The Skillet Incident

It would be simple, Sheila thought. She’d get out of her car, walk down the wooden steps to Rolling Point Beach. Then, just keep walking. It would be fucking cold. She knew that but didn’t care. It wouldn’t be cold for long. This was a surf spot, not a swimmers’ beach. The riptide alone might do the job. Otherwise, she’d just keep walking until she had to swim. Then, she’d keep swimming. Until she couldn’t.

It was around six o’clock on a cool November, Santa Lacrimosa evening, a shade past dusk. The crowds were gone along the East Beach Drive walking path. The surfers had abandoned the ocean. She sat, a bit zoned out, not sure why she wasn’t out of the car, executing the plan. Maybe the bourbon devil on her shoulder was wearing off. Losing interest. Maybe she wasn’t all that committed to the plan after all. She didn’t notice the police cruiser that pulled up behind her until the officer rapped on her driver-side window.

She rolled down the window on the Prius. He leaned in and they had an exchange. He came across as caring. Warm. Reluctantly, she admitted why she was there, adding quickly that she wasn’t sure she could go through with it. In an understanding voice, he said, “It would be a shame if the world lost you. Can I do humanity a favor and give you a lift, ma’am?”

The bottom line was that Officer Rance Cosgrave, and his bottlebrush cop moustache, saved her life. Maybe. He’d intercepted, even if by accident, her mostly sincere, if ephemeral, intention to take the big swim. She wasn’t sure she would have gone through with it, but that’s what she’d gone there to do. Now she knew she wouldn’t.

That’s where this all started. Four years before.

###

“You struck your husband, Officer Rance Cosgrave, in the head with a stove-hot cast-iron skillet. Full of bacon grease.” Although it was a statement, the charming officer, dark-skinned with slick-backed black hair clearly meant it as a question.

“He complained about the bacon. Again. Said it was burnt,” Sheila looked around. A standard police interview room like you’d see on any cop show. Bright lights. Grey walls. Basic table and chairs. Cameras in the corners recording everything. “It wasn’t,” she added. “It was perfectly crispy. Like ninety percent of red-blooded Americans like it.”

“And swinging a still stove-hot, cast-iron skillet at the back of his head seemed an appropriate response?”

Sheila shrugged, smiled, “I guess you had to be there. It wasn’t just the bacon. Detective Ruvalcaba, your colleague Officer Cosgrave, my husband, was an asshole.”

“I’m not going to argue that,” said the detective with a disarming smile. “Most people in this building would agree. I’m just trying to understand what happened. How did you go from burnt bacon to where you wound up?”

“It wasn’t burnt. It was perfect.”

“Fair enough. Still, I’d like to hear the story.”

“How much time you got?”

“All the time in the world.”

###

She’d been a child star. Sheila Grouse. Starting at age eight, she’d played the hell out of a tambourine in the service of a family musical act called The Grouse House. Her mother, Stella Grouse, who yearned for stardom was convinced that she and the kids could sing their way to success. Before she’d reached puberty, Sheila had shaken her tambourine alongside her mother and five siblings on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno, Arsenio Hall, and a largely unwatched episode of Unplugged. There was even a very short-lived The Grouse House tv show. Canceled after one season. But still popular, in a cult-like way, in syndication. And YouTube.

But the family schtick had a limited shelf-life, little more than three years. After The Grouse House ended what was obviously their last tour, playing mostly county fairs and bingo halls, Stella still clutching at vicarious fame through her children had pressured Sheila, and all the kids, into auditioning for TV parts. Her older brother David, lead singer and heartthrob of The Grouse House, went on to moderate success as a solo performer and Teen Beat cover model. His posters decorated many a young tween’s bedroom walls. Her older sister, keyboard player Laurie, was the one who found success in acting, eventually playing a tough-as-nails lawyer on a hit show, Legal Proceedings. Second brother Danny had gone through rough times, showing up in the news for all the wrong reasons, but eventually emerged as a popular podcaster and in-demand participant on celebrity reality competition shows.

