-----------------------------------
AHMM, May 2012
by Dell Magazine Authors
-----------------------------------

Mystery/Crime

Dell Magazines
www.dellmagazines.com

Copyright ©2012 by Dell Magazines

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

Cover by Stanley Martucci/Getty Images

CONTENTS

Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: UNEXPECTED by Linda Landrigan

Department: THE LINEUP

Fiction: SHANKS COMMENCES by Robert Lopresti

Fiction: LEWIS AND CLARK by John M. Floyd

Fiction: SPRING BREAK by R.T. Lawton

Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH: DOGWATCH

Fiction: WIND POWER by Eve Fisher

Department: BOOKED & PRINTED by Robert C. Hahn

Fiction: FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY by Ron Goulart

Fiction: FASHIONED FOR MURDER by Shauna Washington

Fiction: MR. CROCKETT AND THE BEAR by Evan Lewis

Fiction: CARRY-ON by Wayne J. Gardiner

Department: THE STORY THAT WON

Department: COMING IN JUNE 2012

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

* * * *

Department: EDITOR'S NOTE: UNEXPECTED
by Linda Landrigan

When a character encounters the unexpected, the results may be thrills or chuckles. This month, it's definitely the latter. Mystery writer Longshanks, for instance, surely didn't expect to encounter a body when returning to his alma mater to give a speech in Robert Lopresti's “Shanks Commences.” (Look for some sly references to the author's erstwhile Criminal Brief blogmates.) R. T. Lawton's hapless burglars didn't expect to find themselves surrounded by college students when their “Spring Break” job went awry. Fashionista Stacey Deshay didn't expect a murderous mess at the home of her client in “Fashioned for Murder” by Shauna Washington. And a pair of bank robbers didn't count on the forest savvy of their Boy Scout hostages in John M. Floyd's “Lewis and Clark.”

Meanwhile, Davy Crockett returns, sharp as ever, as the feisty conscience of his attorney descendant David Crockett in Evan Lewis's “Mr. Crockett and the Bear.” Cartoonist Wes Goodhill gets caught up (literally) in his in-laws’ con game in Ron Goulart's “Fun for the Whole Family.” Wayne J. Gardiner presents a case of mistaken identity in “Carry-on.” And the residents of Laskin, South Dakota, get more than information when an alternative energy consultant comes to spread a little hot air in Eve Fisher's “Wind Power.”

A batch of amusing and entertaining stories—and there's nothing unexpected about that.

—Linda Landrigan, Editor

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: THE LINEUP

Eve Fisher is the author of the novel The Best Is Yet to Be (Guidepost).

John M. Floyd is the author of three collections of short stories: Rainbow's End, Midnight, and Clockwork.

“Carry-on” is Wayne J. Gardiner's third story for AHMM.

Ron Goulart is the author of Sky-rocket Steele (Wildside), and Cheap Thrills: The Amazing! Thrilling! Astonishing! History of Pulp Fiction (Hermes). Retired Federal Agent R. T. Lawton has made his stories available as e-books, including 9 Twin Brothers Bail Bond Mysteries, and 9 Historical Mysteries.

Evan Lewis received MWA's Robert L. Fish Award for “Skyler Hobbs and the Rabbit Man” (EQMM, Feb. 2010).

Robert Lopresti is the author of Such a Killing Crime (Kearney Street Books). He blogs at Sleuthsayers.org.

Las Vegas native Shauna Washington is a fashion consultant. “Fashioned for Murder” is her first publication.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: SHANKS COMMENCES
by Robert Lopresti

“You write detective stories, don't you?” said the police officer.

Leopold Longshanks's usual reply to that question was “Guilty,” but it seemed inappropriate tonight.

“That's right.”

They were seated on the top floor of the college library, outside the Special Collections Room. Through its glass walls Shanks saw half a dozen cops at work. They seemed wildly out of place in the chamber, which looked like a Victorian gentleman's study with rugs, overstuffed chairs, and wood-paneled walls.

And lots and lots of bookcases.

There were two doors in the back wall. Shanks knew that one led to a climate-controlled vault for manuscripts. The other revealed the office of Dr. Ezra Rosetti, the director of Special Collections. That's where most of the police officers were going, because that's where the body had been found.

“Mr. Longshanks?” the cop repeated. His name was Lieutenant Steinbock.

“I'm sorry. I didn't hear you.”

“I said I hope you aren't one of those writers who think you can help the police solve crimes.”

“God forbid.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

“I just make things up. I don't know anything about solving real crimes.”

“Excellent.” Steinbock opened his notebook.

“I do have one question, though,” said Shanks. “Where are my books?”

“Excuse me?”

“I left a dozen of my novels sitting on the corner of that desk.” He pointed through the glass. There was nothing on the big antique desk now except a phone and a blotter. “So who moved them?”

Steinbock frowned. He stood up and walked toward the door, muttering something under his breath. Shanks couldn't hear what he said, but he suspected it wasn't an expression of gratitude.

“What's missing exactly?”

“Twelve hardcover novels. All written by me.”

He watched as Steinbock walked into the room and spoke to one of the uniformed cops.

Shanks sighed. It was going to be a long night.

The lieutenant resumed his seat. “We'll look for your books. Now, you'd better start at the beginning.”

“Really?”

“What does that mean?”

“The current wisdom in writing fiction is to start in the middle, where things get interesting, and then go back to fill in whatever seems necessary.”

The detective seemed to be at a loss for words, but his glare spoke volumes.

“Never mind,” said Shanks. “The beginning it is. Two years ago I received a letter from Calvin Floyd.”

“The librarian.”

“Director of the college library, yes. One of my novels won an award, and he sent congratulations on behalf of my alma mater. We exchanged quite a few e-mails and eventually he called to talk about my future plans.”

* * * *

“What do you mean, I'm without a shoe?” Shanks had asked. He looked down to his office carpet where a rather nice pair of brown loafers covered his argyles.

“I said you were without issue," said Floyd, over the phone.

“Oh, I've got plenty of issues.”

Floyd sighed. His voice was high-pitched but pleasant. “Now, you're teasing me. I mean you and your wife have no children, so I'm wondering if you have decided where you will leave your manuscripts and other papers. Future generations of readers and scholars will want to study them.”

That was a shock. Shanks had more or less assumed that he and Cora would live beyond the end of literacy, which might be next Tuesday the way things seemed to be going.

To his surprise, Cora had thought it was a fine idea. “If the college wants to cart some of your papers out of here when you're gone, that's some junk I won't have to deal with.”

“Maybe I could arrange for them to cart me off, as well.”

“Now, that would be a full-service institution. Seriously, Shanks, this is a chance to be honored now and honored later, too. You've earned it. What's the downside?”

Well, the obvious one was that it would allow his literary remains to be poked with a stick by any future grad student with time on his hands and a desire to prove Leopold Longshanks's work had been inspired by Oedipal issues, alcoholism, or fear of crabgrass.

On the other hand, it might be fun to plant a few jokers in the deck. For example, he could fake some evidence that his recent noir extravaganza, Bloodsoaked, had been inspired by the novels of Emily Bronte. Let future professors ponder that one.

* * * *

“So that's why you're here?” asked Lieutenant Steinbock. “To deliver your papers?”

“Well, most of them won't come until after I die. But we signed the formal agreement last fall and the college invited me to be the commencement speaker. The dozen novels were sort of a down payment.”

“And when exactly did Mr. Floyd tell you who would actually control your papers?”

“You mean the head of Special Collections,” Shanks said, casting a glance at the cops in the glass room. “Not until I got to campus this morning.”

“So you didn't know your old enemy would be in charge of your legacy?”

“Wow,” said Shanks, raising a bushy eyebrow. “I'm trying to figure out how many things are wrong with that sentence. My legacy, as you call it, lies in my published works. My rough drafts and grocery lists are only interesting, if at all, because of the actual books. And anyway, Dr. Rosetti wasn't my enemy.”

“What would you call him?”

“A former professor. The worst thing he ever did was give me a D.”

“In Creative Writing, I understand. That must have hurt for a future writer.”

“Actually, when I took his course I was hoping to be a trumpet player. But let's assume I was outraged. Wouldn't you say that making a living as an author all these years was revenge enough? I hardly needed to. May I ask how he was killed?”

“Letter opener to the throat, Mr. Longshanks. How did you feel when you found out he was going to be in charge of your papers?”

“Astonished, mostly. I graduated about thirty years ago. I had assumed that most of my old professors had gone to their rewards by now, or at least to Florida.”

* * * *

“Dr. Rosetti says the snowy winters here are good for him,” Calvin Floyd had explained. Shanks and Cora were in the library director's office, having just had a tour of the campus. The librarian looked a bit grim as he told them this, as if it were regrettable news.

Shanks thought about what it must be like to be Rosetti's boss. He shuddered.

“I'm surprised he's working in here. He's not a librarian, is he?”

“Oh my, no.” Floyd spoke with uncharacteristic force. He was a thin man, and could could seem a little vague until he started talking about books. Or, as it turned out, Rosetti. “His doctorate is in English. But he's been a collector of rare books for most of his life, and—”

“He donated them to the college,” Cora guessed.

“Some of them.”

With strings attached, Shanks thought. Rosetti controls Special Collections or they don't get more of his treasures. You almost had to admire the old scoundrel.

“Welcome, Mr. Longshanks!” The newcomer was a bright-eyed young woman. “What a pleasure to meet you at last. I heard you speak at a mystery convention a few years ago. I'm Dina Lundin.”

“Mr. Floyd mentioned you,” Shanks said. “You teach a course on mysteries, don't you?”

“When my boss lets me.” She stepped aside and Shanks realized a man had been standing behind her. The department head was almost as short and round as one of Santa's elves, and even had a gray beard.

“Richard Upton. It's a pleasure.”

The four of them shook hands. “Well, thanks for letting Dina teach mysteries.”

“There's a price,” she said, cheerfully. “I have to do two sections of freshman comp for every fun course.”

“Then I truly appreciate your sacrifice,” said Shanks.

“Dina's great with the frosh,” said Upton. “Personally, I can't stand the little monsters.”

Floyd had been talking on the phone. Now he hung up with the look of a man trying to conceal annoyance. “Excuse me, everyone. President Warren has taken our other guests directly to the Special Collections Room, so we had better join them.”

Floyd marched out into the main floor of the library and the rest of the group followed. An assistant hurried up to the director and they talked together as they walked.

Shanks heard the two professors talking behind him. “Think it was an accident?” asked Upton.

“Nope,” said Lundin.

“What do you mean?” asked Cora.

Upton laughed. “Our president gravitates toward power. When she escorts wealthy donors to the library it never occurred to her to bring them to Cal.”

“You mean Rosetti runs the library?” asked Shanks.

“No. He has no desire to. He just wants to run Special Collections as his own personal kingdom, and since that's the part alumni and donors care about—”

“It's all the president cares about,” Cora finished. “Sounds like the tail wagging the dog.”

“I bought a bottle of rare champagne years ago,” Upton said. “I was saving it for my fiftieth wedding anniversary. The day Ezra Rosetti retired from my department I popped the cork.”

“Didn't that annoy your wife?”

“It was her idea. She said my not being Rossetti's boss would add years to our marriage.”

Floyd was waiting for them beside the elevator. “Lots of preparations for tonight's dinner,” he said apologetically.

Why is the librarian in charge of the dinner, Shanks wondered. Maybe they needed some cookbooks.

* * * *

“So you came up here,” said Lieutenant Steinbock. He wasn't drumming his fingers on the table, but looked like he might start at any moment.

“Correct,” said Shanks. “President Warren was already in the Special Collections Room with the other two guests.”

The cop looked at his notes. “That would be Mrs. Velma Preese and Mr. Grey G. Johnson, the other speakers.”

“They aren't making speeches. They're just getting honorary degrees.”

“Yeah? In what?”

“It doesn't matter much. Honorary degrees are for achievement, not for knowing anything.”

“So what did they achieve, exactly?”

“As I understand it, money.”

* * * *

Velma Preese was a gray-haired, confused-looking woman in her sixties. Upton had explained that her husband was an alumnus of the college who had left the school a lot of rare books in his will.

“Walter hardly ever mentioned this place,” she had explained. “He just complained about the dunning letters they sent every year.”

President Janice Warren—a bright-eyed politician in her early fifties—tried to hide her amusement. “I don't think our Development Office would be happy to hear the alumni newsletter described in quite that way. I must remember to tell them.”

Grey G. Johnson was a wealthy alum in his sixties who had decided to make his gift while he was still alive and kicking. He was paying for a new gym.

“Why is it always a gym?” Cora had muttered. “Do all rich men have fond memories of playing football?”

“More likely,” said Shanks, “they have grim memories of being pushed around by football players.”

“Never spent much time in the library,” Johnson was saying. He was tall and distinguished looking with a smug air. “The business courses didn't require much more reading than the textbooks, thank God. I'm not much of a bookworm.”

“And how have you made your money?” Cora asked.

“In money, mostly. I finance start-up companies. It's gambling, but better odds then the casinos.”

“So we're honoring three businessmen this year,” said a new voice.

It sent a chill down Shanks's spine. Dr. Ezra Rosetti had appeared from his private office.

He looked, as Cora put it later, like a grumpy Albert Einstein: wild gray hair, a sweater with elbow patches, and a perpetual scowl.

Shanks realized with a shock that, except for the graying hair, the man hadn't changed a bit. It must be true that some people don't get wrinkles, they give them.

* * * *

“How did Professor Rosetti get along with everyone?” Steinbock asked.

“Let's see,” said Shanks. “He fawned over Mrs. Preese, talking about what a wonderful gift her husband had made to the collection.” Not to the library, or the college, Shanks had noted. “Apparently, the books were early American literature and quite valuable. He was excited about them.”

“How did he feel about your contribution?”

Shanks paused. “I'm trying to decide between scorn and contempt."

* * * *

“The famous Mr. Longshanks,” Rosetti had said, or more accurately, sneered. “Have you learned the difference yet between preterit and past perfect?”

“I practice constantly.” What would annoy you most? Probably if I look amused. Shanks smiled.

“That's right,” said Upton. “You took a course from Dr. Rosetti, didn't you?”

“Creative Writing,” said Shanks. “He gave me a D.”

President Warren laughed. “Isn't it nice when a student turns out better than we expect?”

“It must be,” said Rosetti.

“What do you mean about three businessmen?” asked Cora.

“I mean your husband doesn't write literature. He's turning out a product for the masses, so he's a businessman, just like Mr. Johnson there, except Mr. Johnson doesn't claim to be a creative artist.”

The wealthy alum smiled. “Some people think my annual reports are a bit too creative.”

“Please, Ezra,” said Warren. “Don't insult our guests.”

“It's not an insult to be told I write for popular taste,” said Shanks. “Puts me in the same category as Dickens or Twain. Who was the most popular author in Shakespeare's day?”

“Shakespeare,” said Upton, grinning right through his beard.

Rosetti's face, on the other hand, was stony. “So that's who you compare yourself to?”

“Of course not. I'm nowhere near as popular as those gentlemen were. But I aspire to be. And speaking of aspiration, here is the first phase of my contribution to your collection.” He handed over the hefty pile of first editions of his novels. Rosetti placed them on a corner of his desk without a glance, and rubbed his hand on his corduroy jacket.

He actually wiped his hand, Shanks thought, amazed. In case he caught any cooties from my books.

But worse was on the way. “I read one of your little books in preparation for this meeting.” Shanks guessed what was coming next. Rosetti named a novel that had received a stunningly negative review in a national magazine the year before. “I'm afraid I didn't think it was as good as the critics claimed.”

Since punching the old coot was not an option Shanks smiled more broadly. “Well, now you have some more to try.”

“And Shanks has promised us his papers,” said Dina Lundin. “We will be the center for Longshanks studies!”

“I'm sure that will keep us hopping, my dear,” said Rosetti. “Fortunately, there's plenty of room in the College History section of the vault.”

Dina frowned. “You make it sound like you're going to lock his papers up in maximum security so that no one can get hurt by them.”

Rosetti gave her a lemony smile. “I'm afraid I don't know as much about prisons as you. I don't read that kind of book.”

“Why is everyone so cranky?" asked Mrs. Preese.

“Just artistic differences,” said Professor Upton, pleasantly. “Let's take a look at these books your husband so generously donated.”

Grey G. Johnson shook his head in amusement. “I take it the professor here thinks you're a short-term investment, Shanks.”

At least he wasn't being compared to a junk bond. “Come again?”

“Your books are popular now, but the doctor is interested in writers whose value will increase in time.”

Rosetti looked even more irritated. “Not everything is about money.”

“No? Hey, Janice.” President Warren looked up instantly. “The doc says my money isn't important.”

“It's important to us," she said firmly. “Cal, is it time for dinner?”

“Where are we going for dinner?” Cora asked. “That wasn't clear on the invitation.”

“Just down the hall,” said Calvin Floyd. “In fact, it is time to go.”

“Eating in the library?” asked Shanks. “I seem to recall getting demerits for that.”

“You rogue,” said Cora.

* * * *

“So he led you all to the big room,” said Steinbock.

“The Great Hall, yes.”

“Did you all leave Special Collections together?”

Shanks closed his eyes, picturing it. “Yes.”

“And who was the last one out?”

“Rosetti. But we arrived more or less as a group.”

* * * *

“Now, this is something,” said Cora, with satisfaction.

The Great Hall looked just like a college library should, with twenty-foot ceilings and picture windows above the wooden bookcases that lined the walls.

“Recently restored through a generous gift by alumni,” said Calvin Floyd. Rosetti wasn't the only one who could brag about bringing in the bucks.

The long tilted desks Shanks remembered had been removed for the dinner and most of the room was filled with long tables covered with white cloths. College students in dark jackets stood by, ready to wait on the tables.

* * * *

“So you went to your table,” the lieutenant prompted.

“No. We were a little early. President Warren had to huddle with the board of trustees over some budget emergency and suggested we look at the art for a while."'

At one end of the hall someone had placed a dozen freestanding walls, the kind that make up office cubicles, and they were covered with paintings, drawings and photos by this year's graduating art majors.

“And how long was it before you were called to dinner?”

“About twenty minutes, I think.”

“Did you see any of the group from Special Collections during that time?”

“Two of them.”

* * * *

“What do you think you're doing, Shanks?” Cora had asked.

“Just admiring the art, dear.” Shanks sipped wine.

“I can see that. You've been stuck in front of the nudes for about ten minutes.”

“Is that what they are? A bit abstract for my taste.”

“Not that abstract. Come over here. There's a very—”

“Has anyone seen my keys?” It was Dr. Rosetti rushing up, eyes wide. “The keys to Special Collections. I put them in my pants pocket after I locked the door.”

“No, you didn't,” said Shanks. “You put them in your coat pocket.”

Rosetti frowned. “I never do that.”

“You did today. Go check your coat.”

The old man hurried off without a word.

“What a charmer,” said Cora.

“Always was. Now, where were we?”

“About to look at some landscapes.”

“Oh. Right.”

“So Dr. Rosetti went out to the hall where the coat racks had been placed,” said Steinbock.

“Presumably. I never saw him again. A few minutes later one of the servers called everyone to sit down. The whole gang we'd met in Special Collections ate together—except the president, who dined on the platform with the trustees. Rosetti never arrived.” Shanks eyebrows dropped in a frown. “Why all this interest in our group, by the way?”

The cop ignored his question. “Who was the last person to get to the table?”

“Mr. Johnson and Professor Lundin came up together. They were discussing the art.”

