SISTERLY LOVE By Marcia Kiser "G-D-I-T-H!" I said after I banged down the receiver. "What?" My sister, Jennifer, reacted, which was good, by raising her head so I got a look at her blotchy cheeks. The swollen flesh around her eyes was purple. "I'm improving my image," I said. "I'm trying to quit cussing. I haven't quite broken the habit, so I'm only using the first letter." "Now? You're gonna quit cussing now? How can you even think about something so trivial?" Jennifer wailed. I had to admit it probably wasn't the best time to quit. Stress was running high since Jennifer found her husband of almost twenty years, in the bedroom -- with a gun in his hand and a hole in his head. "Who called?" Jennifer wasn't up to answering the phone yet and it was one thing I could do. I patted myself on the back at the show of sisterly love. At least I distracted her for a few moments with my new approach to cussing. Thinking Outer Mongolia would be a nice place to visit, I crossed the room and sat on the ottoman, so Jennifer and I would be at eye-level. "Jen, that was the police." I grabbed her hands, dropping the limp tissue she held. "The lieutenant said Harold didn't commit suicide." "He didn't . . . . ," she mumbled and started laughing. Jennifer jerked a hand free to cover her mouth. "He didn't commit suicide? That's wonderful, Tessa! Don't you think that's wonderful?" Jennifer jumped up and paced the living room. I stayed where I was, waiting for her to make the connection. "I've been sitting here for two days, wondering what I did that made Harold so miserable he'd kill himself. Feeling guilty, like I was the one that did something wrong. And now, I find out Harold didn't do it. That's just . . .." It hit. It took a little longer than I expected and it hit her harder than I thought. Jennifer's mouth opened and shut like a baby bird in a kid's cartoon. If the situation weren't so tragic, it would have been comical. "Tessa, if Harold didn't kill himself . . .." Her eyes opened so wide I was afraid her contacts would pop out. And I'd be D'd if I'd crawl around on the carpet looking for two little pieces of plastic. I hugged Jennifer before she started screaming and got her in her chair. Knowing Jennifer like I do, having taken care of her for fifteen years before Harold took over, I had about ten minutes before she went into full-blown hysterics. I fixed her a drink -- a double, no ice -- chugged a couple of shots myself and called Jennifer's private Dr. Feel-Good, a quack who called himself Dr. Bernard, for G's sake. I didn't like him, but Jennifer did. The best thing about Dr. Bernard, in my opinion, was that he made house calls and didn't mind handing out sedatives. I got the good doctor's answering service, assured them it was an emergency, bullied them into calling him on his cell phone and patching me through to him. Dr. Bernard agreed to come. I chugged another shot straight from the bottle and sat back to wait. I was off by two minutes. I heard a low rumble, like thunder from far away. It increased in volume until Jennifer let loose a blood-curdling scream. "He was MURDERED!" I never claimed my little sister was overly endowed in the mental agility department. My hands were full for the next half-hour trying to calm Jennifer. She went from paranoid (What if the killer's still here?) to indignation (How dare someone violate her home?) to maudlin (Poor Harold. At least he didn't suffer.) to taxpayer self-righteousness (What are the police doing about this?) and back again. When the doorbell rang, I ran, giving serious consideration to kissing Dr. Bernard. I mean, he should have his little black bag with him. Surely he carried disinfectant and antibiotics I could use after being voluntarily slimed. I decided, instead, to entrust my sister to his care. I had my own life to take care of -- not to mention one or two small problems that could cause me untold grief if not attended to immediately. And there were a couple of things the police mentioned that I hadn't passed on to my sister that I needed to check out. I opened the door ready to make my escape. Standing behind shiny Dr. Bernard were two police officers. I don't think I whimpered, but some of Jennifer's paranoia ran through my veins. I locked my knees, made nice mouth noises, and got everyone inside and settled. While Dr. Bernard did his ministering angel routine with Jennifer, I snuck another slug and watched the two cops watch Jennifer and me. "She was a little shook up when I told her Harold didn't kill himself." I addressed the space between the two cops, hoping one of them would speak. I hadn't heard their names over Jennifer's caterwauling when they flashed their badges at the door. The older one nodded and the younger one shrugged. They looked both embarrassed and grim -- an interesting combination. Dr. Bernard's sedative took hold and Jennifer's cries diminished into hiccupy whimpers. He moved behind Jennifer, patting her shoulder, in what I assumed was a comforting gesture. "Mrs. Anderson, I'm Lt. Fields. This is Sgt. Gray. We need to ask you a few questions," the older cop said. "What are you doing about my husband's murder? That's what I want to know." Jennifer yelled, but it lacked force. "Did your husband own a gun?" Lt. Fields asked. "A gun? No, I don't think so. Ask Tessa. She'll know. They went shooting . . . " Jennifer's eyes rolled back in her head and she slumped in her chair. "Ms. Sanders?" Both detectives looked at me. I sighed. "We went skeet shooting a couple of times," I shrugged. "And I think he had a hand gun." "Was it a semi-automatic?" "I don't think so. Doesn't an automatic have a wheel-thingie where you put the bullets in?" Sgt. Gray smirked. "No, ma'am. Revolvers are wheel guns. Semi-automatics have a slide. Did your brother-in-law have a semi-automatic?" "No. I'm pretty sure it was the other kind -- the kind with the wheel-thingie." "And you never saw your brother-in-law with a semi-automatic?" "I don't think so. Uh, can you tell me why you decided Harold didn't kill himself?" I knew it probably wasn't the best time to ask, but I had to know. "The gun was wiped clean, which makes us suspicious. Interestingly enough, we did find one print. On the barrel of the semi-automatic he was holding," Sgt. Gray said. He pulled out his gun, popped the clip free, ejected the shell and locked the slide back to point at the barrel - all to show me where the print had been found. "That looks like your gun, Tessa." Oh, S! Jennifer picked that moment to be coherent. She looked around like a bleary-eyed drunk. "Didn't you loan your gun to Harold?" Everyone froze. I knew it was over. Sgt. Gray rammed the clip back in his gun with the heel of his hand and worked the slide. In a flash, I saw the newspaper headlines. I saw the whole story being splashed and re-hashed on television. The cops would find Harold's safety deposit box key, which I had in my pocket -- one of things I had planned to fix. The cops would trace the money back to me, and find the regular deposits in my own trust account. That would lead them straight to the money I had siphoned from Jennifer's trust fund that our parents had thoughtfully set up before carelessly dying in a boating accident. Happily, they had left me in charge. I used the money from Jennifer's account to cover the funds I had embezzled from the bank where I worked, which I had taken to cover my gambling debts. I didn't know how Harold found out, but he had and he bled me dry. I finally had enough and followed him home. He taunted me with my own gun, telling me he was going to arrest me and take me to the police station for embezzlement. We wrestled and I got the gun and used it. Sgt. Gray had leveled his .45 semi-automatic at me while my home video ran through my head. I felt calm and relieved and knew I could end it now. I lunged toward the gun. I saw Sgt. Gray's hand move. I felt a sledgehammer hit my chest. I smelled the gunpowder and smiled. *** Just my luck, I survived. Damn it to hell. CNN, Oprah and Gerald had a field day. The cops found everything. The only thing that surprised me was Jennifer. The cops hadn't found a print, but Jennifer had known about the embezzlement. That didn't bother her -- she said it was ours and, had I asked, she would have given it to me, because we were sisters. Somehow, my mentally inept little sister figured out Harold had been blackmailing me and told the cops, which made them look a little harder at my alibi and finances. Jennifer gave me money for a lawyer. Then testified against me in court. So much for sisterly love.