The Leprechaun Statute

“I’d like to report a crime.” I said, finally getting to the point.

The man in charge, Pc Darby, sported an oversized handlebar mustache which was now flaked with salt and crackers.

“More crackers, Mr. Wisely?”
Ever so generous, Constable Darby circled around the table re-filling my Earl Grey tea all the while watching me with the eyes of a hawk.
I sat at the table with my arms folded.

The Roseville Police interrogation office was a drab kind of place whose walls had witnessed a million tears, jeers, or worse.

I wasn’t under arrest, but this dimly lit room with its pale peeling paint made me jitter, like I was exposing a criminal conspiracy.

I suspected the electric clock radio that read 4:17 pm was accurate, and Constable Darby seemed professional enough, but thankfully, and in contrast to the dreary surroundings, a rather smartly dressed, ginger-haired young woman sat opposite me. She seemed nice.

This was Constable Darby’s assistant whom he referred to as “Sal,” short for Sally I suppose, and it was her job to fill out the paperwork.

When I told her I was 84, she raised her head from her clipboard and offered a reassuring smile which reminded me of my leprechaun garden statue.

To be honest, I’d never been in a police station before, and yet, I surprised myself. I was completely calm. And, as I had told them, naturally innocent of Martha’s murder.

I knew who had killed my ex-wife, but it wasn’t something a rational person would accept, and I was pretty certain police officers tend to be a rational bunch.

‘Well, Mr. Wisely, let me repeat. Are you sure you don’t want someone? You can make a call.”

With a steady voice I answered, “Oh, no no that’s perfectly alright,” but inside my mind was racing. You see, calling a lawyer would mean a lawyer was more likely to call Social Services than believe in an old codger like me.

“Oh, poor Martha!” I cried, “This is such a tragedy.”
“To be sure, Mr. Wisely. So, what would you like us to do? Would you like to write it all down? We could leave you to it.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. I mean, the words coming out of my mouth would be laughable but on paper the words would, I suppose, be more convincing.

Wiping a tear from my eye, I tried to think of happier things. And seeing how I was cooperating, Officer Sal handed me her clipboard and pen and patted me on the shoulder.

“Take as long as you want,” she said in a sympathetic tone. I tried to return her smile, but realized she probably thinks I’m dead- guilty.

With the door shut and the day growing shorter, I sat alone with my thoughts, my story, and a ray of afternoon light peeking through the only window in the room.

Poor Martha.
Ah yes, happier times, I thought. Perhaps it was that lonely, yet life-

nourishing ray of light that reminded me that Martha’s demise had everything to do with our favourite pastime, gardening.
You see, Martha and I loved our gardens more than anything on Earth.
My garden had a gold-fish pond surrounded by blue bonnets, white geraniums, and golden sunflowers.
Nearby, I had built a small brick wall to keep the cats happy. My 2 tabby cats, Orson and Bobo, loved to perch on the wall watching the fish with eager eyes.
Oh! I should get to the point.
Martha and I agreed to tend separate gardens in our backyard. She liked to grow sweet peas, tomatoes, and green vegetables while I tended towards flowers.

This suited us both for a couple of years until one year she came back from her travels with a golden Buddha statue.

So, a few days later, I went out and found my leprechaun statue and named him O’Malley.
Laughingly, we placed our statues side by side in our gardens for good luck and good karma. It wasn’t the best of ideas.

That night there was a terrible lightning and thunder storm that shook the rafters of our house.

I remember looking out our bedroom window, and I swear a bolt of lightning electrocuted both our statues.

The next morning at first light, while still in our pajamas, we ran out to see the damage.

Other than a few charcoal burn marks which frazzled their expressions, both my leprechaun and Martha’s buddha were ok.

“See,” Martha laughed as we gulped down breakfast later that morning.

“We have 2 very special statues — bodes well for the future, don’t ya think, Johnny?”

Lucky indeed.
“It was straight from the heavens.” I replied.
“Well, it seems that your little leprechaun got the worst of it.” Once again Martha was testing my limits.
“I guess everything comes and goes in circles, right?”
Funny enough, I didn’t know whether I said it out loud or thought it to myself; it was just one of those times when the words seemed to pop out on their own volition.

That Saturday morning was the last of the good times I suppose. I was working weekdays at the Mayor’s office and Martha had just gotten her first big newspaper assignment, an interview with a local financial legend, Bill Masters.

While she was away, I spent a lot of time in my garden tending flowers and chatting with my leprechaun.