“Did anyone leave the table during dinner?”

“I don't believe so. Not until President Warren got up to speak. Then Cal Floyd said he was going to look for Rosetti. He'd been fretting about the old man's absence.”

* * * *

At the time, Shanks had wondered whether the library director was simply looking for an excuse to avoid the president's speech. Actually, she wasn't bad at all, although she had thanked the crowd for their “generous and fulsome applause.” Did she know what fulsome meant?

When the president had finished to polite applause a tall man in a gray suit had stepped to the lectern, introduced himself as Lieutenant Steinbock, and announced that he had some bad news.

The evening careened downhill from there.

* * * *

“Lieutenant?” A young cop was standing in the doorway of the Special Collections Room. Steinbock walked over for a brief consultation. He came back with a satisfied smile.

“We've solved the mystery of your missing books, Mr. Longshanks.” He said the word mystery as someone else might have said fairy tale.

“Terrific. Where are they?”

“Apparently Dr. Rosetti put them on a cart to send to be cataloged.”

Shanks peered through the glass and saw two book trucks not far from the desk. “Interesting. He must have done that after he came back, because they were definitely on the desk when we left. So he had a little time in there before he died.”

“Thanks for pointing that out,” said Steinbock, not sounding grateful.

Shanks didn't waste time wondering what the cop was so sour about. He was thinking about the two carts. “I see there are labels on the carts. May I ask what they say?”

Steinbock had better eyes. “Your books are on the cart that says catalog for the literature collection. The other one says catalog for the college history collction.”

Shanks frowned. “That's wrong.”

“Read them for yourself.”

“No, I mean Rosetti would never put my books on the literature cart.”

The lieutenant heaved a deep sigh. “I'm only a humble police officer, Mr. Longshanks, but aren't novels considered literature?”

“Yes and no. I mean, they are, but Rosetti thought mysteries shouldn't be. He called them genre fiction, or subliterature.”

“But he accepted the books for the collection.”

“Because I'm an alumnus of the college. You see? If Rosetti put the books anywhere it would have been on the College History cart.”

Steinbock was stonefaced. “Are you saying someone killed Dr. Rosetti in order to sneak your books into the literature collection?”

“Of course not. I have a few eccentric fans, but none that are totally insane.” He hoped he sounded confident about that.

“Then why would the murderer take the books off the desk and put them on that cart?”

Good question. Shanks gazed through the glass wall, trying to picture the scene: You steal the keys from Rosetti's coat. You come to the locked room to do—what? Whatever you have in mind, Rosetti catches you and you kill him. Then—or perhaps before?—you grab the books off the edge of the desk, and you stick them on the literature cart.

Why? To clear a spot on the desk? No.

To conceal them? No.

Ah.

“To fill a hole.”

“Excuse me?”

“The killer removed something from the literature cart. That left a hole and he used the first books he saw to fill it.”

Steinbock frowned “What books did he remove?”

“I have no idea. But come to think of it, Mrs. Preese brought those valuable books her husband had donated.”

The cop nodded and stood up. “Zeman! Go get the library director, Floyd. See if he has a list of the books that were donated today.”

“I was wondering,” said Shanks. “Could I have a look at my books?”

“What for?”

“I saw them not long before the killer handled them. Maybe he left something I might notice.”

Steinbock shook his head. “No thanks, Mr. Longshanks. We don't need any amateurs messing up our crime scene tonight.”

“I wasn't trying to—”

“You just mind your own business, and let us—”

"Excuse me," said a very cold voice.

Calvin Floyd had arrived, accompanied by President Warren, who did not look happy.

“Detective,” she said, in a tone that made even Shanks sit a little straighter, “may I ask why you are screaming at our guest of honor?”

Steinbock stood up. “I just want to make sure he knows why he's here. And why he's not."

“I'm sure Mr. Longshanks understands his duties perfectly,” said the president. “Unlike some people.”

“Excuse me,” said Shanks. “There's really no need for—”

“It's late,” said the president. “I'm sending our guests home. Unless you plan to jail us all for the night?”

The cop's face said he was seriously considering it. Then he shrugged. “Zeman, do we have prints from every person of interest?”

“All except Dr. Lundin,” said the young cop. “She says it's a violation of her civil rights.”

Shanks made a face. Why did it have to be his fan causing trouble?

“Dina is the head of the Human Rights Task Force on campus,” said Floyd, somewhat apologetically.

Cora had arrived. “I've never been fingerprinted before. It's not as messy as I thought.”

“We're all leaving,” said President Warren. “Now.” She glared at the cop, daring him to disagree.

Steinbock nodded. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

Shanks dawdled on the way out and landed himself beside the cop. “Lieutenant, Dina Lundin was the only person at our table who drank soda. If they haven't cleared the table yet you can get finger—”

“Thank you very much," said Steinbock, loud enough for everyone to hear. “We don't need any more of your help.”

As they waited for the car that would drive them back to the motel Cora asked: “What's the problem with that sourpuss cop? How did you make him so mad at you?”

“I swear, he was mad at me when we met. I never had a chance to annoy him.”

“Huh. Why?”

“Beats me. Maybe a mystery writer bit him when he was a child.”

* * * *

Between being a murder suspect and and having to give a commencement speech Shanks figured he wouldn't get much sleep, but he conked out as soon as he hit the pillow. At dawn he was wide awake.

He showered and dressed without his wife and sat down at the table to review his speech. He had twenty minutes to pass on all the wisdom he had acquired over the years. Cora, his beloved helpmate, had asked how he would fill the last nineteen minutes.

Shanks looked at his opening jokes with a critical eye. Perhaps they were inappropriate the day after a professor got murdered. Even Rosetti.

He copied the speech to a new file on his laptop and began tinkering with the opening. Someone knocked at the door.

It was Lieutenant Steinbock. Probably come to warn me again about playing detective, Shanks thought.

“Good morning, Mr. Longshanks. I saw your light was on.”

“Morning, Lieutenant.”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee? The place downstairs is open.”

Surprise, surprise. “I'll leave a note for my wife.”

* * * *

The coffee shop was refreshingly small town. No macchiatos or cappuccinos, just regular or decaf, and the waitress left the carafe.

Shanks poured two sugars into his cup and waited for the cop to stop staring into his own black brew.

Steinbock finally spoke, with obvious reluctance. “Mr. Longshanks, I need to apologize for my behavior.”

Shanks frowned. “You do?”

“I was out of line last night. I was rude and—”

“You were just doing your job.”

A ferocious scowl. “Would you let me get through this, please?” Shanks blinked. “Oh. You said you need to apologize, not that you want to. President Warren ordered you to.”

“The college president does not tell me what to do.”

“I didn't mean to imply—”

“She spoke to the mayor, who spoke to the police chief. He tells me what to do.”

“I'm sorry,” said Shanks. “And I'm surprised too. When I was in college we had the impression that a police officer who annoyed the college president was likely to get a hearty handshake and possibly a promotion.”

Steinbock nodded. “The town-gown rivalry. There was still a bit of that around when I started. But it ended nine years ago.”

“Really? What happened?”

“The wire plant closed.”

“And suddenly the college was the biggest employer in town.”

“Yeah, but that wasn't the main thing. Some of the smart guys at the college applied for a huge grant to use the factory complex as a kind of laboratory.” He gazed at the ceiling, looking for a phrase he had obviously memorized. “Studying Nature's Reclamation of a Post-Industrial Landscape. The grant has been renewed every year and students take field trips there to study the decay of the buildings. Ecology students, engineers, artists.”

“My word.”

“Every fall scientists come from around the country for a conference about researching old factories. Every spring professors come from around the country to learn how to do the same thing in their own towns.”

Shanks's eyebrows rose. “In other words, the college turned a derelict plant into a money-spinner for the city.”

Steinbock nodded. “And that means that if President Warren told the mayor to come over and paint her house, all he'd say was ‘what color?’ Getting a cop chewed out was easy-peasey.”

“Well, I'm sorry that happened. You have my word that she'll hear you and I are best buddies now.”

Steinbock shuddered. “I'd appreciate that.”

Shanks poured them both more coffee. “I asked you last night: Why are you concentrating on the group that was in Special Collections? Couldn't it have been anyone who came to the library for the dinner?”

The cop's face twitched as he struggled with the instinct to tell the civilian to butt out. Shanks had to hide a smile behind his coffee cup.

Politics won. “You noticed the napkins with the presidential crests that were on your table?”

Shanks nodded.

“The killer used one to wipe the letter opener. Granted someone else could have swiped one off the table, but the most likely explanation—”

“The killer was probably someone who had dropped by our table to put their stuff down before they went to look at the art. Just like my wife and I did. Were any napkins missing?”

“There were extras on the table. Of course there were the same napkins on the high table, too, but the servers swear no one went near it until the board members came in together. The biggest news is that we found the missing books. As you suggested, they were the ones Mrs. Preese brought.”

“That's great. Where were they?”

“Not far from the Special Collections Room, tucked behind the books on the top shelf of one of the bookcases. I understand they call them stacks. They were behind books on the ancient Hittites, if that means anything.”

“Not to me.” Shanks decided to press his luck. “Any fingerprints?”

“Yes, but there weren't any on your books. Someone wiped them clean.”

“Now, that's interesting.” Shanks closed his eyes. “The culprit stole Rosetti's keys. He snuck down the hall to the Special Collections Room and swiped the rare books and hid them in the bookstacks outside. But he realized he had left a hole on the cart. He went back to fill the hole with my books. That's when Rosetti caught him. After disposing of the professor the thief was careful to remove the fingerprints.”

Shanks scowled. “Why didn't he wipe the rare books? Because they were already hidden and he wanted to get back to the dinner party before someone came looking for Rosetti.”

He opened his eyes and saw Steinbock staring at him with interest. “Is that how you write? Seeing the scene the way it happened?”

“On good days. Sometimes I just pile words together like bricks and hope nothing falls off.”

Steinbock looked thoughtful. “Okay. Now tell me whose fingerprints were on the stolen books.”

Shanks sipped coffee. “Mrs. Preese, of course, because she brought them. Rosetti, because he accepted them from her. I have no idea who else.”

That seemed to please the lieutenant. Maybe he was afraid I was using magical powers, Shanks thought.

“Calvin Floyd and Richard Upton.”

“The library director and the head of the English Department. So they, along with Mrs. Preese, are your suspects.”

“The major suspects, yes.” Steinbock smiled. “And I can tell you that my best interrogators are sitting down separately with each of them right now. We'll go over their stories until we find out what actually happened. This is how crimes are really solved, Mr. Longshanks. Not hunches. Not intuition. Just solid, one-step-at-a-time police work. You wouldn't— What are you staring at?”

“Sorry. I was just waiting for a chance to tell you that Velma Preese is the killer.”

Steinbock threw his notebook down on the table. “You can't possibly know that. How can you even claim to know that?”

“Process of elimination. It wasn't Floyd because he was the library director.”

The lieutenant scowled. “And they never commit murder?”

“They might, from time to time. But they have keys to their own buildings. Why risk drawing Rosetti's attention by stealing his keys?”

“Maybe so he wouldn't be the obvious suspect.”

“All he would have had to do was leave the door unlocked when he left. Everyone would assume Rosetti had failed to lock the door. I saw Rosetti turn the key, but I couldn't swear he did it correctly. That would have even given Floyd a reason to fire him, which he would have loved.”

Steinbock thought that one over for the length of a sip of coffee. “Okay. What about the department head?”

“Upton's barely five feet tall. Why would he hide the books on the top shelf? Even using a kickstand or a chair he couldn't have been sure he'd gotten the books out of the sight of a taller person. Not to mention the difficulty he would have had getting them out later.”

“But the Preese woman was donating the books. Why steal them?”

“Now how could I know that? On the other hand—”

Steinbock sighed.

“The books were really a gift from her late husband, not her. Maybe she didn't know what they were worth, until Rosetti started talking about them that day. Then she had a couple of glasses of wine before the dinner party and started thinking it was more than the college deserved.”

“Huh,” said the cop.

“It seemed like a spur-of-the-moment crime, didn't it?”

The cop opened his phone and hit speed dial. “Zeman? It's me. Who's interrogating the Preese woman? Good. Tell ‘em to ask her about her financials, and how much the books were worth. Yeah, she's probably it. Get back to me.”

He shut the phone. “Damn it.”

“What is it?”

“Preese is another guest of the college. President Warren's going to have my head on a platter.”

Shanks shook his head. “Warren's a complete professional. Once she sees how the wind is blowing she'll talk about the late Mr. Preese and forget his widow exists. But warn her before commencement, if you can. That way she'll owe you one.”

“Good idea. Uh . . . I guess ought to thank you again.”

He hadn't thanked Shanks once, but who was counting? “Think nothing of it.”

Steinbock pushed his coffee cup around the table. “This will probably end with a press conference.”

“I'd be grateful if you kept my name out of it.”

“Really?” The cop was astonished. “I thought writers loved publicity.”

“Oh, we do. If you want to tell the press that my latest book is an unforgettable page-turner, I'm all for it. But a mystery writer helping to solve a crime?” He shook his head. “That's a parlor trick. A talking dog. It would be like you becoming famous for writing novels.”

“Uff,” said Steinbock. He changed color so dramatically that Shanks thought he might be choking. The man was actually blushing.

And then he understood it all. The hostility. The sneers.

“Lieutenant,” he said, “are you by any chance a writer?”

“Trying to be.” Steinbock suddenly found his coffee cup fascinating. “Halfway through a novel. Been halfway for almost a year.”

“I know that feeling. Is it a mystery?”

“God, no. No offense, Mr. Longshanks, but that stuff is junk.”

Shanks sighed. “Too bad you never met Dr. Rosetti. You two would have really hit it off.”

“Since you asked,” Steinbock said in a rush, “my book is about a teenage boy who was supposed to be the first in his family to go to college, but his father gets injured in a car accident and there's this girl—”

Shanks, who hadn't asked, nodded. “A coming-of-age novel.”

The cop looked sick. “You mean there are so many books like mine that they have a name for it?”

“There's always room for another good one.”

“Can you tell me the names of some of the good ones?”

“Hand me your notebook.”

* * * *

“They released you,” said Cora. She was applying makeup. “I was ready to start calling bail bondsmen.”

“There isn't a jail in this town that can hold me. That's a lovely dress.” He went out on a limb. “Is it new?”

“It is.” She spun around to show off the light blue print. “I bought it to celebrate your commencement speech. And because I didn't have anything appropriate for sitting around outside on a hot June day. You have to wear a long black dress the whole time.”

Shanks frowned. “I'd forgotten about the academic gown. And a mortarboard, plus the hood for the honorary degree. I'll melt.”

“That's the price of fame, I guess. What did the fuzz want?”

“Oh. Turns out Steinbock is a would-be novelist. He asked for some advice.”

“I hope he didn't want you to read his manuscript.”

Shanks shook his head. “He didn't think it was my style. When is the car supposed to pick us up for the president's breakfast?”

“In about ten minutes. That reminds me. Janice Warren called. She asked if you could work a mention of Dr. Rosetti into your speech.”

“Please tell me you said no.”

“I said you would be glad to.”

“That's going to change the whole tone of the thing.” He slumped into a chair. “Besides, it means I'll have to say something nice about the man. How can I do that?

“No problem, darling.” She kissed him on his bald spot. “You write fiction for a living.”

Copyright © 2012 Robert Lopresti

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: LEWIS AND CLARK
by John M. Floyd

“Let's face it,” Freddie said. “We're lost.”

Lewis Tucker took off his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his face. “We can't be lost. We're Boy Scouts.”

“We're Boy Scouts who don't know where we are. That makes us lost.”

Lewis couldn't think of an argument to that. “Maybe I should use my microphone.”

Freddie Clark stopped and looked at him. “Your what?”

“My microphone. I'm a squad leader, Clark—I need to be heard. Mr. McKay said I'm not loud enough.”

“I guess he's never heard you belch. Besides, we're not squad leaders anymore.”

Lewis swallowed. Freddie was right. Since the little stunt they'd pulled last month they were officially suspended from the troop. A baggie full of fire ants in the scoutmaster's sleeping bag hadn't been nearly as funny to the scoutmaster as it had been to the rest of the boys.

“And I think it's called a megaphone,” added Freddie, who always enjoyed correcting—or otherwise irritating—his best friend. But even he looked a little more grim than he had a moment ago. Both of them knew they'd screwed up on a grand scale, and the worst wasn't over. The decision to get rid of them or reinstate them would be made next week.

Besides all that, they were lost.

“Mega, micro, whatever,” Lewis said. He put his cap back on and pulled a small, battery-powered loudspeaker from his pocket. “Here goes nothing—”

“Don't. I mean it. You might attract the wrong people.”

“Who are the wrong people?”

“The bank robbers, that's who. Don't you watch the news?”

“I watch the news. I heard they went south, toward Summit.”

Freddie raised his head and stared up into the trees. “Would you go south, with all these woods to the east?”

Lewis blinked. “You mean . . . you think they're around here?"

“I don't know where they are, Tucker, but if they are here, I'd rather they not know we're here.” After a moment's study, Freddie pointed to a tall pine several yards away, at the edge of a clearing. “I'm going to climb that tree and look around.” He unshouldered and unzipped his pack and rummaged around inside it. “You go find us some firewood.”

“Firewood?”

“Even if I see a way out of here, it'll be dark soon. We should make camp.”

“All night?” Lewis looked around him, as if for the first time. “Our folks will come looking for us.” Maybe that actually wouldn't be such a bad thing, he thought.

“No they won't. They'll think we're staying the night with Uncle Ned, over on Bee Mountain.”

“But your uncle doesn't even have a phone.”

“Exactly.” Freddie took out a heavy pair of binoculars and ducked his head through the strap.

“You're going to climb a tree with that around your neck?”

“I may see something I need to see closer. And don't look so worried—I didn't steal them, I borrowed them. They're my cousin's.” Freddie walked to the tree, dropped his open pack beside it, slapped the trunk as if it were a fine new horse, and grinned. “Don't get even more lost while I'm gone.”

As Freddie Clark started up the tree, climbing the first ten feet like a bear with his arms and legs gripping the sides, Lewis began gathering sticks and limbs. Freddie was right, Lewis realized. The clearing would be a good campsite: high ground, good drainage, no poison ivy. But he wished it had been his idea.

He also wished they'd brought a cell phone along. His parents couldn't afford one for him, and Freddie's parents had taken his away as punishment after their ill-fated prank. Lewis couldn't help wishing they had borrowed a phone from someone rather than a stupid pair of binoculars. Two teenagers in the twenty-first century without a cell phone? They should be be in Ripley's Believe It or Not!

After five minutes or so he dumped his collected firewood and dug a book of matches from his pocket. He had brushed an area clear of pine straw and squatted down to stack kindling when he noticed something red in the bushes nearby. He squinted at it, then rose and went over to investigate.

It was a bandanna. Wrapped inside it he found a handful of blackberries, and underneath it some food and a canvas bag that said, in big blue letters—Lewis's mouth went dry—first citizens bank.

“What you looking at, boy?” cracked a voice behind him.

Lewis almost fainted. When he turned he saw two men in denim jackets, one wearing a cowboy hat and the other a mane of long red hair. The cowboy was carrying a rifle and an armload of wood.

The redhead's cold gaze shifted from Lewis's face to the bank bag, then back again.

“Watch him,” Red said. He took out an ugly black pistol and vanished into the forest. Moments later he returned. “Okay. Looks like he's alone.”

