Minnie Ross's Retirement Diary

June 12

Lindomar Hollow is the perfect place to settle down. Each bedroom in our rental cottage has a little desk with a view of the ocean. I bought a computer with the loot from our last heist and ordered a jigsaw puzzle that arrived yesterday.

Retirement suits me. If only I could say the same for Imogen.

This morning, I woke to a scream of agony. I should be used to it; I’ve spent years falling asleep to the wails of victims or Imogen’s tyrannical laughter.

I leapt from my bed and raced down the stairs while tugging a dressing gown over my shoulders. There were no victims in sight. Just Imogen, hunched over the morning’s paper.

“Not a single mention of me!” she wailed. I scanned the front page. Town Center Ensnared in Parking SNAFU was featured under an advertisement for a mobile dog groomer.

I must give credit to the editor for the bold headline.

“They think my evil plot was the work of teenagers?” Imogen shrieked. “There’s nothing more devious than a parking quagmire. Why aren’t they cowering in fear? I’ve antagonized the region for nearly fifty-five years. Don’t they know who I am?”

Yesterday, I invited Imogen on a walk to the village to claim my jigsaw puzzle from the local post office. Up until this point, she seemed wholly uninterested in the pleasures our new home has to offer. She agreed and emerged from the cottage with an awkward-looking duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

“Do you have a parcel to ship?” I asked. She cackled wickedly for a minute, then remembering herself, shook her head soberly.

“I’m a changed woman,” she swore, though the gleam in her eye suggested otherwise.

Lindomar Hollow’s bustling downtown is arranged in a crescent-shape with a central roundabout. City hall, the post office, a bakery, a pub, the local paper, and various boutiques rub elbows with each other. I’m glad it’s close to our cottage; the parallel parking opportunities are horrific.

Imogen produced a slim car jack from her suspicious duffel.

“Quick, let’s move this car forward, say, five inches.”

The SUV in question was perfectly centered in the lines as I made a point of showing Imogen. It was an unusual example of quality parallel parking from such a monstrous vehicle. The new-fangled backup cameras must help.

“I’m being civic-minded,” she said. “It’s so difficult to find parking in Lindomar Hollow. What if we shifted every car, just a little bit, so there are more spaces available?” Before I could consider her reasoning, she slipped the jack under the rear bumper. “Now, push!”

I don’t know what came over me. Years of conditioning, following Imogen’s every order, compelled me to push the car one wheel-length forward. I should be gentle with myself. It’ll take more than three weeks of court-ordered therapy to undo those maladaptive behaviors.

By the time we were through, we’d moved every car forward or back a few inches, making it impossible to exit the parking space or admit another car without risking damage. It was the happiest Imogen had been for weeks.

At least I retrieved my package. I’m opening the jigsaw: one thousand pieces! It should keep me busy for awhile. Imogen’s still ranting and raving while violently unpicking her needlepoint sampler. She agreed to try it after I explained needlepoint was simply repetitive stabbing.

June 13

Imogen invited me on a walk for the first time this morning. She’d even run ahead to the tearoom and brought me a to-go cup. I was so shocked she remembered a coffee collar that I didn’t even mind that it was chamomile. I prefer Earl Grey.

The gift should have been a dead giveaway. She laid out her next evil plot as we walked.

“We’ll intercept bill payments through the mail,” she said. “The post and utilities companies around here are so behind, it will take months for them to sort out.”

I took a long sip of tea. “I suppose they deserve it, having not opted for paperless payments.”

Imogen looked at me strangely, then prattled on. I listened respectfully, like a good henchman, and made a single request.

“Can we stop at home before we begin? I need to use the restroom.”

As I washed my hands, I considered the situation. The parking prank was irritating but harmless. Intercepting mail tipped into felony territory. Not as severe as Imogen had schemed in the past, mind: there was no evidence of kidnapping, ransoming, elaborate traps or mazes, torture, extortion, but there would be consequences. At the very least, her therapist would advise against it.

“Minnie? What’s taking so long?” Imogen shouted from downstairs.

What could I do? I made a quick stop at the computer, slotted a few pieces in the jigsaw, and followed her out.

As luck would have it, the local constable was on patrol. Lindomar Hollow’s law enforcement was little more than part of the scenery. I’d hoped he would be up to the task today.

Imogen’s sense of observation isn’t as keen as it once was. She had her hand in a mailbox before she noticed the constable coming our way.

“Can I help you, ladies?” he asked.

Before Imogen could respond, I jumped in.

“Oh thank goodness, officer,” I said weakly. “We’re new to the area and seem to be lost. I don’t recognize this street and asked my friend to check the addresses on the post to help get our bearings.”

Imogen glared and returned the envelopes to the box. The constable extended his elbow in my direction. I accepted the escort.

Back at the cottage, I braced myself for a thorough dressing down. Henchmen are used to accepting the blame when things go wrong: the hero escapes, the lovers are reunited, nothing happens when the villain presses the big red button. I’d seen Imogen’s wrath in all its forms.

In all forms except this one.

“Minnie,” she began, thrusting the vowels through her front teeth. “Are you loyal to me?”

“You know I am, Imogen.” I pledged my loyalty to her long ago, abetted her in any number of unspeakable crimes.

“Then why are you obstructing me at every turn?” She clenched the hem of her peacoat.

“I care about your rehabilitation,” I said, surprising myself. “You deserve— we deserve— to enjoy ourselves with whatever time we have left, and may God have mercy on our souls for anything coming in the hereafter.”

“I see,” Imogen sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Perhaps it is time to call it quits. Moving cars and stealing mail doesn’t give the same thrill as our old capers.”

In that moment, I committed my first fatal error. Not summoning the constable, not standing up to Imogen.

I relaxed.

She rounded on me, eyes blazing. All that therapy must be working, because in that moment, I felt empathy for every one of our victims.

I fled to the bedroom and barred myself inside.

I tried to work the jigsaw but couldn’t stop my hands from shaking. After a few hours, Imogen rammed a ream of paper under the door with a handwritten note on top.

This is my manifesto. I know you have a computer in there. See that it is typed and distributed to the village. Prove your loyalty, or else.

I’ve known Imogen for a long time. I don’t want to know what she intends with ‘or else’.

June 14

I finished typing the manifesto last night around 3 a.m. and shuffled into a restless sleep for a few hours. I set my alarm earlier than Imogen gets up. I hoped to reason with her one last time before she put her plan into motion.

I didn’t need the alarm. Once again, a high-pitched scream roused me from sleep. I raced downstairs to see Imogen absolutely glowing with pride. She brandished the morning edition of the local paper.

Infamous Supervillain Takes Up Residence in Lindomar Hollow, the headline read.

“Finally, they know my name!” Imogen crowed. “All will fear my wrath. Quick, Minnie, grab your windbreaker. We’re going on our walk.”

“But, the manifesto?” I asked.

Imogen preened. “That can wait for another time. Let the people grovel.”

I hurried upstairs before she could change her mind. Between fastening the toggles of my coat, I logged in to the computer and accessed my email. I deleted all drafts of the articles I’d sent to the local paper. Turns out, they always need new contributors, and Imogen always needs a stage.