Sheila’s post The Grouse House career was less successful. She’d landed roles in three different sit-com pilots, all playing the spunky, smart-mouthed pre-teen. None of which were picked up. Then, at twenty-one she gained control over her The Grouse House endowed trust fund, which she was pleased, and surprised, to find had not been gutted by Stella. Between that, royalties, and residuals, she never had money problems. Plenty to live on, if not lavishly, at least comfortably. Even in California. What she did have, though, was identity and direction problems. The only thing worse than a lifetime of struggle, she thought, was a lifetime that started at the pinnacle and then plummeted, never to recover. It was difficult, as an adult, to think of her glory days having been between the ages of eight and twelve.

###

“Okay, Mrs. Cosgrave,” said Detective Ruvalcaba.

“I’d prefer if you called me Sheila. Or, if you just have to be formal, go with Ms. Grouse,” she paused. “Rance is dead. Technically, I’m not married to him anymore. The sooner I get separation, and lots of it, from being Mrs. Cosgrave, the better.”

“Fair enough, Ms. Grouse. Sheila,” the detective nodded. “Like I said, you won’t find many people in this department that would argue Rance Cosgrave was a good guy.” He hesitated, weighing a thought. “Are you sure you don’t want an attorney?”

“Nah,” Sheila waved a dismissive hand. “I’ll get one eventually. For the trial. The plea bargain. Whatever. But I’m enjoying telling you all about it. It’s like therapy. I feel the best I’ve felt in four years. Maybe in my entire life. Whatever trouble I might be in, it’s like stones have been lifted off my chest.” Ruvalcaba nodded and smiled. He was good looking, but she wasn’t about to fall for that charming cop bullshit again.

“Okay, let’s proceed,” the detective said. “So, you clocked him with a hot cast-iron pan. How did you get from there to the whole stand-up paddle board situation? I have to say, Sheila, that sounds like something that would take some planning. Premeditation.”

It was Sheila’s turn to say, “Fair enough.” She hesitated, “The skillet incident was spontaneous. I promise. But yes, I’ll admit that I’d spent four years, or at least three years and seven months, fantasizing about what I’d do if I ever got the chance. Or the nerve. I thought it would be poetic irony to leave him in the exact same place he’d saved me from.” She threw air quotes around the word saved.

###

Sheila had taken up residence in Santa Lacrimosa, a beachside tourist town at the north end of Monterey Bay eight years before. She was attracted by its weather, its embracing of artistic weirdness, and its proximity to the Bay Area in case she decided she needed to indulge in some big city vibes. Once settled in, she found that that last reason was rarely, if ever invoked because the first two proved to be exactly to her liking.

She used her funds to open The Ocean’s End, an artist facility where painters, dancers, sculptors, and artists of every description could rent studio or rehearsal space. She dabbled in painting and joined a burlesque troupe that used her facility for its practices. On First Fridays, The Ocean’s End also held exhibits and open houses. She didn’t hesitate to use her former child star status to promote herself or her creative efforts. Santa Lacrimosa, it turned out, warmly embraced all of its celebrities, no matter how minor. She knew she’d never recover the heights of her eight-year-old self, but she wasn’t going to shy away from using her past to her advantage whenever possible.

She was happy. Mostly. That’s what she constantly told herself. But never entirely escaped the feeling that she was faking it. Pretending to be happy. It was always a bit of a tightrope walk. Most of the time she felt fine. Once in a while she went into a spiral. The main variable that had led to her attempted deadly swim was a fifth of bourbon. She’d started young, like many child stars. At that time, she drank anything. And snorted and smoked anything as well. She was only interested in the numbing properties. As an adult though, she’d narrowed down her substance of choice to bourbon. Partly because it was delicious. And partly because she found out that being a bourbon afficionado went a long way towards legitimizing, aka hiding, the amount she drank. She read books, took mixology classes, attended tastings. She could spill out a string of tasting notes with the best of ‘em. When she arrived in Santa Lacrimosa, she found a part-time job leading tours of the local Saturn Distillery which produced a variety of spirits, including a killer bourbon. Her tours were promoted, of course, as being guided by 90’s child star, Sheila Grouse.