“What do we do with him?”

“Good question.” The redhaired man plucked the baseball cap from Lewis's head and poured the blackberries from the bandanna into it. “Over there, you,” he said, pointing. “Sit against that tree.”

Trembling, Lewis staggered over to Freddie Clark's pine tree and sat with his back pressed against the trunk. He watched Red rip the bandanna into long strips, which were then used to bind Lewis's wrists together, then his ankles. Neither outlaw seemed to notice the extra backpack three feet away.

“We'll deal with you in the morning,” Red growled. He rose to his feet, picked up the cap with the berries inside, stomped over to the clearing, and sat down. The cowboy was already building a fire.

Lewis's mind was churning. What must Freddie be thinking right now? Would they see him, if they looked up? Probably not; the higher branches were thick, and Freddie had on gray coveralls. Besides, it was almost dark now. The question was, how long could he stay up there, and stay quiet?

The evening wore on. The two partners roasted hotdogs for their supper. Neither offered any food to Lewis. Afterward, the cowboy soon fell sleep, but Red sat and stared at Lewis in the moonlight.

As long as the redhead was awake, Lewis knew, Freddie had to stay put. Even if both the robbers went to sleep, his chances of getting down undetected were slim. The woods were eerily quiet, and scrambling down the pine's trunk would be noisy.

What if Red stayed awake all night?

The big question was, what would the robbers do to Lewis, whether Freddie stayed in his perch or not? And these two were reported to be heading south, so that's where the search would be focused. The cops were looking in the wrong place. And the thieves wouldn't want anyone around who could pass their true location along to their pursuers.

But would they kill him, or just leave him tied? Then Lewis remembered the look in Red's eyes. It sent chills up his back. Being lost suddenly didn't seem frightening at all.

Somehow, he had to get free.

What they needed was a diversion. Something to distract the redhaired outlaw just long enough for Freddie to get down and untie Lewis's hands and feet. Either that, or they had to mount some kind of offensive. But how could that work, when they had no weapons?

Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and sent a silent message to his friend. What can we do?

The answer came from the sky, when Red turned for an instant to look into the dying fire, and it came in the form of a pine cone with a note rubberbanded around it. It dropped softly into Lewis's lap.

The note, when he fumbled it open with his bound hands, said, in Freddie's rough printing: call him over.

Lewis understood. How many times had he and Freddie sat together in front of the Clarks's TV and watched a western hero leap from a tree onto an unsuspecting bandit? The trouble was, Freddie was thirteen years old and barely weighed a hundred pounds, and this was real life.

But what else was there to try? If Freddie cramped up or slipped or just got tired and fell, where would they be then?

Lewis tucked the note underneath his leg and murmured a prayer. The dumb and unfortunate trick they'd played on their scoutmaster had given him an idea. When he raised his eyes, the redhead was watching him again. Now or never, Lewis decided.

“Hey, mister,” he hissed. Whatever he did, he didn't want to wake the other one. “Come here, quick.”

Red's eyes narrowed, but after a pause he rose and approached the tree. “What is it?”

“Fire ants.” Lewis nodded toward the ground beside him. “They're everywhere.”

Scowling, Red leaned over and looked.

NOW, Lewis thought.

But nothing happened. No teenaged rescuers leaped from the sky.

Red stayed still a moment, then stood, staring down at the hogtied boy. “I don't see no ants. What're you trying to pull?”

Lewis's mind went blank. Then, without thinking, he flicked his eyes up past the man's looming figure, up into the tree above them. It was only a quick glance—

But Red saw it. Lewis watched in horror as the outlaw tensed, drew his pistol, and snapped his head back to look up.

The five-pound pair of binoculars landed in the exact center of Red's forehead, with a sound like someone kicking a brick wall. His body went limp; he sank to his knees and toppled forward, out cold.

Lewis gaped at him. Somewhere far above, Lewis heard the sound of boot leather and cloth scraping against bark—and then Freddie Clark was there beside him, a Swiss Army knife open and cutting him free.

For a moment the boys lay still in the pine straw. Both were breathing hard. The only other sound was a soft snoring from the direction of the fading campfire. Lewis's right hand brushed something. Red's fallen pistol. Lewis picked it up.

“We did it,” Freddie whispered. “Let's get outta here.” Together, they stood and backed away.

But it was not to be. Freddie's second step snagged the strap of the open backpack, and he tripped. The pans and utensils in his mess kit spilled out, making a sound that would've raised the dead.

It certainly raised the cowboy. He grunted and staggered to his feet, rifle in hand, as the boys flattened themselves on the ground.

Only one thing saved them: The moon picked that instant to go behind a cloud. The entire scene, so bright seconds earlier, was plunged into darkness except for a few tiny embers of firelight.

Lewis's limbs were rigid with fear. His breath rasped in his throat; his heart pounded. The moon would come out again in a moment. They were done for now. He could hear the newscaster's voice in his head: “Two discredited Scouts were found murdered today in the hills of Polk County . . .”

“Lester?” the cowboy said. “What's goin’ on? Where are you?”

Silence. The night was pitch black.

“Lester!”

And then a metallic voice blared, “DROP YOUR WEAPON. HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN.”

“Who's there?” the outlaw yelled.

“DROP IT, I SAID.”

A long pause. Then: “You can't shoot me! You can't see me!”

“EVER HEAR OF INFRARED GLASSES?” Two pistol shots rang out. “I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN!”

“Don't shoot,” the cowboy wailed. “I believe you. Don't shoot.” There was a clatter as his rifle was tossed aside.

“FACEDOWN ON THE GROUND. HANDS BEHIND YOUR HEAD.”

“Okay, okay. I'm down.” And he was, apparently—his voice sounded muffled by dirt and pine straw.

Two minutes later the moon had reappeared, and the man, still facedown, was securely tied with strips of red bandanna.

Lewis's ears were still ringing from the sound of the gunshots. “I promise,” he heard Freddie Clark say as he searched through the cowboy's pockets, “never to make fun of your microphone—I mean megaphone—again.”

“Or my knot-tying,” Lewis replied. The smoking pistol had been thrust into his waistband, and felt so heavy it threatened to pull his pants down. He was kneeling beside the pine tree, using the rest of the bandanna strips to bind the still-unconscious redhead's wrists together around its trunk.

At the sound of Lewis's voice, the cowboy swiveled his head. “You!” he blurted.

“And I don't believe you've met my friend Spider-Man,” Lewis said.

Freddie nodded a greeting, then froze as he apparently found something in the man's coat pocket.

“Pay dirt,” he exclaimed, pulling out the cell phone. He switched it on, watched the reception bars, and grinned. “Houston, we have communications.”

“I can't believe this,” the outlaw muttered, spitting out dust and pine needles. “You're just . . . boys.”

“We're not boys,” Freddie said, punching in 9-1-1. “We're Boy Scouts.”

He winked at Lewis and held the phone to his ear.

Copyright © 2012 John M. Floyd

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: SPRING BREAK
by R.T. Lawton

* * * *

Art by Kelly Denato

* * * *

“Here's how I see the situation,” Beaumont interrupted while unfolding a map from the airport rental kiosk and blotting out half of the passenger side windshield as Yarnell drove out of the lot, “Spring Break is just a bunch of college kids working off their stress of higher education by means of massive alcohol and miniature bikinis.”

Yarnell had to ponder that for a moment. He'd never been to Florida for spring break, but then he'd also never attended college, so maybe he hadn't been eligible for that particular activity back then. Seemed to him that some people made choices about their own future, and others, well, they merely had things happen to them as they went along. And right now, looking back on his own past, he wasn't sure where he stood on that part of living.

Still studying the map, Beaumont continued voicing his own thoughts out loud as other vehicles whizzed by, going someplace in a hurry. “The cops will be so busy with all them partygoers, that nobody will even notice us. We can burglarize this place and be gone before anyone knows we were there.” He motioned suddenly with his free hand. “You gotta take a left up here and get onto the interstate, otherwise we're liable to end up in some backwater swamp staring at alligators.”

Yarnell spun the wheel counterclockwise at the last moment and sliced rapidly across two southbound lanes of traffic which now put him on course for the interstate on-ramp. As far as he was concerned, alligators belonged in a zoo where they couldn't latch on to unsuspecting tourists. “You know, a quicker heads-up would have been nice,” he managed to say before straightening out the steering wheel again.

Behind him, two cars cut off in Yarnell's sudden lane change braked hard, smoking rubber on hot asphalt. A minor chain reaction quickly ensued. Horns blared, cars slid. One of them did a one-eighty and was now traveling backwards.

Glancing quickly in his rearview mirror, Yarnell was pretty sure he would've seen some upraised fists or other gestures if it wasn't for the multitude of dark-tinted windows in them other vehicles. He didn't know how anybody could see to drive at night with all that dark glass to look through. But then with palm trees, vast stretches of glaring sand, bright tropical-clothed locals, and all the different accents and languages which had assaulted his ears since he'd arrived in Jacksonville, this whole place had the feel of a foreign country anyway. And him without a passport. How had he allowed himself to be talked into coming down here?

At least with the loud horns honking at him in traffic—that was a familiar sound—he could feel a little more like he was back home driving in the big city. Who knew, though: If he applied himself, he might be able to get used to all the differences he found down here. He probably should have brought along a pair of cargo shorts to help him blend in with the natives, but then his knobby knees hadn't seen the sun since he was a kid, so maybe not. Any way he looked at it, he felt off center.

“You sure you got the right place figured out?”

Beaumont rotated the map ninety degrees and studied it some more.

“Yep, I Googled the guy for his address before we flew down here. He's got a high-rise condo along the beach, Atlantic side. Right in the middle of where all this spring break stuff is supposed to be going on.”

Yarnell felt a twinge of his old paranoia kicking in about hurry-up jobs, but mainly he just didn't like being this far from the old neighborhood. It gave him special concerns when he was out of his home territory and didn't have the luxury of thoroughly analyzing all the ins and outs of what he was about to get involved in. At a minimum, he much preferred a few days’ advance notice, which allowed him time to internalize everything and get all his concerns settled to his own satisfaction.

“You know, there might be more than one guy in Florida with the same name?”

“I got the right guy.”

“You're sure this is the guy that's the famous treasure hunter?”

With the compass displayed in the rental car's rearview mirror indicating they were headed south, Beaumont rotated the map another ninety degrees to orient his map with the north directional arrow at the top of the accordion-folded page. Now the map's arrow for north was pointed at Beaumont's stomach and the two of them were looking at place names upside down. Beaumont stretched the paper tighter and tried to shake out some of the interior wrinkles. The car's air conditioner going full blast caught the map and ballooned up the middle like the top of a giant mushroom. He quickly folded the outside edges toward the center so as to make a smaller air surface.

“Don't sweat it, Yarnell. I read all about the man in National Geographic, plus a couple of them other magazines that interviewed him. He's the same one found those Spanish galleons what sunk off the coast a few hundred years ago in a hurricane. Bad storm caught the fleet by surprise. Gold bars, Spanish doubloons, cannons, the whole works went down. Several million dollars’ worth of stuff was just lying there in the sand waiting for him to lift it up from the bottom of the ocean.”

“Which the articles said he did?”

“Yep, and by now that stuff is all cleaned up and ready to be sold. But first, he's gonna display it to the general public for historical purposes.”

Yarnell turned his head to the right . . .

“Only your plan is to lift it from him before he gets a chance to show it off, yeah?”

. . . at which time his hands inadvertently rotated the steering wheel slightly in the same direction as his nose was now facing. The passenger's side of the car slowly drifted over the white line.

“Yeah. Now keep your eyes on the road. We don't need an accident or nothing to draw heat on us.”

Quickly, Yarnell snapped the outside tires off the narrow asphalt shoulder and back into his driving lane. He tried not to think about what might be lying in wait for him in all that dense jungle vegetation if he went off the road. Back home, if rumors were to be believed, the alligators were onetime pets flushed down the toilet, which meant they ended up in sewers under the city, where they were conveniently out of the way. But here in Florida, for some reason, people let the damn things run around free aboveground.

Beaumont consulted his upside-down map again. “A few more miles down the road, then take the exit, go back under the interstate, and head for the beach.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Yarnell watched Beaumont rotate the map twice more before they got where they were going. The wording was still upside down, but at least now the map no longer blocked half the passenger side windshield. As far as he was concerned, half the place names were in Spanish anyway, so even if he could read them, he couldn't pronounce the words.

With the sun having already set long ago somewhere over Florida's steamy interior, Yarnell finally parked their rental car in an empty slot along a busy street which ran parallel to the beach and about one block inland. Several condos and tall hotels lined the beachfront with their backsides standing to the ocean.

“Which one we looking at?”

Beaumont gestured across the street. “Right there, sign says Daytona Beach Dunes.”

Yarnell took in the sign, then the front parking lot, and lastly, the ten-story building itself. He started to put the car in gear and head for the parking lot, which was packed with Cadillacs, BMWs, Audis, Mercedes, a couple of Infinitis, and a Lexus.

Beaumont stopped him with a hand on the shoulder. “We don't want to go in there.”

“Why not?”

Beaumont pointed at the condo's front door under the covered entryway. “This is one them ritzy joints. They got a doorman and seventy kinds of security in the foyer. We don't need anybody to remember us as being here.”

Yarnell put the car back in park. “If we can't even look the place over, then how's your inside man gonna get inside?”

“Not our problem, he's got it covered.”

Yarnell thought about that for a while before turning to face his partner. “You know, I didn't complain too much when you showed up at my apartment with two airline tickets and dragged me off, saying, ‘C'mon, I got a quick lucrative job lined up for us.’ And I went along when you promised to explain everything on the flight down here, but then you went to sleep for the rest of the trip. I assume you noticed I don't even happen to have a carry-on bag with a change of clothes?”

“That's because this is one of them quick deals, like I happened to mention before, and then we fly home. Twenty-four hours tops.”

“You keep saying that, but I got the feeling you're leaving something out. Like, you still haven't told me who we're working with down here.”

“Don't worry about it, he's reliable. All we have to do is stand at the bottom of the building and he'll lower the stuff down to us on a rope. It's a good plan. You and I have very little risk on this one.”

Yarnell idly tapped his left index finger on top of the steering wheel as he internalized this new information. Nobody had told him anything about a rope. Suddenly, his finger froze in the upswing position. With his right hand, he turned the engine off. The air conditioning died away. The blowing fan stopped moving air. Temperature crept up in the closed rental vehicle. “No, tell me you didn't.”

“Didn't what?”

“You promised I'd never have to work with that guy again.”

Beaumont had a look of innocence. “What guy?”

“You know who I'm talking about. The Thin Guy. That skinny undertaker we found sleeping in a casket at the mortuary we broke into by mistake last Halloween when we were supposed to be burglarizing a jewelry store.”

With a look of deep exasperation, Beaumont slowly shook his head from side to side. “Nice. I make one little measuring mistake on a job and now I'm gonna hear about it for the rest of my life.”

Yarnell's left index finger, still frozen in the upraised position, quivered over the steering wheel. “And when you couldn't figure out how to get the mortuary safe open, you agreed to make the Thin Guy our protégé.”

“He had the combination, and my agreement to his terms was the only way we were getting into the safe that night. A profit is a profit. Am I right?”

“I can't believe you did this to me.”

“What do you have against the guy? His ex took everything in the divorce. He's just trying to make a living the same as you and me.”

“I'm telling you, Beaumont, that man's not right. His mind is wired different than most people's. Something always seems to go wrong when he's working one of our jobs.”

“You can relax then, this is his job. He planned it start to finish. I checked out all the details and it's a good plan. All we have to do is cart off any treasure he finds up in that condo, then we sell it to a fence I happen to be acquainted with in this area, divide the money three ways and we all go home with something in our pockets. You got nothing to lose but a little time just standing around.”

Yarnell's mind tried to consider all the ins and outs of the situation. Finally, his left index finger sagged onto the steering wheel. “Okay, I'll go along this one more time, see how things work out, but after that . . .”

“Good. Now let's go get something to eat. I'm famished.” Beaumont opened the passenger door.

“What about our rental car?”

“Leave it here. It's a good parking spot for our business tonight.”

Beaumont headed down the sidewalk toward an open lot where there was a hand-painted sign and a standalone deep-fry cooker. Two empty plastic chairs and one fold-up card table (but no customers) stood in front of the mobile fry stand. “Sign says they make good conch fritters, and it looks like there's no waiting line right now,” he shouted back over his shoulder.

Yarnell had to hurry to catch up. “What the heck's a conk?” Maybe there was a reason the place was deserted.

“It's a type of seafood.”

“You mean like crab and lobster and shrimp?”

“Yeah, something like that. You grab the table and I'll place our order.”

Ten minutes later, Yarnell dipped one end of a hot, breaded fritter into a small plastic cup of spicy red shrimp sauce and popped the morsel into his mouth. “It's a little rubbery,” he managed to mutter. “Exactly what kind of seafood is this?” He kept on chewing as he waited for an answer.

“Remember them old tropical island movies,” replied Beaumont, “where some big native in a wraparound cloth is standing high up on a sea cliff and blowing into a giant shell as a signal of something or other to people down on the beach?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, that's a conch shell he's blowing in.”

In his mind, Yarnell pictured that large spiral shell from the movie. The more he thought about this “conk” thing, the more it had a similar shape to snail shells at the lake back home, only this conk shell was much, much larger. It looked to him like a giant snail, and he didn't eat snails of any size.

Too late, he'd already swallowed.

Yarnell pushed his paper plate halfway across the card table. “That's it, I quit. Give me the other half of my plane ticket, I'm going home.”

Before responding, Beaumont paused while three convertibles filled with noisy spring-breakers cruised past. A coed standing up precariously in the second vehicle flashed him with the top of her bright yellow bikini and smiled. Beaumont's bushy eyebrows raised as his head swiveled to keep pace with the vehicle. A loose beer can discarded from the third car rolled noisily across the concrete, clinked against the curb, and stopped. Then the convertibles disappeared in the flow of steady traffic. His eyebrows went down. He could talk now.

“Can't do it,” he said. “There's no flights out until tomorrow morning. You're stuck. So, as long as you're here, you may as well be part of the job and make some money. No sense going back empty handed.”

Yarnell opened his mouth a couple of times to say something, he wasn't sure what, but after turning those last statements over in his mind for a while and looking at them from several different viewpoints, Yarnell decided he couldn't find any flaw in Beaumont's logic. He really was stuck. “Let's just get it over with then,” he muttered.

“Good choice,” replied Beaumont. He glanced at his watch. “And, right about now it's time for us to be moving into place.”

Once more, Yarnell had to hurry to keep up.

Beaumont stopped at the rental car trunk long enough to retrieve two collapsed black duffel bags and hand one to Yarnell. “Keep it wadded up until we see the stuff coming down the rope. We don't want to be conspicuous.”

Yarnell stuffed his bag under one arm and started to cross the street while there was a break in car traffic. He got one step.

Beaumont pulled him back just as a herd of spring-breakers on rental motor scooters barreled out of the dark, no lights on, sped past close to vehicles parked at the curb, and disappeared down the road. Yarnell swore he heard a few more discarded beer cans clinking and rolling across cement, stopping at the sidewalk. This time nobody flashed them.

“Watch yourself,” said Beaumont.