I often wondered how they got along: the old Buddha seemed cheery enough, but my leprechaun at certain times of the day seemed to sport a mischievous smile, usually when the sky had turned to dusk and Martha was late for dinner.

Sometimes I asked about the clash of cultures between the two statues. Obviously, if talking to plants helps plants grow, then talking to statues couldn’t hurt, and so I asked.
Did the Buddha enjoy Irish jokes? Irish Dancing? Did O’Malley take an interest in meditation?
Obviously, it was the Buddha who was the master of meditation, and looking back, it was Martha’s interest in that ancient practice that brought Martha and Bill together. Something I started to suspect as by fall she had neglected harvest-time and the abundance of sweet peas and carrots that had grown wild in her plot.

Ironically, it was during this period when my garden family became close. I’d water my roses and sing with the birds, while O’Malley and Buddha would do their best to scare Orson and Bobo. Bobo, in particular, took a dislike to O’Malley for no reason at all.

Sometimes my garden statues would ask me about Martha and I would lie and say she was indisposed with a fever. At which they would send their regards, to which Martha refused to respond. I wondered if it was the absence of Martha, or the experience of the lightning strike that had bonded those two.

Meanwhile, Martha had definitely stopped joining us in the garden, and it seemed the only thing Martha and I had in common were the get-well messages from Buddha and O’Malley.

Thus, predictably, one evening, Martha finally got in her car and drove off in a storm, and I knew Bill Masters had won.

Then, a yellow manilla envelope came from Martha’s lawyer’s office.

Martha wanted her Buddha, her divorce, and her freedom in any particular order, and I completely understood.
But her letter concluded that my leprechaun and her buddha made for what the lawyer called a “Karmic Pair,” and couldn’t be separated.

I know what you’re thinking — imagine — What if Martha and I had kids? Giving up something you love, whether it’s your leprechaun, your Buddha, your spouse, or especially your child, has to be one of the great tragedies of life.

I had Martha’s clothes and belongings quickly stuffed into old luggage and cartons, and with a heavy heart I placed O’Malley and

Buddha into a wooden box.
I was too devastated to fight back. Besides hiring a lawyer would mean losing my house; something Martha didn’t have to worry about since I knew she was with Bill.
A delivery man arrived with a big moving van, and with a knowing glance he hoisted the wooden box in with the rest of Martha’s stuff. My eyes were moist with sadness as the kind delivery man drove away.

I spent more than a few years alone in my garden surrounded by my wilted sunflowers and geraniums, knowing nothing could brighten my mood.
For years, my leprechaun had brought me rainbows full of happiness; the kind of joy that comes with a vision, not hope, but a sense that rules are illusionary, and a gold shilling could bounce up off the street and into your pocket at anytime.

My leprechaun made me feel grateful — just to be alive, just to be in the game, and that’s why Martha took it.
A declaration of war it was.

And one day as I stared at the two empty plots of dirt where our statues once stood, I wished the worst for Martha and Bill. I spent the whole day imagining them in Bill’s mansion laughing over jokes about me, dancing the dances we used to dance, and drinking Merlot knowing how much I despised grapes. And I knew if I ventured beyond my garden; I’d do something I’d regret.

But I promise you this, not murder, I swear. Taking another life never crossed my mind, but come to think of it perhaps O’Malley had other ideas.

Then at some point I heard the news, Bill’s maid found Martha’s lifeless body sprawled out on the garage floor of his mansion or so they say. Martha, or the maid had placed O’ Malley side-by-side with Buddha on a top shelf and had forgotten about them. Turns out Martha had been knocked down by the Buddha which had somehow fallen from above. Paramedics arrived soon enough, but sadly, it was too late.

Of course, my world was turned completely upside down once again. The most impossible thing in the world would be to be killed by a Buddhist statue I thought, I mean what reason would a Buddhist have to kill anything? or anyone?

On the other hand, leprechauns do have a reputation…
I took a long sip of cold tea and continued writing.

Obviously, the combined weight of the statues caused the accident and that’s what I was about to tell Pc Darby.
But then it occurred to me that maybe the Buddha wanted to return to his temple? Seems logical.

And up there on the top shelf maybe my leprechaun was trying to give Buddha a helpful nudge, not realizing Martha was underneath painting her plastic flowers.
Certainly plausible.

After all, Leprechauns love to travel, while Buddhas much prefer sitting under trees. Therefore, my Leprechaun encouraging Buddha to get up and get a move on made perfect sense.
So once again I surmised it was entirely an accident and felt a sudden wave of relief; finally, everything made sense. Then, I remembered. Martha’s funeral.