That evening along East Beach Drive had been fueled by knocking down a fifth of Knob Creek over the course of one afternoon while simultaneously plummeting down a rabbit hole of The Grouse House YouTube videos. She didn’t really mean it. The killing herself part. That was why she’d hesitated in getting out of the car, she was sure. She was grateful that something, someone, had intervened. At least she had thought as much at the time.

###

“You had figured out ahead of time that you could tow one paddle board with another?”

“I looked it up,” Sheila said. “I’d never done it, but theoretically I knew how.”

Ruvalcaba jotted in his notebook. Then, “How did you know he’d stay unconscious from the time you brained him,” he stopped, “I mean, hit him with the skillet until you got him out beyond the surf at Rolling Point?”

“Midazolam. I looked it up. I wanted to be ready if I ever had the chance. I kept a syringe loaded at the bottom of my underwear drawer. There was no way Rance was going to do laundry or open my girly underwear drawer. Safest hiding place in the world. I tossed the syringe into the ocean while I was out there. With any luck it’s in Hawaii by now.”

“So, the ending was premeditated, but not the triggering event. You were prepared just in case. How did you obtain the drug?”

“If you insist on an answer to that question, I’ll have to invoke my right to counsel. I know people and I don’t want to get them in trouble.”

“Fair enough.”

###

Sheila was smitten with her savior who came to visit her in the hospital every day while she was 5150’d. But the honeymoon phase didn’t last long. Two or three months. Just long enough for a whirlwind romance, proposal, and wedding. Shortly after that she realized she’d made a catastrophic mistake.

Within the first week Mister Cosgrave insisted that she sell off, or at least divest herself from, The Ocean’s End. Touchy-feely arts had, he said, been a contributing factor to her suicide attempt. She needed to focus on practical things. It was also made clear that she, the wife of an SLPD officer, would absolutely not be shaking her tits and ass in front of strangers as part of any burlesque, or as he said, stripper performance. She had a new, more fulfilling life, taking care of him and his motherless kids, Chad and Chloe.

Two weeks after the wedding, Sheila received a DM through Facebook Messenger from a Tracy McGregor, Rance’s ex-wife and mother to the motherless Chad and Chloe. It warned her to get away from Rance. Called him narcissistic and toxic. Sheila thought it a predictable response from a jilted ex-wife trying to malign her new guy. But then, within another week, Rance Cosgrave began to spout the Gas Lighter’s greatest hits. “After everything I’ve done for you.” “You’re lucky to be here.” “You always overthink things.”

Sheila Grouse, former tambourine player extraordinaire, and a darling to much of America, had become an exalted au pair, laundress, cook, and on-demand fuck doll.

###

“I’m happy I didn’t go through with the suicide attempt, Detective. But what’s the point of surviving if you just wind up in a place that’s worse than where you started?”

“Just to be clear, you towed him out beyond the break, in the middle of the night on a paddle board, for the purpose of dumping him overboard and letting him drown?”

“Oh, hell yeah. He liked breakfast for dinner after a late shift. It was late. No one out there to see me. I paddled out and dumped his ass. I thought about trying to wake him up first, just so that he’d know it was me. And why. But what if he came out of it and was able to fight me? I just dumped him.”

“And then you paddled back in and called us?”

“Yessir, Detective Ruvalcaba. I did what I had to do. But I also understand consequences. I was prepared to pay the price. Maybe call attention to abusers like him. It’d be worth it.”

“What about the kids, Chad and Chloe?” Ruvalcaba said.

Sheila laughed out loud. “Those little shitbirds? Fuck ‘em. Time they learned to pick up their own shit-stained underwear.”

BIO: Whiskey Leavins, a humorist with a crime-writing problem, has lived a nomadic life in multiple cities and states both north and south of the Rio Grande. Now he loves life in Santa Cruz, California and has no plans to leave. He is the author of the humorous crime Santa Lacrimosa series featuring murderous clown factions, turkey-worshiping cults, brawling street performers, and was referred to by one Goodreads reviewer as “A one-man genre.” Leavins enjoys riding his Royal Enfield around the Santa Cruz Mountains. And, like his main character, Detective Rock Cobbler, appreciates a good dive bar and a bit of bourbon.

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