Yarnell waited until his partner started across, then he hurried to catch up. Once up on the curb on the other side of the street, they faced the passing traffic until they thought no one was looking, then they backed quietly into the bushes on the north side of the condo grounds and disappeared. As far as Yarnell was concerned, all the landscaped plants he was now enveloped in became a vicious jungle as he turned toward the beach. Seemed his hands couldn't keep up with the moving greenery. A strong breeze coming in off the ocean kept batting vegetation into his face until they reached the north side of the condo, where there was a patch of open ground devoid of ornamental trees and swaying bushes. He quickly checked his arms for scratches and bugs. Here, the sounds of music and loud partying from the beach out back seemed a whole lot closer.

“Now what?” he asked.

“We wait until the Thin Guy lowers the stuff,” replied Beaumont.

Yarnell leaned his head back and gazed up at the tenth-story penthouse. It was totally dark up there, except for a few stars above the roof line.

“How long do we have to wait?”

“Any time now,” replied Beaumont.

“Hey,” said a slurred voice behind them, “you guys here to watch the human fly?”

Yarnell did a quick one-eighty in the direction of the voice, and accomplished a step and a half sideways toward the anonymity of the dense vegetation before Beaumont managed to halt his exodus.

“We got company,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth.

“I noticed,” said Beaumont.

“What's he talking about a Human Fly?”

“There's something I forgot to tell you,” Beaumont whispered.

“What?” inquired Yarnell in a louder voice.

“He's really good,” said the slurred voice.

“It's about the Thin Guy,” Beaumont whispered back.

“Yeah?” Yarnell almost shouted.

“Yeah,” replied the slurred voice, “you should've been here when he climbed the building. It was awesome.”

“That's what I was going to tell you,” whispered Beaumont. “The Thin Guy's been taking some online courses on how to climb buildings. You wanted to know how the inside man was gonna get inside. Well, that's how.”

Now Yarnell lowered his own voice to a loud whisper. “You're telling me that the Thin Guy climbed ten stories up the side of this building without help?”

“I saw him first,” continued the slurred voice, “so I called my fraternity brothers and they all came over to watch him go up. Man, it was great. He shimmied up that wall like he had suction cups on his hands and feet. I even took video with my cell phone camera. Me and my girlfriend are going to put it on YouTube. It'll go viral.”

“You hear that,” whispered Yarnell, “our burgle job is going to be on the Internet for the whole world to see. Don't you think now is a good time to leave before we become police celebrities?”

“Give me a minute to think,” muttered Beaumont.

“Oh, look,” shouted the slurred voice as its owner pointed toward the sky.

Yarnell craned his neck and looked up.

A head poked itself over the railing of the tenth-story balcony. Next, a long rope slithered down the condo wall. A body dressed in black soon swung itself over the railing and grabbed the rope.

“Hey, everybody,” shouted the slurred voice, “the Human Fly is coming down.”

“I hope he's cute,” said a feminine voice that seemed to be coming from about ten feet up in the air behind them.

Yarnell felt a mass of people crowd around. He glanced to his immediate left, where the slurred voice was now standing, and decided its owner must be either a muscle builder or a very large football player for some university up north.

“You got the camera on video, babe?” inquired the slurred voice.

“We're rolling,” said the feminine voice on high. “Just quit moving and stand still. I think you've had too much to drink.”

Yarnell finally located the feminine voice somewhere a few feet above the shoulders of the very large football player. She was a bikini-clad female who could have passed for a college cheerleader anywhere in the Ivy League.

At the top of the condo, a dark, bulky, odd-shaped figure started making its way down the rope.

“There he is,” shouted the crowd.

“I thought the Thin Guy was going to lower the treasure down on the rope first,” whispered Yarnell.

“That was the way I understood the plan,” replied Beaumont with a shrug.

An outside light suddenly lit up one of the sixth-floor balconies overlooking the condo's north side.

“What are you people doing down there?” screamed an elderly lady in her bathrobe, hair done up in large curlers. “Go party someplace else and let decent folks sleep before I call the police on you.”

As the black-clad figure on the rope dropped down past the lit sixth-floor balcony, he appeared to be swinging from left to right and back again. Periodically, the swinging rope passed in front of the lady's face.

“Excuse me, ma'am,” the Thin Guy said politely. “I'll be out of your way in a moment.”

Her mouth hung slack as her head rotated back and forth to keep time with his slow metronome motion on the condo wall.

With the benefit of the light from the balcony, Yarnell could see why the Thin Guy's dark form was so bulky and odd shaped. The man appeared to have a large rectangle strapped to his back. This rectangle was catching the strong ocean breeze much like a sail on a ship. As a result, the wind off the ocean blew him inland along the condo wall. When the breeze let up, gravity swung him back toward the Atlantic side.

“What the hell's he doing?” asked Yarnell.

“Don't know,” said Beaumont.

“Keep the camera rolling, babe,” roared the slurred voice. “We're making history here.” As he raised his right fist at the end of his muscular arm to accentuate his statement, the bikini-clad student on his shoulders shifted her weight to maintain her precarious perch. The football player in turn lurched to the right in order to keep his own balance.

“Yeeowww,” screamed Yarnell. “You stepped on my foot.” He hobbled toward Beaumont. “I think you broke it.”

“Sorry, man,” slurred the voice.

“Hold still,” ordered the cheerleader on high. “You're going to ruin the video.”

Yarnell leaned on Beaumont for support as he raised his left foot to check the damage and almost fell over as Beaumont moved forward to stabilize the Thin Guy's gyrations on the rope.

In the few seconds before the mob of college spring-breakers swarmed around the Thin Guy, Beaumont got in some quick quiet questions.

“I thought you were gonna lower the treasure down to us on a rope.”

“I was,” replied the Thin Guy as he unwound himself from the rope, “but the man must have already moved it elsewhere. All I could find were these Spanish doubloons encased in plastic for souvenirs.” He handed over four squares of clear plastic with dark blue backgrounds. One shiny gold coin resided inside each square.

Beaumont quickly stuck the doubloons in his pants pocket. “So what's that thing on your back?”

“I couldn't find anything else of the treasure, but I kinda liked the oil painting that covered his empty wall safe, so I took it.”

“You mean like a Picasso or a van Gogh?”

Yarnell could hear the hope in Beaumont's voice.

“I don't know,” replied the Thin Guy. “Did them fellas like to paint old sailing ships in stormy seas?”

“I just now called the police on all you noisy people down there,” screamed the lady from the sixth-floor balcony as one of her hair curlers unrolled and let a wisp of gray go flapping in the breeze.

At the sound of the word “police,” Yarnell immediately started limping for the back way out. Even as he made his lumbering departure, he could hear the crowd of college students raising the Thin Guy up on their own shoulders and now cheering him on as some kind of hero of the moment. The only positive aspect as far as Yarnell could see was that during this whole happening the Thin Guy had been wearing a skintight, black body outfit from head to toe, much like speed skaters wore in the Olympics. And his face was striped with some kind of black camouflage paint, all of which meant that even if the video went viral on YouTube, the cops wouldn't be able to recognize him. This also meant that the police wouldn't be able to tie Yarnell and Beaumont to the burglary. All Yarnell had to do was make good his own escape.

A wail of sirens grew in the distance and seemed to be growing closer.

Yarnell had just broken out of the jungle at the rear of the condo and stepped onto the sand when the first wave of fellow escapees caught up from behind. The mass of the crowd bore him bodily onto the beach at the front of the rush. Then suddenly, the mob split up and disappeared into the larger crowd of partying students, impromptu gatherings at nearby beer gardens, and other groups hanging around campfires.

Yarnell found himself deposited at the outskirts of one of the campfires. He snatched up a large, abandoned beach towel, hooded it over his head for concealment, and wrapped the remainder around his back and shoulders. Then, he hunkered down on the sand to ease his throbbing left foot, which he was sure had been broken when that drunk football player stepped on his arch back at the condo. If nothing else, it was at least a hairline crack requiring some kind of pain meds.

Somebody at the fire pressed a cold beer bottle into his right hand.

Yarnell nodded his thanks and scooted in closer to the group of spring-breakers gathered around the fire. It was nice to be unconditionally accepted at times like these.

As he sipped his beer, a roar went up back at the vegetation line. Looking over the upraised bottom of his beer bottle, Yarnell watched a running crowd of spring-breakers with the Thin Guy held high in their midst. They seemed to be headed toward a brightly lit area where a booming music concert was being held. At the sound of a second roar, which included the crackle of multiple radio traffic, Yarnell swiveled his beer bottle back in the direction of the condo. Here came a smaller crowd of men in police uniforms. They seemed to be in pursuit of the Human Fly and his fleeing cohorts. Yarnell swung his beer bottle and attention back toward the first group, but they were already melting into the multitude of spring-breakers surrounding the band stage. From this distance, Yarnell couldn't tell if the band was doing their own rendition of Who Let the Dogs Out or something resembling Call 9-1-1. In any case, it was loud and everybody seemed to be having a good time.

Then he wondered where Beaumont was and what he was doing right now. Damn, Beaumont had his return airline ticket. This was part of why Yarnell didn't like hurry-up jobs. Things went wrong, and he always ended up on the pointed end of the stick. He was gonna have to be more careful about making choices in the future.

A girl in a red bikini reached into a nearby ice chest and handed Yarnell another beer.

Maybe this will work out, Yarnell told himself. After all, he'd finally got to spring break and did it without having to attend college anywhere. He'd also evaded the police at the scene of the burglary. And better yet, he'd been down here in Florida without running into any alligators.

Although he had noticed what looked like a log bobbing up and down out there at the edge of the surf. Maybe he'd keep an eye in that direction from time to time, just in case.

Copyright © 2012 R.T. Lawton

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: MYSTERIOUS PHOTOGRAPH: DOGWATCH

* * * *

Copyright 2011, Shutterstock / Charles Ostrand

* * * *

We will give a prize of $25 to the person who invents the best mystery story (in 250 words or less, and be sure to include a crime) based on the above photograph. The story will be printed in a future issue. Reply to AHMM, Dell Magazines, 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, New York 10007-2352. Please label your entry “May Contest,” and be sure your name and address are written on the story you submit. If you would like your story returned, please include an SASE.

© 2011 Shutterstock / Charles Ostrand

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: WIND POWER
by Eve Fisher

* * * *

Art by Hank Blaustein

* * * *

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” I shouted over the telephone at Bob Olson.

“What are you talking about, Linda?”

“I'm talking about you and Tina Corson, what else? Lunch at Mellette's—”

“So what?”

“Whispering in the chips aisle at Food King—”

“Wait a second—”

“Parking at Lake Howard. You want to tell me what's going on? Or rather, what you think is going on?”

“Tina and I are friends. That's all. We went to school together.”

“Yeah, and she dumped you. I know all about it.” I should. It was my shoulder he'd cried on all those years ago.

“And that's it. She's married.”

“Congratulations. You noticed.”

He hung up on me. Jerk. Men do the damnedest things when they hit the high middle ages. Bob got Elsie, a beautiful, hyperactive Irish Setter with the brains of a rabbit. He insisted on bringing her along on every walk, drive, and camping trip, but other than that I'd thought he was sailing through his midlife crisis fairly well.

The phone rang and I picked it up.

“Yes?”

“I don't know where the hell you get off, prying into my private life. Who I see and where I go is my own damn business. If you don't have anything better to do than spy on me—”

I hung up on him.

Maybe I was out of line. After all, despite the constant gossip of Laskin, South Dakota, Bob and I are just friends. But still. Tina. I walked around my living room, shaking my head. And it wasn't like Bob was the first guy Tina'd seen on the side. What on earth was he—

The phone rang again.

“What now?”

“Linda?”

“Yeah?”

“Linda, it's Glen. Glen Coughlin? Your date for tonight?”

“Glen!” That screeching sound was me, changing gears. “Hi, there.”

“You okay?”

“Yes. I just had . . . never mind. Hard day. So what's going on?”

“I just wanted to let you know that I'm running about half an hour late. Conference call to Denver. Sorry. But I'll be there by seven. Okay?”

“That's fine. No problem.”

I'd met Glen Coughlin at a Kiwanis lunch the week before. He was from Colorado, and was in Laskin to convince the Laskin Power Cooperative (among others) to sign up with his organization, the High Plains Wind Power Consortium, to develop a wind farm. I thought it sounded like a natural for the Dakotas, where the wind never stops blowing, but for some reason the CEO of Laskin Power Cooperative, Brandt Corson (yes, Tina's husband), wasn't going for it. Glen was sticking around, trying to get him to change his mind, which was fine with me. We'd lunched together a couple of times, and now were graduating to dinner. I enjoyed his company. I hadn't dated anyone in a long time. In a small town, any single man in my age bracket generally has some fatal flaw that explains why he didn't get married in his twenties. And the recently divorced ones are all looking for someone who'll put out on the first date.

So I was very happy, sitting in the Laskin Country Club with Glen and a glass of wine, waiting for our steaks. I'd already seen Tina and Brandt, who were with a large, loud group on the other side of the room, but I wasn't going to let that bother me.

“Isn't there anyplace I can get away from Corson?” Glen asked, conversationally.

“Probably not,” I replied.

“How do people stand working for him?”

“Oh, he's not that bad. There are worse.”

“Mmm. Try negotiating with him.”

“No, thanks.”

“Smart.” He glanced over at the group again and said, “That's his wife next to him, right? The blonde?”

“Yes. Why?”

“I could have sworn I saw her yesterday with someone else.”

“Tina has a lot of friends,” I said grimly.

“She's young for Corson.”

“Trophy wife. Of course it's been a while, so the shine may be dulling.”

Glen smiled at me. “Tell me about it.”

“Well, let's see. Brandt hit his midlife crisis late, and went kind of nuts. He dumped his wife Donna, who'd put up with him for almost thirty years, God knows how. To make matters worse, Donna's lawyer was a friend of Brandt's, and Donna didn't get near what she should have . . . Anyway, after that, Brandt bought a vat of musk and a new suit, and dived into the dating ocean with all the grace of an aging walrus. Or maybe a bear with a potbelly and, as you can see, a comb-over that rivals Donald Trump's.” Glen was laughing so hard I thought he'd fall over. “Let's see . . . within a year, he married Wanda the Biker at Sturgis. That lasted six months. Then he married—he likes getting married—some chick from Sioux Falls who came and went really fast. I don't even remember her name. And then he found Tina. Now Tina's hobby for years has been marrying money and spending it, and she had just shed her last husband. I believe her fourth.” I leaned over and said, confidentially, “She's not as young as she looks, by the way. Money'll do that. Anyway, they went off to Colorado, got married, and they've been prominent on the social circuit ever since.”

“More. More!”

“Not much more to tell. That was five years ago, so this one might last. There they are, large as life and almost as natural.”

“I assume he knew her past history?”

“Everybody in Laskin knows.”

“Well, that lets that out as leverage.”

“I keep telling you, try bribery. Brandt's cheap.”

“Then this deal should be a natural. The Consortium will handle all the setup costs.”

“They will?”

“Yes.”

I shook my head. “Maybe he just doesn't like you.”

“Thanks.”

“Well, Brandt's like that. If he takes a dislike to someone, that's it.”

“That's not very professional.”

“This is his town. He doesn't need to be.”

“Great. Enough of that. Tell me some more of those crazy stories about your family.”

So I did. He was laughing again when I saw Bob come in and head for the bar. I wound up my Aunt Olive, the Hermit of Laskin, story quicker than usual, and excused myself. On my way back from the ladies’ room, I stopped at the bar.

“Waiting for someone?”

“I knew you were spying.”

“I'm not the spy. I've got a date,” I said.

Bob craned his neck around. “Oh, yeah. That crazy wind power guy.”

“Nothing crazy about it. If I had the money, I'd put a windmill on my roof.”

“He looks like a used-car salesman.”

“Beats looking desperate,” I said, and walked away.

“That's the guy I saw Corson's wife with,” Glen said when I sat back down. “Who is he?”

“Bob Olson,” I said. “Journalist with our local newspaper. Did I ever tell you about my Aunt Matt and the four roasters?”

There was a big article in the Sioux Falls Argus Leader that Friday about wind power and its benefits. Glen's company was mentioned, among others, and so was Laskin, as a potential site. That got everybody in town talking. Monday's Laskin Observer was full of letters to the editor, all about wind farms, ranging from mild approval to rants about “obstructionists who stand in the way of progress.” I sighed. Every old farmer in the county was going to show up at the courthouse today to yap about it to me. Like I had anything to do with it. But I had been seen in public with Glen, which made me an instant expert. It was going to be a long day.

Police Officer Grant Tripp was the first to stop in, with the usual weekend paperwork for me to file. He looked at the paper while I stamped away, and commented, “There's something dicey about all of this.”

“Such as?”

“Corson's a good businessman. He's not going to turn down anything that makes a profit. What's wrong with this deal? You hear anything?”

“Why would I?” Grant gave me a long, flat look that made me blush. “Look, I've just had dinner with the guy,” I snapped.

“More than once.”

“So? That's my business, damn it! And we never discussed business!”

Grant raised his hands and backed out of my office. “Sorry.”

I threw the paper across the room. So much for that single man ever asking me out.

When I'm not being taken out by wealthy executives from Denver, I generally lunch at the Laskin Cafe, and that day I was surprised to see Brandt Corson there. I hadn't realized he was that cheap.

“Mind if I join you for a minute, Linda?”

“Not at all.”

He sat down with his coffee across from me, and pointed at my dessert. “That looks good.”

“It's mine,” I said coldly.

“Of course it is. And I've already had pie.” And at his weight, he didn't need it. “I suppose everyone's talking about the whole wind power question down at the courthouse.”

“I'd say everyone's talking about it all over town.” Paula refilled my coffee. “So what is the problem with it?”

“Simple. You want to put in wind power, that requires generating systems, transmitters, transmission lines, the whole infrastructure.”

“Which we already have.”

“Yes. And they're already running at full capacity. We've got a functional system. Our energy costs are low; wind power's not going to make them any lower. Over time, we'll build wind power into the system, but we don't need to now.”

“But why not, if there are investors—”

“They're willing to invest only because they plan to take every single kilowatt out of state. It's all going to go to California. Nothing's staying in South Dakota. That's another thing your boyfriend hasn't bothered to mention.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” I said automatically. Brandt half-smiled. “Why don't you say all this publicly?”

“I have,” Brandt said. “I made it real clear back at the NPCC meeting in Denver, and to my board of directors when I got back. I guess word hasn't leaked out about that.”

“No.”

He nodded. “No one's listening. Everyone's all hyped up for wind power. They don't want to hear that it will actually cost more in the short run.”

“Mmm.”

“So I'm going to hold an informational meeting this Thursday night at the Conference Center. You should come. I've invited Mr. Coughlin.”

“Thanks. I might.”

“Good. A lot of people listen to you, you know.”

“That nice girl down at the courthouse?”

He smiled, which made his eyes disappear in his puffy face. “You should eat that brownie before someone else does.” He got up and left as Paula brought my baked chicken.

So Glen was trying to get a wind farm going to power up California. Well, why not? We already had an oil pipeline from Canada running through South Dakota, with most of the oil promised overseas. Money to be made. But it wouldn't go over well with any of the South Dakota farmers I knew.

More farmers came in that afternoon, and then Bob called.

“So what's going on with you and the wind nut?”

“I thought you didn't like prying into personal stuff,” I snapped back.

“You started it.”

“Like hell. How's Tina?” There was a silence, but no dial tone, so he hadn't hung up. “That good, huh?”

“Linda . . . I can't explain it.”

“I can.”

“Now don't go blaming her. Tina's been up-front with me the whole way. I'm the one who can't think straight.”