Bill was civil enough.
“She was a beautiful soul.” he hushed as we stood next to the casket.
I was too full of regret to answer. If she had stayed with me, this never would have happened. And if I’d never brought O’ Malley into our yard, into our lives, Martha wouldn’t have seen how competitive I was.
“You ok? John? John?”
I attempted an answer.
“Yes, Bill — such a tragedy.”
There was nothing more to say. My mind and heart had wilted simultaneously. Soon the funeral ended, and the priest and the pallbearers, and all of our close friends were leaving the graveyard. Bill waved and was driving off in his Cadillac when I stopped for a last look back.

I couldn’t help but notice.

Beautiful flower gardens spanned out across the entire graveyard and beyond. Martha would have liked that. Alongside the roses and carnations, rows and rows of leprechaun statutes stood in various poses sticking their thumbs up and down for good luck.

Poor Martha. Not a single Buddha in sight. Which made sense.
You see, it’s illegal to smuggle Buddhas out of their home countries. And so it was at that moment, I knew the awful truth. Buddha, Martha’s kidnapped Buddha, not my leprechaun, had a motive to harm my dear Martha.

My eyes were a blur as I made my way from the funeral. Suddenly a burst of sunlight broke a cloud into rainbow fragments over my head, and Martha’s words popped into my head again.
“I guess everything comes and goes in circles, right?”

I got home cursing the logic in everything. I shut my front door and went about my business ignoring anything to do with anything, except Martha, for weeks until one crisp November morning, there was a knock on my door, and on the landing shifting his heels and wearing a wide grin, stood of all people, the delivery driver.

In his arms he held my mighty leprechaun.
“O’Malley!” I shouted as I excitedly invited the man inside for a cup of tea.

The driver’s boss had told him to take my statute to the dump, but the good man remembered years ago how upset I was and brought him back. After a cup of sherry, the good chap left. Later as I observed my leprechaun back in my garden, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his mischievous smile had changed. Orson and even Bobo were purring and rubbing their backs against O’Malleys legs. O’Malley seemed kinder, gentler. Surely he had nothing to do with Martha’s murder.

Meanwhile, in my mind’s eye, I could see the angry kamikaze Buddha falling with the weight of karmic vengeance putting an end to the only woman I had truly loved.
Poor Martha.

Officer Sal, the ginger haired assistant, had returned to my dimly lit room.
“So did you get it all down for Constable Darby?”

I was surprised they let me take so long.
And to be honest, she reminded me of Martha, but to be truthful all women reminded me of Martha these days.
“Constable Darby will be back in a minute — he’s dealing with some real thugs tonight.”
I felt a sudden shiver.
“Oh? Well you do, do dangerous work I’m sure.” I responded, adding.
“Will he read my report about Martha?”
She had confident eyes, Ms. Sal, combined with a dreamy kind of face that brought out a natural calm.
“Yes. Mr. Wisely, do you have transport? Would you like me to call you a taxi?”

I relaxed knowing the whole ordeal about Martha was finally over. “Yes, that would be good.”

Kind Ms.Sal helped me out of my chair and handed me my cane.
I wondered. Would she prefer a leprechaun, or a Buddha in her garden?
She looked down at my notes and flashed her smile right through me again.

“Oh my, you wrote a lot! So thanks again for being such a good citizen, and we’ll be in touch… ok?”
There’s no reason for another report, I thought, I’d proven my leprechaun’s innocence; it was Martha’s Buddha who had murdered my Martha.

“Yes, that will be fine,” I said, “I know it doesn’t make much sense but I think I know this time what has happened.”
“Yes, terribly sorry about Mrs. Wisely, Mr. Wisely. You must miss her, right? She must have been quite a woman.”

“Yes… Yes she was… She certainly was. You know? We were married for 43 years… like two peas in a pod, and never had so much as a row.”
“That is amazing…Mr.Wisely, sadly, accidents do happen, and… the roads in Roseville were very slippery that night.”

Before I could correct her, Officer Sal’s voice seemed to soothe away the foggy shadows that had overtaken our room. Just like Martha, this woman knew how to keep things cool.
She leaned forward and whispered, understanding of everything. “Now, don’t tell Constable Darby I said this,” she said, “but if you have any more ideas about what happened, you come see me directly. Would that be ok?”

I nodded.
“Yes Ms. Sal, that would be the thing to do wouldn’t it?”

“Yes, Mr. Wisely. It certainly would. It certainly would.”

I straightened my jacket and watched as Officer Sally professionally stacked my report on a top shelf alongside a stack of similar looking reports. Then she turned to face me.
“Now. Let’s get you that taxi.”