down her cheek.

“The story he was telling you—” She bit her lip. “It was not just a ranchero’s daughter. It was Adelita.”

“Adelita! But that was my mother’s name.”

“Yes. Your mother.”

I blinked at her, not comprehending.

“She was a beauty. But quite mad.”

“My mother?”

She nodded.

“Then—the story was about her?”

She just looked at me and I understood. My head was spinning. I thought of the photo of the beautiful young woman on my father’s night table, how little I knew about her. He had never talked about her. I racked my brain, trying to recall the details of the story.

“Then—who was the poet?”

She shook her head as if I were blind. “It isn’t so difficult.” When I didn’t respond, she said, “Your father.”

I sucked in a breath and started to cough.

“He had no more time for poetry after the ranchero sent him to medical school in the city. The ranchero knew your father had a gift for seeing into people’s hearts. When Adelita danced to the music in her head, your father danced with her. I think after a while he heard it too. She seemed at peace when she was with him, and the ranchero thought your father could do more for her if he studied. Your father loved her more than life itself and would do anything for her. When he finished medical school, he opened the sanitarium here. He thought she was improving. You were born, and she loved you very much.”

Dear little Luz could see my distress. She jumped down from the settee and stood in front of me, begging to be picked up. When I obliged, she lay down on my lap, not taking her eyes off my face.

“But she was afraid of what she might do to you. She couldn’t always control herself, and she was terrified that she might… well, she had killed a man once. She was always whispering to Conchita—in her mind, her mother—for help to restrain herself.

“But when Conchita died, an old dog at 17, Adelita beat her breast as if her real mother had died again. She feared for you, that there would come a day when she would look at you and see the devil, and there would be no Conchita to keep you safe from her.” Beatriz stopped.

“Please go on.”

She shook her head.

“Please.” I dreaded what she would say.

She took in a deep breath. “I envied her that she could walk, but she was more broken than me. One day she walked to town, climbed up to the steeple of the church…and jumped off. She did it to protect you.”

A sob caught in my throat. I had lost not only my father, now I was losing a mother I had never known. I tried to compose myself. “He told me she died from heart disease.”

“He could not tell you the truth.”

Tears coursed down my face. Luz gazed at me with moist brown eyes. I was stunned to find they were not dog eyes, but glistened with a mother’s tears, a mother’s love. A shiver skipped across the back of my neck. My mother had sacrificed herself for me. Such love vanquished time, transfiguring flesh and bone, to land before me.

Little Luz finally lay her head down on her paws and let herself sleep, now that I understood. Such a tiny body, such a towering spirit.

THE END

Mme Lisa De Nikolits has two new events coming up in March. She is the breakfast speaker at WEN, Writers and Editors Network of Toronto on Saturday March 15th where she will talk about her stories in the anthologies, Imagine (Windtree Press, 2024) and Devouring Tomorrow (Dundern, 2025) as well as her upcoming novel , That Time I Killed You, (Level Best Books, 2026).

And best of all, Lisa will be talking about the Mesdames and Messieurs latest anthology, The 13th Letter!

There’s a new venue for readers, hosted by Emily A. Weedon. Drunk Fiction takes place at the end of every month in the fabulous Scottish pub, The Caledonian, 856 College. St. Lisa has been invited to read on Wednesday, March 26th at 6 pm. She’ll be sharing her work in Devouring Tomorrow and of course, giving a big shout-out to The 13th Letter!