“Well, duh. You're fantasizing about your high-school sweetheart, who's married to the richest guy in town. I'm sure everything's going to end happily in a white wedding.”

“That's— Look, she's lonely, okay?” I crowed. “She is! Everybody's got a down on her because of her past, but it's not her fault that men go nuts over her.” I sighed. “She just wants to talk sometimes, with someone who understands her. An old friend. Brandt's a workaholic, he's possessive, he's jealous, arrogant, insensitive . . .”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

“She made a mistake, all right? She told me she'd planned on being alone after her last divorce, just to get to know herself. And then Brandt swept her off her feet, and before she knew it, they were married. He promised her everything, and Tina's the kind of woman who needs a man to take care of her. She's embarrassed about it, actually.” He broke off and asked, “Are you still there?”

“Yes. I'm here.”

“I'm just trying to help her sort things out. That's all. She says I'm the only one she can trust.”

“Yeah, well, after working her way through the Country Club you're about the only one left.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about Dan Fjerstad, Wayne Olson, Carl Nelson—”

“They're just bitter exes.”

“Yeah, well, you don't know bitter until Brandt comes after you. He's got a mean temper.”

“That's my point!”

“Yeah, right. Have fun, Fred.”

“Fred?”

“Fred MacMurray. Double Indemnity."

“Oh, like you're not playing Working Girl with Mr. Wind Power.”

“At least nobody gets killed in that one.”

As you can tell, it was a great day. When Glen came by to pick me up for dinner, I was having a beer on my deck. “Come and join me!” I said.

“Bad day?”

“That's putting it mildly.” He sat down across from me. “I think everybody in town came by to find out the details of the deal you're offering.” He raised his eyebrows. “It's a small town. They know we've been out together. How often and where.”

“Whatever happened to privacy?”

“I think that's a suburb of New York, isn't it?” We both chuckled. “Never mind. I don't know, and I don't care, and that's what I've been telling everyone all day long.”

“Well, I hope you care a little bit . . .”

I leaned into him, he put his arm around me and, right out there on the deck in broad daylight, we kissed for the first time. But it wasn't that good, for either of us. Glen reached for his beer, and I started talking.

“Oh, I ran into Brandt at lunch today. He told me that the reason he's opposed to your company is that all the power's going to go to California.”

“Damn it,” Glen said. “Not all of it. And the landowners will be paid rent, maybe even a percentage—”

“You don't have to sell me. Sell the meeting.”

“Meeting? What meeting?”

“Thursday. Conference Center.”

“Oh.” His gaze drifted across the yard to Baird Creek, which wasn't looking its best, and stuck there.

“You are going to go, aren't you?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Of course. Shall we get going?”

We went that night to Mellette's Lounge, where they serve a hamburger as big as a steak. As we waited for our food, I spotted Tina and Bob, damn them, in a back booth. You'd think after living in Laskin this long they'd know that the back booth is the first place everybody looks. Brandt certainly did. He walked straight over to them, and everything exploded.

Bob and Tina leaped up. Then everyone else did. Brandt had Tina by the arm. She was screaming at him, Bob was trying to pull them apart, and I was wishing Bob had some sense. Everyone in the place rushed toward the center of the action, including Glen. Tina ripped herself free from Brandt, and Brandt and Bob proceeded to get into the lamest fistfight I'd ever seen. Eventually—it seemed like an hour, but it was only moments—Tina flailed at both of them, Glen grabbed at Brandt, and Bob let loose with a haymaker that connected. Brandt fell backward, hard, on top of Glen, and Bob was piled up on top of both of them. Tina leaped on top of all of them, I suppose to drag Bob off. Brandt was jerking around so hard that he threw both Bob and Tina off. And then he stopped. Bob kind of crawled over to the wall and laid against it, gasping. Then he started vomiting, weakly.

Glen looked up—with the strangest expression on his face—from underneath Brandt. “He's dead.”

“What?”

Tina flung herself back onto Brandt's body and started wailing. A couple of guys tried to pull her off, and another couple tried to get Glen out from under Brandt. Bob stayed where he was, a stained white stone. Finally they pried Tina off, and Glen out, and that's when the knife clattered down onto the floor. Tina started screaming, and didn't stop until well after the police arrived.

The EMTs took the body away. They also took Bob—still barely able to move or breathe—to the hospital. The police took statements from all of us, and then let us go. Glen and I didn't say a word all the way home. I didn't sleep well that night, and I was a zombie at work the next day. I didn't snap out of it until I got a call from Grant, asking me to come in to answer a few more questions.

I was locking the office when John Nordquist, Judge Dunn's court reporter, came over and said, very quietly, “I hear they're charging Bob.”

“Oh, no.” I leaned against the door.

His voice sank even lower. “Second-degree murder, manslaughter, aggravated assault, involuntary homicide. Ward figures one of them might stick.”

“Oh, for God's sake. Bob would never have—”

“I thought you'd want to know.”

The jail is in the courthouse, but the police station is two blocks away, past the post office and the donut shop, the two busiest places in town, and it was only nine thirty. From the corner of my eye I could see people watching me from the corners of their eyes. I was sure little knots of people were forming as I passed. It was going to be a real busy day for gossip.

When I got to the station, Detective Jonasson was in his office, but Grant waved me over to his desk, and we went over the events of last night one more time.

“I honestly can't remember,” I said. “I didn't see a knife in anyone's hand. Bob . . . I remember he punched him, Brandt, I mean, Bob punched Brandt and Brandt went down, right on top of Glen, and then Bob fell on both of them.”

“So he jumped on top of Brandt?”

“No, he fell on him. Like he tripped or something. Didn't anyone have a cell phone? Take video of it for YouTube?”

“Too old a crowd.”

“Thanks.” Grant started to apologize, and I waved him quiet. “Anyway, Bob—well, he couldn't get back up. He could barely breathe. That's why they took him to the hospital.”

Grant nodded. “A couple of people said Brandt looked like he was having an epileptic fit.”

“That's true. He was jerking around, and then he stopped. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out what happened.”

“Was he really stabbed?” Grant's face didn't even twitch. “Tell me, did Bob and Tina . . . Were they actually eating dinner?”

“Huh?”

“Food. The knife had to come from somewhere, and you know Vi, she never brings the silverware until you get your food.”

“No. They weren't. They were just having drinks. But the knife could have come from another table.”

“They were in the back booth. There's nothing there but another booth, and it was empty.”

“How about your table?”

“What do you mean?”

“You were having dinner with that Coughlin guy, weren't you?”

“Yes.” I set my jaw.

“Did you have silverware?”

“We hadn't gotten our hamburgers yet,” I said. “And never got them. By the time I got home I was starving.”

“So. The knife came out of nowhere.”

“Was it one of Mellette's knives?” No answer. “Was it Bob's?” Grant just sat there, looking sympathetic. “Look, I don't believe Bob intentionally stabbed the man. I can't believe he did it unintentionally.”

“Oh, that reminds me. Bob wanted to know if you'd take care of his dog.”

“Oh, God, yes. Elsie. Yes, of course I will. Can't you tell me anything else?” I pleaded.

“Not really.”

* * * *

I went over to Bob's, and saw Elsie bounding around the yard. Mrs. Gustafson, Bob's neighbor, was watching her.

“I figured I'd let the dog out,” she said as I walked up and Elsie overwhelmed me with doggy love.

“That's nice of you.”

She shrugged. “Not her fault. Heard you were there last night.” I nodded. “I knew he'd get in trouble sooner or later, carrying on the way they were.”

This was not a conversation I wanted to have. “Listen, I'll take Elsie over to my place until Bob gets back.”

“From what I hear, that might be never. You might have yourself a dog.”

I went back home, damning Laskin gossip, and found Glen sitting on my deck, waiting for me.

“Hi. Why don't you come on in?” I asked. He followed me and Elsie into the house. She leaped up onto the couch, curled up, and watched us. “So, how are you doing?”

“Okay. How about you?”

“I just can't believe any of it.”

“Me, neither. I'm going back to Denver. For a while, at least. My company . . . They don't like the idea of me being involved in a death, even as a witness. So they're calling me back home. They'll send someone else out to try to close the deal with the LPC.” He laughed a bit nervously. “Just when my major obstacle is gone and I could finally close the sale. I'm just hoping they don't fire me. I mean, I'm sorry he's dead, but . . . Anyway, it's not up to me.”

“I'm so sorry.”

“Yeah. Well, maybe, maybe when I come back . . .”

It was all so half-hearted I wanted to smack him. Instead, I said with my best Norwegian smile, “Of course. We'll see.”

“Okay.” He patted me on the arm and left.

I sat at my kitchen table and tried not to think about the next few weeks. Purely selfish, but I was already “poor Linda Thompson, you know, who married Gary Davison, yes, that Davison,” and now they'd add on “she still doesn't have any luck when it comes to men.” Everyone would be very kind, very sweet to my face, and I wasn't sure I could take it. Again.

Elsie came over and licked my face, which I hate. But she meant well, and I patted her head. “Well, it's just you and me, kid,” I said, in my best Bogie. I wondered how Bob was doing . . . I turned on my TV set. It's an old one, an analog (I have a converter box) that always takes a minute to get a picture up, and as it snapped and popped and hissed, I wondered what had made Bob so sick the night before. It certainly wasn't the fist fight, and Bob had always had cast-iron guts. The last time I saw him that sick was after some bad chili we'd eaten on one of our camping trips. And even that hadn't made him lose all bodily control.

But five years ago, there had been a display for everyone at the courthouse about taser use. Poor Officer Johnson had been the volunteer victim, and he'd gone down to the floor, jerking like he was having a fit. And Bob, like an idiot, had also volunteered to be tased, so he could write an article about it for the paper. He, too, had gone down jerking. I could still see him, white and puking and gasping, the same as he had last night. And Brandt, jerking, and then so still . . .

I called the police station. Grant was still there.

“Listen, Grant, this is Linda Thompson. I think I know what happened. But I'm not sure which one. Whether Tina or Glen. Glen Coughlin.”

“I know who he is.”

“Do you know he's leaving town? Heading back to Denver. You need to see if he or Tina has a taser.”

I could hear him say something, and then Detective Jonasson got on the line.

“Linda. Thanks for calling us and letting us know that Coughlin's leaving town. What's this about a taser?”

“I'm not sure. I just . . .” A lot of things jammed together in my mind. “It depends on whether Brandt was really stabbed.” There was a blank silence. “And even if he was, was that what actually killed him? Or was it a heart attack? Because, if so, I think he was tased. And he and Bob both need to be checked for taser marks.”

“I always said you've got hunter's instincts,” Jonasson said. “Thanks for the tip. Here's Grant.”

“You got anything else, Linda?” Grant asked. I could hear Jonasson barking in the background.

“I don't know. I'm not sure if it's one or the other, or if it might have even been a setup between Glen and Tina. They were all in Denver at that meeting, but Glen asked me who Tina was. And he must have met her there. She's not that forgettable.”

“If you say so,” Grant said, bless him.

“And someone must have tipped Brandt off that Bob and Tina would be at Mellette's. And no one from Laskin would do that but Tina.”

“Good point.”

“That's it.” I wasn't going to bring up the lack of chemistry with Glen.

“Okay. Listen, thanks for your help, Linda.”

“Grant—”

“Don't worry. As soon as we can, we'll let you know what's going on.” And he hung up.

* * * *

As it turned out, both Glen and Tina owned tasers, and both had been packing that night. Brandt had had a heart condition: One of the major debates at the trial was whether it was being tased or the fistfight that brought on the heart attack that killed him. Glen claimed he carried a taser because he lived in a big city, but he'd never used it anywhere at all. Tina eventually argued that she used the taser to stop Bob from attacking Brandt, and that she had never intended to kill anyone.

The knife . . . in the first place, Brandt wasn't stabbed at all. But it sure led to a whole bunch of stories. Tina claimed Bob had it, and that's why she used the taser on him, and inadvertently tased Brandt too. Bob swore he had no knife, and that it must have been Glen. Cassie, the waitress, said she had just brought our hamburgers when the fight broke out. Glen claimed that he never picked up the knife, or if he did, he didn't remember it, and he stuck to that story like glue. And they couldn't prove he did, because some idiot at Mellette's had picked up the knife and it got passed around the crowd. So much for forensic evidence.

Tina was fairly nonchalant about legal charges, even when investigation proved that Glen and Tina had met, at least flirted, and perhaps done more, at that Denver meeting. She said it had meant nothing, and she was probably telling the truth. But it didn't sound so good in court to a jury that didn't like her. Tina was convicted of simple assault and sentenced to a year in jail and a ten thousand dollar fine. Her lawyer got them to change her punishment venue to Minnehaha County, and after that she vanished. Everyone agreed that she got away with murder, fairly cheaply. But Brandt's children sued her for her share of his fortune, and that's still on-going. They just might win.

Glen never got charged and never came back. Wind power will eventually come to Laskin, but it won't be through his Consortium.

Bob got hit the worst: He was convicted in the court of public opinion of total stupidity, and that's a hard thing to live with in a small town.

We only talked about it once. We were having a beer in his backyard, while Elsie bounded around.

“She really had me fooled,” he said, and I didn't have to ask who “she” was.

“I know. I'm sorry.”

He shook his head. “You just never know.”

We sat there, silent, watching Elsie as she sniffed everything in creation.

“I've had it with dating,” Bob said.

“Probably a good idea,” I said.

There was a long silence, then Bob asked, “Want to go camping next weekend?”

“How about the weekend after?”

I didn't have the heart to tell him I had a date with Grant.

Copyright © 2012 Eve Fisher

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: BOOKED & PRINTED
by Robert C. Hahn

A persuasive case can be made that the field of mystery and suspense has never been as wide, varied, and deep as it is today. Making that case is beyond the scope of this column, but this month's titles do illustrate today's broad range of innovative approaches to traditional genre models.

* * * *

Walter Mosley's Easy Rawlins mysteries provided a searing portrait of blacks in Los Angeles from immediately after WWII to the late 1960s. He also has set an equally compelling contemporary series in New York City that features Leonid McGill in a clever variation on the tarnished knight. The fourth book in the series is all i did was shoot my man (Riverhead, $26.95).

* * * *

* * * *

Mosley often writes strong secondary characters who capture readers as much or more than the ostensible hero. Easy Rawlins was undoubtedly the primary focus of the eleven books in that series (ten novels and one short story collection), but his dangerous and deadly friend “Mouse” Alexander stole many scenes. Bookseller Paris Minton might be the lever that moved Mosley's three novels Fearless Jones, Fear Itself, and Fear of the Dark, but it was his principled friend Fearless Jones who loomed large in each of the novels.

Leonid McGill needs no such assistance to hold center stage. McGill's past and his present are complex and offer many possibilities for Mosley's rich imagination to explore. McGill is an ex-boxer and a reformed, or reforming, bad guy who is seeking to right his wrongs when and where he can. His wife, Scandinavian-born Katrina, frequently drinks too much and takes lovers freely. Of McGill's three children, only one is his biologically, but he is a father to them all, and all are challenging in one way or another. Twill, eighteen, is his favorite—bright and frequently balanced on the edge of legal and illegal activities. Oldest son Dimitri, twenty-three, is getting ready to move from the family apartment to live with his Belarusian girlfriend, former prostitute Tatyana Baranovich. Sweet-natured Shelly is just on the cusp of womanhood, which presents a new set of problems for McGill to worry about.

In ALL I DID WAS SHOOT MY MAN, the best yet in the series, McGill tries to help Zella Grisham, a woman he helped frame for a fifty-eight-million-dollar robbery she had nothing to do with. Zella was guilty of shooting her philandering man, but McGill's frame earned her a hard eight years in prison before he smoothed the path for her release. But McGill's attempt to atone for this crime turns out to be full of deadly repercussions and he needs all his wiles to protect not only Zella but his own contentious family.

Mosley's brilliant gift of language and complex characterizations lift his Leonid McGill novels to the highest ranks of modern fiction.

* * * *

Best known for his horror and fantasy novels, Peter Straub has won numerous Bram Stoker awards as well as World Fantasy and British Fantasy awards. In mrs. god (Pegasus, $23.95), he channels the eerie suspense of Edgar Allan Poe's tales of imagination.

* * * *

* * * *

MRS. GOD was originally published as a novella in 1990 in the collection of short stories Houses Without Doors, and the same year in an illustrated, limited edition by Donald M. Grant. Now available for the first time in a stand-alone trade publication, Mrs. God harkens back to the tales of Poe in its almost claustrophobic, brooding intensity where the lines between reality and fantasy blur and blend to produce nightmare.

William Standish, a rather unaccomplished professor at Zenith College in Illinois, is thrilled when offered the rare opportunity to stay at Esswood House, the famous home of the Seneschals in Lincolnshire where major literary figures such as D. H. Lawrence, T. S. Eliot, and Henry James had stayed and written, as had minor figures such as poet Isobel Standish, who is viewed by William as his path to tenure.

Even before Standish arrives at Seneschal House things begin to go wrong as he loses his way in his rental car on poorly marked roads, encounters a strange man when he stops to look at a road marker, and gets unceremoniously thrown out of a pub for no fault of his own that he can recognize.

Finally arriving at Seneschal House he is relieved to meet Robert Wall and to be shown the impressive library in the labyrinthine house where papers donated by many literary figures including Isobel are stored. Standish grows more and more bewildered by his surroundings, the strange notebooks of Isobel and the prolonged absence of his host as his opportunity of a lifetime segues into the nightmare of his life.

Straub uses plenty of conventional touches—rumors about an old murder, locked rooms, and strange corridors, voices heard but people unseen, lights where there should be none, and silhouettes where there should be no people—and imbues them with an eerie intensity.

* * * *

Bret Lott, the author of Jewel, an Oprah Book Club selection, as well as The Man Who Owned Vermont and A Stranger's House, introduced Huger Dillard in 1998's The Hunt Club, his first foray into the mystery genre. Huger Dillard returns in DEAD LOW TIDE (Random House, $25), a captivating thriller that beautifully melds a family drama in a rural setting with larger concerns.

* * * *

* * * *

Young Huger (pronounced You-gee) Dillard was fifteen years old when the haunting actions that occurred in The Hunt Club took place. Now twenty-seven, Huger lives in Charleston with his mother, Eugenie, and the man he calls “Unk,” his father Leland Dillard.

A radical change of fortune has taken the family from “have nots” to “haves,” and they now live at Landgrave Hall Golf and Country Club in a forty-two hundred square-foot “cottage.” Unk, though blind, still loves to play golf so long as no one can see him, which is why Huger and Unk sneak on to the course at night illegally, poling up Goose Creek in a jon boat, to indulge his passion.

It is Unk's accidental discovery of a sunken body while approaching the shore as well as the seemingly innocuous winning at poker of a pair of advanced night-vision goggles from a naval officer that launch the Dillards into an affair that will bring to light long-buried family secrets and a surprising threat to the region.

Lott's second foray into the suspense genre is enormously successful as he plumbs the depths of his rural characters amidst a palpable Charleston atmosphere and adds a plot that ventures solidly into the territory of the modern thriller.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: FUN FOR THE WHOLE FAMILY
by Ron Goulart

The revelation and the knock on the door occurred on the same foggy Southern California autumn evening. About an hour apart.

Wes Goodhill had been sitting on the new sofa in the living room of their Santa Rita Beach cottage, a clipboard resting on his knee. His wife was gracefully slouched in a comfortable armchair, watching the local news on a small flat screen television set that rested on a stand out of Wes's line of vision.

Suddenly Casey jumped to her feet. “Oh, my gosh,” she explained, pointing a slightly shaking forefinger at the screen.

“What?” He jumped up, dropping the clipboard and scattering the rough animation sketches he was making.

The news reporter was saying, “. . . police found that the self-styled ‘Psychic to the Stars’ had fled her palatial rented residence allegedly to avoid arrest on charges of fraud as well as . . .”

“Case, what is it?”

Very pale, the blonde young woman gestured again toward the screen, not speaking.

“The present whereabouts of Madam Molesworth are unknown,” continued the newsman.

Putting an arm around his wife's slim shoulders, Wes frowned at the colored news photo of an attractive dark-haired woman in her late fifties that appeared now. “Do you know her?”

After swallowing twice, Casey replied, “Yes, she's my mother.”

* * * *

Casey absentmindedly hooked her finger through the handle of the cocoa mug but didn't lift the cup from the kitchen table. “I'm somewhat knocked for a hoop,” she said.

“Knocked for a loop,” he corrected from across the table.

“Exactly.”

Wes, impatiently, said, “Okay. I made us each a cup of hot cocoa, we're seated face to face in our cozy kitchen—tell me about that woman.”

“I'm pretty darn sure, Wes, that it's my mother.”

“I was under the impression, gathered from you and your disreputable and fortunately absent from our vicinity father, that your mother was no longer among the living. That she was defunct, moved on to glory, long gone and—”

“If you'll let me get a word in sideways, I'll explain.”

“Edgewise,” he corrected. “I thought you'd gotten over your habit of lying, but—”

“I've never fibbed to you about her,” Casey told her husband. “All I did was withhold information. That's not the same—”

“Okay, so tell me now.”

“Well, my mother and father separated when I was barely out of my teens. I went to live with my Aunt Hulda,” she began, absently tapping the cup with the side of her thumb. “She just couldn't put up with the fact that my father was somewhat disreputable.”

“Somewhat? The guy's a world class con man, as well a prince of thieves and an all around scoundrel and for good measure—”

“That's exactly why my mom couldn't put up with the guy.”

Wes frowned. “But she is, according to the news, a con artist herself. A fake psychic who—”

“She apparently got into that line of work after we parted.” Casey lifted her cup, took a sip. “I haven't seen her at all for, oh, ten years at least.” The fog was growing thicker, pressing at the kitchen window panes.

“What was she back then?”

“A librarian,” answered Casey. “Or so I thought.”

“Meaning?”

“Well, Wes, now that I think about it, she did keep pretty odd hours for somebody employed at a library.”

“This is great, Case,” he said, a trace of self-pity in his voice. “It looks like your DNA has con artist genes on both sides. When we have kids, they'll probably—”

“I'm wondering what's become of her since she disappeared from that palatial rented Brentwood home.”

“She's holed up somewhere hiding out. The cops were about to grab her for some audacious fraud she was in the midst of. Now, you're absolutely certain Madam Molesworth is your mother?”

“Without a shade of a doubt. For one thing—”

“Shadow.”

“For one things she used to read to me from her favorite book of fairy stories when I was, you know, seven or eight. It was by a woman named Mrs. Molesworth. That's where Mom got the name.”

“What's her real name?”

“McLeod just like mine,” she answered. “Helena Dart McLeod. Her father was a prominent physician in Buffalo. Dr. Dart.”

“Or so she told you.”

Casey grew thoughtful. “Oh, I don't think my mother would lie to me about something like that. Besides, as I remember, she kept a picture of a distinguished-looking man with a beard on the piano. Her dad.”

“A beard is not a sure sign that the guy had a license to practice medicine. He might—”

An enthuiastic knocking had begun on their front door.

Wes rose up. “I'll see who it is.”

The knocking ceased as he crossed the living room of the beach house. Far away in the night a forlorn foghorn sounded.

Then the knocking started again, with even more brio.

“Okay, okay!” he called out.

Wes opened the door to find a slim dark-haired young woman in her early thirties standing out there in the mist.

“Hi,” she said, smiling tentatively, “I don't know if you remember me, Wes—”

“I do, yes,” he said evenly. “Yes, I do.”

“I'm Casey's sister, Kate.”

“My God, first her mother, now you.” he said. It's like a plague of locusts. Only with McLeods.”

* * * *

The morning matched his mood. It was grey and chill. Even Wes's office at SpareyArts Animation seemed grey and chill.

He was hunched at his drawing board, but he wasn't drawing. “There are times in a man's life when he just isn't up to designing a gay dinosaur,” he decided.

“I never thought much of that concept anyway,” said his friend Mike Filchock, who was occupying a somewhat lopsided white wicker chair across the room. "The Dino Who Came Out Of The Closet. Not a hot title for a kid cartoon on cable.”

“No, this is for an adult TV cartoon,” Wes told him. “For that upcoming channel, All Gay, All Day.”

“Not destined to be a hit, old buddy.”

“What about that new reality show you're scripting, Dancing With Felons? How's it doing?”

“Cancelled after five shows,” replied his writer friend.

“Thought you said it was a hit?”

“It was, until the network became dissatisfied.”

“What caused that?”

“Well. On the rehearsal for the sixth show, a few of the felons escaped.”

“How many?”

“Oh, not more than four or five,” said Filchock. “But enough show biz badinage. Fill me in on the hordes of McLeods who've descended on you.”

“Actually it's only Kate's sister who's showed up in person. So far.”

“But you told me on the phone last nigth that Mother McLeod was also in the offing.”

“All that we know is that she's somewhere out and around in L.A. Although Kate has an idea.”

Filchock, who was wearing a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt and tweed slacks, requested, “Refresh my memory. Is this particular lady the one who calls herself Kate Coventry? The lady who tried to lure you and your bride into a scheme involving a stolen object of art a few years back?”

“That's the same Kate, yes.” He sighed. “We were hoping she was up to no good someplace far distant from us.”

“Instead she's been in Los Angeles and environs?”

“She teamed up with her mother some three months ago. We found that out last night.”

Filchock said, “When I was writing the Famous Crooks show for Fox three seasons ago, we did a script about a fake spirit medium who—”

“My . . .” Wes produced a faint disgruntled groan. “My mother-in-law isn't a phony medium or channeler,” he explained. “She's a fake psychic who had just about convinced Walter Gormley that she'd located his long lost only daughter.”

“Walter Gormley, the billionaire CEO of GormTech?”

“Yeah, him.”

Filchock recalled, “His daughter ran off about ten twelve years ago, while she was in her teens. A multitude of private eyes and law officers have never found a trace of the girl.”

“Casey's mom convinced Gormley that she was getting vivid impressions as to where the daughter was. Melody Gormley, if alive, would be in her late twenties.”

“Eureka!” Jumping up, the writer snapped his fingers. “She was planning to pass Kate off as the missing heiress.”

Wes nodded. “Kate's few years older, but there's a fair resemblance,” he said. That's why Casey's mom recruited her daughter to work with her on this caper.”

“Why did Kate come barging in on you guys? Did Gormley call the cops on Moms McLeod?”

“Nope, the police came after her about an earlier psychic con,” said Wes. “Kate thinks a rival of Casey's mother grabbed her.”

“And what does Sister Kate want of you and Casey?”

“Firstly, Kate's afraid that she may get grabbed, too, and considers our place as a hideout,” he said, “and she also wants to help us find Mrs. McLeod and rescue her.”

* * * *

Casey was standing on the narrow lawn in front of their beach house when Wes drove into their driveway. The waning afternoon was even grayer and more chill that in the morning. His wife wore an expression similar to that of a child whose puppy has just been run over by an SUV.

Hurrying up to her, he took hold hand and asked, “Is something else wrong?”

“Now listen, Wes, I don't want you to scream or yell or hop around like a chicken without its hat. But—”

“Without its head,” he corrected. “Are you okay?”

“I've been waiting out here to prepare you for some, well, probably unsettling news.”

“You've found out what's happened to your mother?”

“No, nope, there's still no word of her.” Casey started leading him toward their house.

From inside piano music started.

Bebop, he realized, wincing.

He took a step away from his wife, gestured at the beach house, and asked, “Does your sister Kate play bebop piano?”

“Kate isn't a bit musical. Actually it's—”

“Your damn father! That's none other than Erle Stanley McLeod inside there, defiling the sanctity of our home and playing his insipid version of a Thelonius Monk standard on our upright piano.”

Taking hold of her husband's arm, she tugged him in the direction of the open front door. “He means well,” she said quietly.

“The last time we encountered your dear old dad,” Wes reminded her, “he involved us in one of his illegal ventures, and you got us kidnapped. What does he intend to drag us into now?”

“This is sort of a family thing, dear.”

“That's even more ominous, since your family seems to consist entirely of con men, grifters, poltroons, thieves, and—”

“Wait now, Wes. You can't make a generalization like that when you haven't even met them all.”

He stopped still on the doorstep. “There are more of them? Are they all planning to move in with us?”

“My Dad showed up to help us rescue my mom,” Casey explained, getting him moving in the direction of the open doorway. “Soon as he heard about her plight, he rushed here to lend a helping hand.”

“Where's he been? Conning a widow out of her mite? Looting an orphans’ home?”

“Wesley, my boy, good to see you once again,” Casey's father said cordially from the threshold. “Come on in and we can get rolling on a plan to extricate my erstwhile wife from her current troubles.”

* * * *

“Does anybody mind if I smoke?” asked Casey's father. He was a tall, lean, dapper man in his mid sixties. From the pocket of his blazer he was extracting a somewhat woebegone pipe.

“Yes, don't.” Wes was sitting, tensely, on the sofa beside his wife.

“No smoking in the house, Dad,” Casey added.

He shrugged, dropped the pipe away and resumed pacing the living room. “Smoking helps me think, but it can't be helped.” He stopped near the armchair where his other daughter was sitting. “I realize, my dear, that I haven't seen you in a few years,” he told her. “Yet I feel something about your appearance has changed.”

“It's been nine years since last we met.” Kate tapped the side of her nose.

“I had plastic surgery a couple months ago. So I'd have a nose approximating that of Melody Gormley.”

He studied his daughter, eyes narrowed, before nodding. “Hmm. Yes, a decided improvement, Katy.”

“And probably useless, since the whole job is—”

“Come now, child,” admonished her father as he recommenced his pacing. “Mustn't give up the ship. It may still be quite possible to pass you off as the Gormley heiress and—”

“Whoa now,” cut in Wes, leaning forward and raising his voice. “If you two want to plot out a way to carry on with your ex-wife's scam, go conspire someplace else.”

Casey added, “We just want to help find Mom. So let's only talk about that.” She pointed at her sister. “Kate thinks she was abducted by somebody who's been planning to work a similar con on Gormley.”

“Well, of course she was. “McLeod took out his pipe, tapped the bowl on his palm three times, and dropped it away again. “That's why I took the risk of coming here, even though I would much prefer to stay away from Los Angeles. Between disgruntled former associates and assorted minions of the law, I—”

“Father heard about what happened up here,” said Kate, “while he was down in—”

“While I was out of the country,” he said, coughing once. “To return to my narrative. An unsavory acquaintance of mine had picked up some news of your mother's situation by way of the grapevine. It seems a notorious chap named E. Jack Bastian, better known in certain shady venues as Bastian the Bastard, wanted to prevent dear Helena from foisting Kate off onto Gormley as his wayward daughter.”

Wes asked, “This guy Bastian is planning to pass his own spurious Melody Gormley onto him?”

“That's it,” confirmed Kate. “Mother and I found out that Bastian's been training his own faux heiress for over six months and is just about ready to present her to the old man.”

Casey frowned. “So it was Bastian who snatched Mom to keep her from getting there first?”

“That's the word I got too,” said her father. “Katy and I have compared notes and we agree that Bastian is the man behind the grabbing my dear former wife.”

“We heard from a man who supplies mother with information now and then that Bastian was planning to send us a warning to back off,” added Kate. “The night she was taken out of the Brentwood place. I just happened to be elsewhere. Otherwise, they would have grabbed me too.”

Casey took hold of her husband's hand. “I'd guess somebody who's earned the name of Bastian the Bastard,” she said, “is going to treat Mom any too kindly.”

McLeod gave a confirming nod. “Initially he'll hold your mother until his con is a success. He snatched her to keep her from screwing up his plans,” he said. “However, Casey Ann, if something goes wrong, well, he's a lad also known for simply tossing somebody in the Pacific in a sack full of bricks.”

“Do you have any idea where Bastian is at the moment?” asked Wes.

“I am in the process of utilizing my many contacts in the seamy underside of Greater Los Angeles to determine Bastian's current location.”

“Okay, once that happens,” suggested Wes, “all we have to do is contact the police and pass the information along. Then they can rescue Mrs. McLeod, charge the guy with kidnapping, and—”

“No, that won't work,” Casey pointed out. “They'll rescue her, sure, but then they'll toss her in the pokey for that other crooked job they're after Mom for.”

Erle Stanley McLeod said, “All we have to do is work out a virtually foolproof plan. One in which each and every one of us will take part.”

“Right. Fun for the whole family,” observed Wes with a minimum of enthusiasm.

* * * *

The Gormley estate covered at least three hillside acres in the Sombra Canyon high above Hollywood. A crisp wind had blown away most of the fog and the afternoon sky was a faint yellow-tinted blue.

Erle Stanley McLeod braked his borrowed gray Jaguar just shy of the high wrought-iron gates that surrounded the place. “Stay put, my dear,” he said to Kate. “I'll announce our advent.” He opened his door, lowered his left leg to the white gravel drive.

“You think I'll pass muster?” asked Kate, stretching up to examine herself more closely in the rearview mirror.

“You are a spitting image of the long lost Melody Gormley as she might well look today,” he assured her as he got completely out of the car. He took a few steps ahead to poke at a button on the intercom mounted in a hamstone wall.

A slightly brittle voice inquired, “What is your business, please?”

Adopting a Boston voice, Erle began, “Ahum . . . I am Professor Willis Kingsley Murray of Boston College in Cambridge. I'm an archeologist, and I do believe I have some news that Mr. Gormley will be profoundly interested in.”

“Such as?”

“His long lost daughter, Miss Melody Gormley, has, I am convinced, been found at long last,” Erle told the machine, with excitement showing in his voice. “Further more, let me hasten to inform that I have the prodigal young lady with me.”

“Have you indeed? Ah, I'm certain Mr. Gormley will be delighted to see you, I'll open the gates and you may drive right in. Park to the left of the garage complex, Professor Murray.”

A sort of mechanical raspberry sound followed. The iron gates, rattling faintly, opened inward.

As Erle Standley McLeod climbed back into the car, a stray parakeet fluttered out of the afternoon to perch atop the slowly opening gates. “Beverly Hills,” said Kate. “They even have wild parakeets.”

The acre of buzz-cut sparkling green lawn they had to traverse before reaching the huge Morrocan-style mansion was dotted with huge metallic sculptures.

“What the hell are those hideous objects?” asked Erle.

“Contemporary art,” replied his daughter. “Gigantic replicas of some of the Gormley's bestselling gadgets. That big thing over yonder is a laptop. That thing those gray squirrels are cavorting on is a ten-foot-high GormTech Smartfone.”

The gray-haired butler who answered their knock with the lion's head brass knocker was a thin, immaculately groomed man in his fifties. “Ah, Professor Murray, Mr. Gormley is most anxious to see you. Most especially you, Miss Melody. And welcome back.” He opened a door on the left side of the hall. “If you'll just wait here in the parlor.”

Sitting on one of the two facing sofas were a young woman and thickset man, with a fringe of blond hair, worn long. The young woman looked quite bit like Kate.

The butler gestured first at the seated young woman with an upturned palm. Then gestured at Kate in the doorway. “Miss Melody Gormley,” he said in his slightly brittle voice, “Meet Miss Melody Gormley.”

* * * *

As they crouched down in the hillside woodlands and looked across the knee-high acre of grass that backed the rear of the three-story Victorian mansion in Sombra Canyon, Casey observed, “Gee, what a dissipated old house.”

“Dilapidated,” corrected Wes, lifting his binoculars to his eyes. “Way back when, Klaus Nordsman used to live here.”

“Whoever he was, he wasn't a very good housekeeper.” I sure hope my mother is in there.”

“According to your father, she may well be. And we know he's always at least ninety-five percent truthful at all times.”

“Hey,” said Casey, “I have mixed feelings about him, but I'm hoping that he's reforming.”

“Hush,” he suggested, lowering his voice.

“What's up?”

Handing her the glasses, he nodded toward the ramshackle mansion. “Somebody is dumping garbage in that galvanized can on the back porch.”

“That's some housekeeper,” Casey said, squinting through the eyepieces. “Butt-hugging scarlet mini-shorts and a very sparse halter. And that looks like a very pricey red wig.”

“I noticed. Could she be the ladyfriend of the gentleman of the house?”

Casey said. “We've got to get closer to that tacky mansion if we're going to find out if Mom is locked up there”

“We'll have to wait until night falls.”

“And if she is, then what?”

“Depends on how many jailers she has.” He tapped his jacket pocket. “I borrowed a pistol from Filchock. It's a .38.”

In the small forest behind them leaves rustled, branches creaked, and a scatter of birds took flight.

“I say, folks, I wonder if you'd mid standing up, raising your hands, and coming along with me to the manse down below,” requested a voice behind them.

“Oops,” observed Wes, rising and complying.

A lean, lanky man in a faded blue running suit had apparently crept down behind them through the woods. He was pointing not one but two .45 automatics at Wes and Casey.

“Mr. Bastian,” began Casey, “we're collecting plant samples for our botany class at Adult Ed and it wasn't until you snuck up on us that we realized we were—”

“Not a bad try, Miss Casey,” the man with the guns conceded. “But we have a complete dossier on you in one of our computers, including a couple of cheesecake photos in some girlie mags from the late 1990s.”

“Did you do stuff like that?” Wes asked his wife. “You never told me.”

“It wasn't for a girlie magazine. It was in a sports magazine's swim suit issue. I was fully clothed in a yellow bikini.”

“Folks, folks, I'm not Doctor Phil. Settle your domestic squabbles elsewhere,” the lanky man suggested. “Oh, and by the way, I'm not Mr. Bastian, merely one of his toadies, name of Chip. And let me warn you that my instructions are to shoot to kill should you attempt to run.”

“We won't attempt to,” Wes assured him.

They descended across the windswept grass.

* * * *

The door came open with a vigorous flap and Gormley came in as though propelled into the immense parlor by a heavy gust of wind. Taking smaller and smaller steps, he stopped his lurch on a spot midway between before the facing couches.

Erle was on his feet, fishing a business card out of the breast pocket of his professorly coat. “Mr. Gormley. Permit me to—”

At the same time Bastian had popped up and was tugging out a leather wallet out of his hip pocket. “Mr. Gormley, sir, I am Balthazar Grimes of the—”

“Silence, you scoundrels!” commanded the tech tycoon in a relatively calm voice. “You,” he said pointing a Bastian, “are not anyone with the ludicrous name of Balthazar Grimes. You happen to be in reality a master flimflam artist known in flimflam circles as Bastian the Bastard.”

“On the contrary, sir, I am one of the most respected private—”

“And you, while a shade more presentable than this one,” cut in Gormley in a rising voice, “are Erle Staley McLeod. Well, I am, in a way, flattered that you two chose to hustle me at one and the same time.”

“You've mistaken me for this disreputable McLeod, but . . .”

“Pop, the game's up,” suggested Kate, tugging at his pants leg. “Sit yourself down.” When he had, she addressed Gormley. “As I see it, sir, we haven't done anything so far that's strictly illegal. It's not a crime to have plastic surgery to improve one's looks or to sympathize with someone for losing his only child.”

Gormley's puffy round face was losing much of its purplish tint and returning to its fat-man pink. “True,” he admitted, “but quite a few law enforcement agencies frown on the activities of rogues like you.”

“We promise never to darken your door again.”

After a thoughtful moment, he said “I'd actually hate to go through all the trouble of having you prosecuted. Trials, hearings, paying my lawyers two grand an hour.”

Bastian, looking extremely glum, said, “We, too, will silently steal away.”

Smiling, Gormley told them, “You might like to know that neither of these young ladies would have passed the test. Melody has a telltale mark on her backside that only I know of.”

“Damnation,” muttered Erle, “faulty research on your mother's part, Katy.”

The young woman who was Bastian's contender for the part of the lost daughter, got slowly up. “Thank God I didn't have plastic surgery.”

The tycoon said, “Well, then, one and all, I suggest that you scram now and don't—”

“Sir,” said the butler, coming again into the room, “There's a Miss Melody Gormley to see you.”

* * * *

Casey's reunion with her mother was not much of a joyous occasion. When Chip opened the thick door to the cellar room where Wes and Casey were to be kept until Bastian returned, a female voice from within the dim-lit room called out, “When in the hell are you going to feed me, you loon?”

Opening the door wider, Chip said, “It isn't the dinner hour for another hour at least, dearie. And I've been too busy to whip up a high tea.”

“Unnatural punishment.”

“We don't subscribe to the Geneva Conventions.” By that time he'd herded Casey and her husband across the cement floor of the stone-walled cellar.

“And the tap water is no good. It tastes like—”

“Hello, Mom.” Casey took a few tentative steps in the direction of the slim, gray-haired woman.

“How's that again?”

Wes, now truly ticked off, said, “It's your daughter, for Christ sake, and if we hadn't been trying to spring you from this hole, we wouldn't be sharing it with you now.”

Helena Dart McLeod studied Casey. She reached out and put her hands on her shoulders. “You've turned into quite a beauty, Casey Ann,” she decided. “You were scruffy and drab as a child. Kate was the pretty one.”

Backing to the doorway, Chip said, “Family reunions always make me cry, folks. I'll see about coming up with dinners for three now.”

Mrs. McLeod, somewhat reluctantly Casey thought, hugged her. “This is a reunion in a way, Casey. I am glad we finally got ourselves reunited.”

“About time you finally got around to it.” Wes began to pace the cellar floor, then stopped at the trunks and suitcases stacked against the far stonewall.

“Who is this rude young man?” asked the fortune teller, indicating Wes with a jerk of her thumb.

Casey, stepping back, said, “This is my husband, Wes Goodhill. He's a very talented animator for a major cartoon outfit in Studio City. We've been married for almost three years.”

“So you're Casey Goodhill now? Well, I suppose it couldn't be helped,” her mother said. “I do wish someone had notified me.”

Wes asked, “Where would we have sent the wedding invitation. To Anytown, USA?”

Casey proposed, “What say we try to get out of here before Bastian comes back from wherever he is?”

Wes, very quietly, opened the nearest humpback trunk. “Ah, appears this guy Klaus Nordsman was sports minded. Quite a collection of equipment that can be converted to unconventional weapons.”

“What are you planning to do,” asked Casey as she joined him trunkside, “beat him in a few sets of tennis?”

He didn't respond, instead lifting out first a wooden baseball bat, then a croquet mallet. He gave her the bat. “Here, try a few practice swings, Case.”

Mrs. McLeod seated herself atop a flat steamer trunk. “This fellow made a hell of a lot of trips to Hawaii,” she said. “How are you going to cold cock Chip?”

“The element of surprise,” he said, pointing up at a narrow ledge along the wall and over the doorway. “I'll climb up there and when he comes in with our dinners, I'll bop him on the sconce.”

“You'll try to do that,” said the older woman. “There's no guarantee you'll succeed.”

“Gee, Mom, Wes is really handy. He's not just a gifted artist.”

“Hand me that mallet once I get up on the ledge, Case.” Then Wes backed up and took a running start toward the wall, jumping up and reaching for the edge of the ledge.

“Oof,” he remarked, getting up off the floor.

“Not very deft,” said his wife.

“I suppose you could do it better?”

“I work out at the Girlz Gym in Santa Monica,” said Casey. “I hate to steal your tundra, but, yes, dear, I do.”

“Thunder,” he corrected.

Backing against the opposite wall, Casey ran across the cellar and jumped. Catching the ledge, she pulled herself up onto it. “A simple little jump, Wes, and yet you end up sweating like a fig.”

“Pig,” he corrected.

“Quick, hand me the darn mallet. I hear dishes rattling in the hall.”

Wes tossed it to her. He hid the baseball bat, then suggested to Casey's mother, “Move into the shadows so he can't tell we're all not here.”

The thick door creaked, rattled and swung open. Chip stepped into the cellar, carrying a green tray on which sat three bowls of tomato soup and a bottle of water.

All at once, he tossed the loaded tray to the floor and, as hot red soup splashed, mingling with spouting water. He aimed one of his guns up at Casey. “Never wear a provocative perfume, Miss Casey, when you're planning to ambush—”

Wes had snatched up the baseball bat and bopped him, hard on the back of his skull. One smack did it and Chip was out cold on the floor amidst the watery soup.

* * * *

The three escapees had gone less than a hundred feet along the poorly illuminated corridor, when a thickset balding man planted himself in front of them.

“Oh, crap,” exclaimed Mrs. McLeod. “It's that bastard. Bastian the Bastard.”

“You've nothing to fear, Helena, my sweet,” came the voice of Erle McLeod as he appeared to the rear of the other man.

“Hello, Dad,” put in Casey, perplexed look on her face. “What in the blue devil is going on?”

Bastian told her, “As fate would have it, Mrs. Goodhill, the real and authentic Melody Gormley chose this day to return to life. Just as your esteemed father and I were trying to pass our simulacra off as the real thing.”

“How can they be sure even this one is the real one?” asked Wes.

Kate now stepped forward. “Turns out, which none of these geniuses, including you mother, found out, that the one and only real Melody Gormley has a special birthmark on her ass.”

“How come, Erle,” asked his former wife, “you and this squatty toad are now bosom buddies?”

“We have just held, Helena, an hour-long strategy conference at a cozy little bistro off the Sunset strip. We've decided to team up on a new venture, one that promises more certain rewards than the Melody Gormley fiasco.”

“Should net us,” added Bastian, his frown lightening some, “a comfortable two-hundred thousand net profit.”

“You are welcome, my dear, to join us. Together again,” Erle Standly suggested.

“I'd rather join a leper colony.”

“I do hope you'll change your mind,” he said ruefully. “Because this particular money-making caper definitely needs a woman of your age with your flair for bullshit.”

“How much did you say it'll bring in?”

“Nothing less than two hundred grand”

After a moment Mrs. McLeod said, “Let me think about it, Erle.”

“I'm anxious to see the light of day,” said Wes.

“Me too.” seconded Casey.

“Well then, onward and upward,” said her husband, taking her hand and heading toward the way out.

Copyright © 2012 Ron Goulart

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: FASHIONED FOR MURDER
by Shauna Washington

* * * *

Art by Cat Scott

* * * *

I'd been waiting for the gates to open and allow me in for what seemed like forever and wondering where the hell Bill, the always friendly security guard, was. I had already put in the four-digit code to call my client's house, but nobody answered. Finally, I relented and began digging through my purse to find my BlackBerry so I could see if I had the resident gate code somewhere in my client list. It had taken me a long time to get a client in this posh community, and I wasn't about to let a closed gate keep me out.

Just as I found my BlackBerry, the exit on the other side started to swing open. Never one to let opportunity slip through my fingers, I quickly maneuvered my BMW X5 to the other side of the gate shack and waited as a green Crown Vic with tinted windows shot through the opening. I couldn't see who was driving, and didn't care. I whisked inside the gated community before the gate could swing back.

As I was driving up the entrance road I saw Bill trotting back toward the gate and waved. He didn't wave back. I wondered what his problem was but kept my mind on the task: I had to drop off my latest purchases for the Rosenettes and, more importantly, get paid so that my credit card balance wouldn't go into maximum overdrive.

I always worry about things like gates not opening and my credit taking a nosedive due to a wealthy client putting a stop payment on one of their checks. Luckily, the Rosenettes were longtime clients and were always prompt in paying me—sometimes Ms. Rosenette would even toss in a couture outfit for me along the way. Perks of the job. My anxiety today was due in part to the slight discomfort I felt whenever I entered ritzy places like Lake of the Desert. It was one of the most exclusive areas of unincorporated Las Vegas, or as most people called it, the place where the real rich people lived. As a fashion stylist to the rich and famous, I was technically the hired help, but unlike my ancestors, I didn't have to go to the back door.

I drove my car up the hill toward the Rosenettes's house. It was all severe angles and large windows reflecting the desert sun. Of course, the windows were mirrored glass to kept the rays out, but I wondered what their air-conditioning bill must have been like.

Not that it mattered. If you could afford to live in a place like this you didn't worry about light bills. But my middle-class upbringing was popping up again. I made a mental note to put it away when I talked to Ms. Rosenette about the plans I'd drawn up for her daughter's upcoming wedding during our weekly meeting. That's what I do: plan and shop for rich people, even the so-called rich folk wannabes. They pay me to make them look chic, and I love to spend money, even if it isn't mine.

In the front of the house a stone fountain of ornate stones with a spray of water seemed out of place against the backdrop of the modernistic design of the house. But that sort of mirrored the Rosenettes. Mister was old money, and way past middle-age; Missus, the blonde trophy wife, was only a few years older than me. Well, maybe more than a few, considering her daughter was nineteen. But Ms. Ronsenette had the best Botox money could buy to erase any of her telltale wrinkles. I was pushing thirty and smoothed on the cocoa butter morning and night.

I took my time getting out of my car and gathering up my notebook and sketches. Ms. Rosenette had made it clear she wanted something totally new and stylish for Henrietta's big day. I felt sorry for the bride, with such a name as that—I assumed she'd been named after her father, Henry—but having six or seven figures in your checking account would even the score on that count. Anyway, Henrietta always went by her nickname, Heni. I had her pegged for a party girl the first time I met her. When I went to measure her she smelled like reefer. But that was her business. After all, she was rich and didn't have to worry about nothing—at least not the same things I worried about, like how to pay my rent bill this month.

I rang the bell and waited, listening to the sound of the chimes echoing behind the frosted glass of the front door. I waited for an appropriate length of time and pressed the doorbell again. What was this? The maid's day off?

That's when I remembered that the Rosenettes also had a butler, an older black guy named James. They had a black maid, too—Ruby Ann. I guess employing me rounded things out for their support of minorities. The chimes faded once again with no response or movement inside.

It must be the butler's day off, I thought, as I gathered up my stuff and began walking around to the back of the house, thinking they were out by the pool, or something. I'd been to their house a few times for my initial interview and subsequent consultations. They liked to sit in back by their pool that looked big enough to host the summer Olympics next time around. Although the yard wasn't fenced in, a barrier of thick bushes surrounded the sidewalk along the side of the house and the pool area as well.

Not wanting to seem like a burglar or anything, I called out as I walked, “Ms. Rosenette? It's Stacey Deshay.”

Nobody answered. I kept walking. For a moment I felt an uncharacteristic chill as I passed under a trellis that shaded the walkway. The pristine brightness of the pool, with its lawn chairs and umbrella tables, came into view. The water shimmered as it reflected the overhead sun, but the evenness of the water was broken by the figure of a man floating languidly. As I moved closer I called out again, but the floater didn't move. He was fully clothed, and face down. I set my Louis Vuitton purse down on one of the tables and hurried to the edge. Tendrils of gray hair billowed out from the sides of his head, and it looked like Mr. Rosenette, a reddish aura surrounding his head.

I grabbed an aluminum pool hook and extended it over the water, trying to reach the floating body. It was too short. No way was I going to dive in and pull him to the side. I not only couldn't swim, but I was wearing my new Christian Louboutin shoes. Plus, the man didn't look like he was in any hurry at all. Still, I felt a certain sense of urgency to try and do something. I extended the pool hook again, this time trying to stir the placid water so the body would float toward me. I repeated this three times and was just starting to make some progress when I almost lost my balance and fell in the water. Not a good idea. I set the pool hook down and dug my cell phone out of my purse and started to dial 9-1-1 when I heard the approaching sirens.

Good, I thought. Let the professionals handle this. I gathered up my stuff, and began walking toward the front of the house. That's when I saw the cop standing there pointing a big old gun in my face.

“What is your emergency?” the operator asked on my phone.

Before I could say anything the cop yelled at me. “Get on the ground. Now!” His voice had all the tact of a bullwhip.

“I was calling 9-1-1,” I started to say.

He stretched his arm out more and repeated the command, this time punctuating it with the B-word.

Normally when some calls me a name I give it right back to them times ten. This time I swallowed my pride and nodded, laying the phone, my purse, and the drawings down in a neat pile as I got to my knees.

“All the way down,” he yelled. “On the ground.”

“On the ground? I'm wearing my Roberto Cavalli dress,” I pleaded.

“Do it now.”

That gun looked awfully big so I figured I'd deal with the dry cleaning bill later and did as I was told. For now Five-O had the upper hand. The next thing I knew more cops were running around and one of them was ratcheting handcuffs over my wrists.

“Hey, what are you doing?” I said. “I'm the one who was calling you.”

“Shut up,” the big cop who'd been pointing his gun at me said. “How's the victim look?”

I glanced over to see another cop kneeling by the pool shaking his head. “Better call for a supervisor and the detectives.”

“Good,” I said. “Get somebody out here that knows what they're doing. And take these handcuffs off me while you're at it. They're hurting my wrists.”

“Get used to it,” the big cop said.

I made a mental note to remember his name and complain. But first things first: My Cavalli was taking way too much abuse being on the ground. “Could you please help me up?”

The big cop responded by sticking the sole of his dirty old shoe against my back.

“Just keep running your mouth,” he said. “See where it gets you.” He used the B-word again.

That was the final straw. I told him, in language that left nothing to the imagination, exactly what I thought of him, his mama, and what he could do with his big old gun. It got me up off the ground and into the back of a hot squad car, with my hands still cuffed behind my back. I swear the mean pig turned off the air conditioning and let me swelter, until some guys in suits arrived. Then things got real interesting.

* * * *

I spent the next forty minutes in the back of a squad car that smelled like it hadn't been washed since they'd changed sheriffs. By this time I knew my once showgirl flat-ironed hair probably was looking like a frizzy cotton ball. And I shuddered to think what the gritty plastic seat was doing to my Cavalli dress, not to mention having my hands cuffed behind my back. I was going to need a trip to the beauty shop and the spa as soon as I got loose. But right now that was the least of my worries.

Then a guy in a sport coat came over and opened the car door. I turned and put my feet on the ground. He introduced himself as Detective Myers. “For the record, Ms. Deshay, I want to advise you of your rights before I talk to you.”

I nodded and he read off the rights I'd heard on TV. He sort of looked like a big toad, rough skin and bulging eyes. When he finished he asked if I wanted to talk to him about what had happened.

“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

“So why were you at the Rosenettes's?”

“I have a weekly appointment with Mrs. Rosenette for fashion consulting. I'm also working on her daughter's wedding. I brought some stuff over for her.”

“Fashion?”

“It's what I do. I'm a fashion stylist.”

Myers just stood there and waited, nodding as I explained how I'd gone around to the back when no one answered the bell.

“And you didn't think it was strange that no one answered?” he asked.

“I figured it was the maid's day off.”

Myers made a few notes on his pad and said, “How did you get along with Mr. Rosenette?”

I shrugged. “I dealt mostly with his wife. I'd only seen him a couple of times.”

“So you knew it was him in the pool, then?”

“I sort of thought so.”

Myers canted his head. “Officer Dillups said you didn't seem overly concerned about being close to a dead body. And he mentioned you were handling a pool hook.”

I felt like telling him what I thought about Officer Dillups, but figured he wouldn't care. “I used to work at the morgue, and I was trying to get him over to the side so I could check for a pulse.”

“Didn't you see the injury to his head?”

“Yeah, it looked kind of gross.”

Myers frowned. “And what time did you say you got here?”

“A few minutes before you guys did,” I said. “Ask Bill, the security guard. He can tell you.”

“We will,” he said. “Count on it.”

“Can you please take these handcuffs off? They're hurting my wrists.”

Myers motioned for me to stand up and turn around as he uncuffed me.

“That's a nice X5 you got.” He pointed to the customized pink and black hood emblem on my car. “Lots of bling.”

“Thanks.”

“I'm surprised you can afford it. Business must be good.”

I smiled and wagged my head, giving him a flash of my pissed-off-black-girl routine. “Don't get too excited. It's leased.”

He nodded with approval. “Mind if I search it?”

“Huh? Don't you need a warrant for that?”

Myers chuckled. “You been watching too many Jay-Z videos. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated.”

I don't know what shocked me more. That Myers listened to rap or he thought he'd find something in my car. But I had “99 Problems” of my own, and being suspected of murder was one of them. “Mind telling me what you're looking for?”

Myers smiled. “If you don't mind, I'll ask the questions. You own a gun?”

I did own one. In fact, Bill the security guard had helped me pick it out. I talked to him all the time. He was an ex-cop, so I'd asked him about what type would work for me. When I'd bought the gun I'd brought it by to show him.

I thought about the blood circulating around Mr. Rosenette's head. “He was shot?”

“Maybe. Why? You shoot him?'

“No.”

“Then you won't mind my searching your vehicle, will you?” He reached in my purse and took out my keys. “So, do you own a gun?”

Wasn't he a nosy-Rosey . . . But at this point I figured I didn't have much choice. Warrant or not, they were going to do what they wanted. Besides, this was one time I had nothing to hide. “Yeah, I've got a concealed carry permit, but you probably already know that.”

Myers smiled again. “I do. A three-eighty Walther, according to our records.”

This guy knew everything but my blood type. I thought about my little gun with the pink rose on the slide. It was tucked away nice and safe in the drawer next to my bed. I told Myers that.

“Detective,” someone said behind me. I turned and saw Dillups and shot him the dirtiest look I could muster. He had Bill standing there with him. “You'd better talk to Officer Crandell here right away.”

Myers nodded and motioned for me to slide back into the squad car. “I have to stay in this nasty old car?”

“For now.”

“But I didn't do anything,” I said.

Myers motioned my legs inside and slammed the door. I watched through the smudged window as he went over to Dillups and Bill. Myers listened as they talked, then frowned. He asked Bill a few questions, which consisted mostly of Bill shaking his head and looking grim. Myers pointed in my direction, and asked Bill another question. I smiled and waved through the window. Bill showed no reaction. Dillups and Bill turned and walked away together. Myers ambled back to the car and opened the door.

“So did you ask Bill what time I got here?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Myers cocked an eyebrow. “And he says he doesn't know. He had to leave the gate to check on a possible coyote in the area.”

“What?” Then I thought of something. “The gate's got video surveillance, right? It'll show when I got here.”

Myers shook his head.

“The video's missing, but I don't suppose you know anything about that, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Ninety-nine problems and the missing video's one of them, huh?”

I saw the hint of a smile trace his lips.

* * * *

After I signed a consent for Myers to search my car, he had Dillups and another uniform go through it. I thought about revoking the search when I saw Dillups was involved, but I figured the sooner they did what they wanted to do, the quicker I'd be on my way. Besides tossing all of my personal items on the ground as carelessly as they could, they accomplished nothing.

“Satisfied?” I asked with all the sarcasm I could muster.

Dillups glared at me and walked around my car. I heard a cracking sound and stepped around so I could see. My Louis Vuitton sunglasses lay in pieces on the hard asphalt. That's when I went off calling Dillups every nasty name I could think of. Myers came walking over and told me to can it.

“Look what that jerk did to my sunglasses,” I said. “My Louis Vuitton sunglasses.”

Myers looked down at them, then over to the big cop. “Troy, you know anything about this?”

Troy? Oh-my-God, I thought. Did this guy think he was Hollywood material or what?

Dillups shook his head. “Nope. Those glasses were like that when I found them.” He made a face at me.

I started to protest but Myers held up his palm. “You want outta here?”

“Sure do,” I said. I shot Dillups another searing look.

“Go,” Myers said. “Just don't go too far. I may need to talk to you again.”

As I was getting into my car the Rosenettes's black Mercedes S Class pulled up. The chauffeur got out looking rather dapper in his black uniform pants and white shirt and tie. Usually he wore a black jacket, but in this heat I didn't blame him for having taken it off. His blond hair was spiked and was always in place.

“Hey, what's going on?” he asked. He looked perplexed. “Who are you?”

Myers held up his badge. “And you are . . . ?”

“Roy Bean, the Rosenettes's chauffeur.” He frowned. “What the cops doing here? Something happen?”

Myers looked at the car, then back to Roy. “You always arrive for work driving a Benz?”

Roy shrugged. “I had to take it for an oil change.”

“Who else is in the car?”

“Mrs. Rosenette and her daughter. I just picked them up from the spa.”

Myers's mouth tightened. Suddenly the rear door of the Benz opened and Ms. Rosenette got out. Her face was pulled taut. Maybe it was the chemical peel treatments she'd been going through the past couple weeks. She almost looked younger than the soon-to-be bride.

“What's going on here?” she asked.

The other rear passenger door popped open and Heni jumped out. “Roy, what is this?” Her words were slurred. “Are these cops?”

She was thin as wind, with dirty blonde hair looking like she'd just come from an after-hours nightclub. She wore a short, black, tank-style Prada dress with the pair of platform Giuseppe pumps I had picked up for her just last week. And of course, her staple piece, the dark designer shades to hide her eyes, or more importantly her pupils. Knowing Heni, she'd probably had Roy pick her up right from the club for her spa date with her mom, who acted like her BFF rather than her mother.

Myers spoke into his radio and I saw an advancing squad of police moving toward us. He called over to Ms. Rosenette saying he'd speak to her in a moment.

As if Myers needed any more problems to contend with, a white Celica came through the gate and stopped behind the Benz. Ruby Ann got out and looked around, her eyes wide. I could see a dark-skinned man behind the wheel looking very uncomfortable.

“Who's this?” Myers asked.

Roy glanced over his shoulder. “Ruby Ann Polk, the Rosenettes's maid.”

Ruby Ann walked over to my car and leaned down. “Girl, what's happening here? What's all the po-lice doing here?”

She was in her maid's uniform, a black dress trimmed in white lace.

Before I could say anything Myers strode over and thrust his hand between us. “Ms. Deshay was just leaving. Ms. Polk, I'm Detective Myers and I'll have to ask you to go over there and wait until I can talk to you.” He waved and two uniformed cops came trotting over.

Ruby Ann's eyes widened. “Something happen?” She directed the question to me.

Myers broke in. “Like I said, she was just leaving.” He turned to me. “Unless you'd rather we continue our conversation at the station.”

I pressed the start button. “You don't got to tell me twice.” Then I thought of something. “You know, I did see something when I was pulling in though.”

“Oh?”

“A green Crown Vic was leaving kind of fast when I was coming in.”

“Who was driving it?”

I shrugged. “Tinted windows. Didn't see.”

“Plate?”

I shook my head.

I heard one of the cops say the words “murder scene.” Ms. Rosenette shook and put her face in her hands. Heni was right beside her now and they both broke into tears, holding each other. The cries of the two wailing women filtered over to us. Myers glanced over his shoulder, cussed, and gave me one of his cards. “If you think of anything useful, call me. Now go.”

“But don't leave town?” I said, pressing the shift lever into drive.

He smirked. “Keep in touch.”

I waggled my fingers. “Whatever.”

* * * *

Back home, I changed clothes and pinned up my hair. Then I unloaded all the stuff I'd bought for the Rosenettes into my spare room. I'd have to either return it or get paid before my credit card balance went ballistic. And with this new development, who knew when that would be.

It had been about an hour or so since I'd left the scene of the crime, so I figured I might luck out with a phone call and get some kind of update. I dialed the Rosenettes's number.

“Ruby Ann, it's Stacey. How's Ms. Rosenette doing? Any chance I could talk to her for minute?”

“Sorry, girl. She ain't taking no calls.”

“What's going on there?”

“Ain't supposed to talk now. The po-po's still here interviewing everybody.”

“What they asking?”

“'Bout who all works here. Me, James, Roy, you.”

“Me? What they asking about me?”

I heard her laugh. “Relax. I ain't no snitch. Least not till they start offering some big reward money for information.”

“What you mean by that?” I asked.

Her voice turned cold. “I'll just keep that to myself. Like I said, at least until I smell the money.” She hung up.

I considered what Ruby Ann had said, not feeling any easier about the direction of the investigation. I fished Myers's card out of my purse and called the number, but it went immediately to voice mail. No help there. There was one other person I needed to talk to: Bill, the security gate guard. Why hadn't he backed me up about seeing me arrive? He was usually so friendly and helpful. Retired cop, he'd even helped me pick out my gun one afternoon after I'd admired his . . . Him I might be able to get to, but I'd need to look him in the eye and ask him why he hadn't backed up my arrival time.

I got back in my car and drove over to Lake in the Desert hoping that Bill was back manning his post, but no such luck. The guard inside was an older white guy with slicked back, dyed hair. He looked like an Elvis impersonator way past the jumpsuit stage.

I rolled down my window and flashed him my most dazzling smile. From the way he grinned back at me I figured a little flirting might go a long way.

“Hey, good-looking,” he said. “Nice bling on your X5.” He pointed to my customized hood emblem.

I thanked him and introduced myself.

He said his name was Vern. I told him I needed to get in to see the Rosenettes.

Vern shook his head. “No can do. There was an incident over there earlier.”

I purposely widened my eyes. “Incident? What kind?”

He smiled a knowing smile. “Something big. Can't talk about it. Orders.”

“Wow.” I raised my eyebrows pretending I was impressed. “Say, is Bill around?”

“Bill?” His brow creased. “You know him?”

“Yeah, where is he?”

“Went home sick. Guess he couldn't take the pressure.” Vern's eyebrows twitched. “Not everybody can. I work the night shift. They called me in special.”

“I'll bet,” I said, keeping the wattage up high in my smile. “Say, what kind of car does Bill drive? I thought I might have passed him earlier. He lives in Henderson, right?”

Vern shook his head. “Don't know where he lives. His car is a Honda, but I doubt you passed him. His wife drops him off and picks him up.”

“No place to park?”

He shook his head. “Just about all of us working-men types gets dropped off or shuttled in, myself included.”

“Anybody drive a green Crown Vic?”

His eyes narrowed and he looked thoughtful. “Nope.” He jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “The rich folks don't like regular cars like Hondas and Fords sitting around messing up their landscape. Unless it's a Benz or a Beemer.” He grinned at my car. “Why?”

“I saw one of those around here.”

Vern shook his head. “Must have been somebody getting dropped off.”

“Hey,” I said, “don't you guys have video surveillance here? Can't you just wind it back to see what time Bill left?”

Vern shook his head. “The disk is missing. Cops must have already taken it.”

I knew the cops hadn't. I chatted with him a few minutes more. No procession of cop cars seemed to be leaving the Rosenettes, so I said good-bye and did a U-turn.

Where did I go from here? I had to figure out how to take some proactive steps to clear myself, but how? I took out Myers's card and dialed his number again. Just like before, it went to voice mail. I left him a generic message asking him to call me so we could get any “misunderstandings” straightened out. I also mentioned that I'd been checking on that green Crown Vic. I know I sounded like a babbling nerd.

With no other options, I decided to drive home. I had this feeling that someone was following me so I made a couple of right turns and stopped. When no suspicious cars passed by, I figured I'd been imagining things. I got back on Flamingo and began driving again, mulling things over as I went. I knew Bill was the key. The missing video disk, his unexplained absence this afternoon, and most of all, his failure to back me up on what time I got there. He had to have seen me. I mean, the man wasn't wearing blinders or anything.

My house was coming up so I glanced in my mirrors again before I made my sweeping wide turn. No sinister looking vehicles to be seen anywhere. I smiled and pressed my garage door opener.

The garage door didn't budge.

I hit the brakes and swore. Great, just what I needed—a broken garage door opener. I hit the button again. The overhead door seemed to stare back in immobile defiance. I slammed the X5 into park and got out, shuffling through my purse for my house keys. Then, as I was approaching the front door, I heard the garage door opener make a funny sound, like the linkage was reconnecting. What the hell's going on, I wondered. I stepped back to my BMW and pressed the garage door opener again. This time the overhead door went right up. I got back in my car and drove it inside the garage, hitting the opener again to close the overhead door after me.

I watched the chain revolving around the gears lowering the door. It seemed to be working fine, so long as the metal clip that hooked onto the metal hasp on the door was in place. It must have slipped out somehow.

I checked the hanging manual-disconnect pull-cord. It felt snug. I knew from experience it took a bit of muscle to disconnect the clip from the hasp so that the door could be raised manually.

As long as it's working now, I thought. Maneuvering around the car to my door, I almost tripped over a rubber wedge and a long, metal rod with a hook on one end. I didn't know what it was, or how it got there, but worse than that, I'd almost ruined my Louboutin shoe. No doubt about it, I'd been having a real bad day. Not to mention that I hadn't been paid, I'd been handcuffed, my clothes were all filthy from the squad car seat, I'd watched some jerk stomp on my Louis Vuitton sunglasses, and I was still a suspect in a murder investigation. Plus, the gate video that would clear me was strangely missing, and the security guy I thought had my back had been acting equally strange. What did it all mean?

I normally keep the door between my garage and house unlocked. As I opened the door I got the surprise of my life. I was staring straight into the barrel of a big old gun. Again! But what was even more shocking was the guy who was holding it.

Bill, the always friendly security guard. But in this case, not so friendly.

I swallowed my fear and tried pretending I was Wonder Woman. “What the hell are you doing in my house?”

“Please don't make me shoot you, Stacey,” he said. His face was as white as a bleached pillowcase with ironed-in creases. His hands looked chalky. He had on latex gloves.

“You'd better have a good explanation for being here,” I said, pointing my cell phone like a gun. “I just called the cops.”

Bill's whole body jerked, like somebody had slapped him. I thought about trying to run then, wondering if he'd really shoot, but someone came up behind me and pulled my cell phone out of my hand. It was Roy, the chauffeur. He was wearing gloves too.

“She didn't make no call,” he said, scrutinizing my phone. “Where we going to do her?”

Bill's mouth twitched. He suddenly looked like he'd aged ten years in a minute. “No. No more killing!”

“We ain't got much choice,” Roy said. “Do we, Dad?" He said it with a sarcastic lilt to his voice. I was both shocked and scared to death.

Bill wiped a hand over his face. “Just let me think this through,”

“Fine,” Roy said. “You think about it and I'll take care of business.” He reached in his pocket and pulled out a small gun. When he held it to my head I realized it was mine. “Maybe a nice, easily explainable suicide.”

“Don't go pointing that thing.” Bill's voice was a growl. “That's how you got in trouble in the first place. A damn drug dealer. You know how many of you I put away when I was on the job?”

Roy smirked. “Hey, I was just giving them something they wanted. If old man Rosenette hadn't found out it was me supplying Heni, I'd still be sitting pretty.”

It was clear to me now who'd killed Mr. Rosenette. And who was covering it up. I glanced at Bill. “He's your son?" I asked.

Ignoring me, Roy handed him my gun. “You still have to change the barrel, right, Dad?”

Bill compressed his lips. “We'll take her with us for now.” He motioned his head toward the garage. They were going to jack my car, with me in it. I still had the keys in my hand, but they didn't know that. As we walked down the hall toward the garage I waited for the right moment. When Bill stepped through the door and into the garage, I pressed the alarm button. My Beemer erupted with a sudden frenzy of whopping sirens. Bill's head whirled toward the car. So did Roy's. I grabbed his arm and pulled him through the doorway and into the garage, then shot back through the door and slammed it behind me, twisting the lock. I knew it wouldn't hold them for long, but I gambled I had enough time to get out the front door. I moved at top speed, searching my purse for my cell phone; then I remembered that Roy had it. I ripped open the front door and took off running. I used to run track in high school, but it's hard to sprint in stilettos. I paused to shake my shoes off and it cost me precious seconds. I heard the grunting and footsteps just before Roy tackled me.

I felt the sting of the gravel and dirt hitting my bare shoulder. We wrestled together. I kicked him, but he was too strong. Roy straddled me and reached over and grabbed one of the decorative rocks I had in the front of house. He drew his arm back, the rock in his hand. Silhouetted by the sun, he looked like a shadow. I crossed my arms preparing for the blow. Then the sharp cracking sound of a gunshot, and the shadow became Roy again as he jerked forward, the rock slipping from his hand. His head cocked back over his shoulder.

Bill stood there holding a gun with both hands. A whisper of smoke crept from the barrel.

“Dad . . . what . . . ?” Roy slumped over to the side, and I managed to work my way from under him.

Tears ran down Bill's face. He wiped his eyes. “I told him no more killing. Why wouldn't he listen to me?” His voice cracked and he began sobbing. I looked beyond him and saw Detective Myers standing at the corner of my garage pointing his own gun at Bill's back.

“Police, drop your weapon,” Myers said.

Bill jerked, like Myers's words had been bullets, and the big revolver he was holding slipped from his slick, gloved fingers. Myer said something into his radio as he moved forward to handcuff Bill.

I managed to get to my feet, with no help from Myers. He was bent over, checking Roy.

“Ambulance is on the way,” Myers said. “Hold on.”

“He gonna live?” I asked.

Myers gave a small nod. “Looks like it.”

“Too bad. By the way, he's the one that killed Mr. Rosenette. Not me.” I pointed to Bill. “And he's got my gun in his pocket. They were gonna frame me.”

“I figured as much,” Myers said.

“How did you manage to show up like the old Lone Ranger, anyway?”

Myers smiled. “I was following you. Figured you'd lead me to good old Bill.”

“What?”

“Somebody ran your plate before I did. Someone in California. Anytime a plate is run it leaves a computer trail. Bill is ex-LAPD.”

“So?”

Myers shrugged. “So I figured he was the one checking you out. Finding out where you lived. I decided to drop by and observe things.” He pointed to my garage. “By the way, you should get that hanging cord to the manual opener secured. Didn't you see that how-to-break-in video on the Internet?”

“You were using me as bait? And you just sat there and watched them breaking into my house?”

He shrugged again. “I work homicide, not burglary.”

“I'm still having trouble knowing that a police officer watched two crooks breaking into my house and come this close to abducting me. I was almost killed."

"Almost doesn't count except in horseshoes and hand grenades.”

“Whatever,” I said. “What made you suspect Bill in the first place?”

“I didn't.” His head perked up at the sound of an approaching siren. “I suspected Roy. Seems when he dropped the Rosenettes's Benz off for an oil change, they gave him a loaner car. Want to guess what kind?”

I thought for a moment then snapped my fingers. “A green Crown Vic.”

“Give the lady a door prize.”

The ambulance pulled up and two paramedics got out. A marked squad car jerked to a halt right behind them. I hoped it wasn't the idiot Dillups, and luckily it wasn't. I'd expect an apology from that jerk the next time I saw him, but never would be too soon.

The two uniformed guys picked Bill up. Myers told them to hold it and extracted my gun out of Bill's pants pocket. “This is yours, right?”

“It is. They were going to do something to it. Switch something.”

Myers nodded. “Switch the barrel so the ballistics would come back to your gun.”

“Rosenette was shot with a three-eighty?”

He put my gun in a large envelope. “I'll get this back to you after the trial.”

“And what am I supposed to do for protection in the meantime?”

Myers flashed a big grin. “Call the police.”

“Yeah, right, so Dillups can come by and break my other sunglasses?”

“I'll see what I can do about getting you a new pair.”

“Just make sure they're Louis Vuitton,” I said.

Myers picked up one of the cards that had fallen from my purse. “Stacey Deshay, fashion stylist. You can really make a living buying stuff for other people?”

I looked at his outfit, navy polo shirt and Walmart Dockers. “Any time you want some advice in that department let me know. You can keep the card.”

“Now is that any way to talk to the guy who just saved you from being fashioned for murder?” His crooked grin spread across his face.

I had to admit that was a pretty good one. I smiled back at him. “You know, Myers, for a fashion-challenged cop, you're not such a bad guy after all.”

Copyright © 2012 Shauna Washington

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: MR. CROCKETT AND THE BEAR
by Evan Lewis

* * * *

Art by Tim Foley

* * * *

A famous ancestor is a great thing to have, provided he stays dead. When he doesn't, he can be an almighty pain in the ass. I know. My name is David Crockett, and I'm a direct descendant of old you-know-who, popularly known as The King of the Wild Frontier.

Don't prevaricate, boy. You're proud as a dog with two tails.

You see my problem. All I want is to live my own life and think my own thoughts, without him making pithy comments inside my head.

In which case, there'd be nothin’ here but horsefeathers.

“Mr. Crockett, are you listening?”

“I'm always listening, Mr. Garrett. I've been listening nonstop since I was thirteen and I'd grant the devil my soul if I could quit.”

The pinch-faced old gentleman behind the desk pursed his lips and squinted, as if unsure whether to be sympathetic or offended. He finally shrugged and said, “What do you propose we do about the bear?”

The pinch-faced man was Charles Garrett, Director of the Leo Carruthers Memorial Zoo, one of Memphis's second-tier tourist attractions. For a person of such importance, his office was surprisingly Spartan. The walls were bare but for a pair of motel-quality Smoky Mountain landscapes, and the only things on his desk were a telephone and a framed photo of a buxom brunette in a cheerleader's uniform.

I assumed what I hoped was a wise expression. My law partner Oscar had told me most of the story back at the office. A Carruthers zookeeper had been mauled by an American black bear. Fortunately, the man's wounds were confined to his left arm, but he was now threatening a very public lawsuit unless immediately compensated to the tune of one million dollars.

If the bear done it, Davy said, he likely had a mighty good reason.

And before I could stop myself, I said, “What does the bear have to say about it?”

“This is no time for nonsense!” Garrett slapped a hand flat on the desk, making the cheerleader dance. “Mr. Smalley and his attorney are due to arrive at any moment. It is not merely my position at stake here, but the survival of the Carruthers Zoo.”

Appears to me, Davy said, that bear picked the wrong feller to maul.

I sighed. I'd been a normal kid until the summer of my thirteenth year, when I happened to tell my father a slight untruth, and old Davy suddenly popped into my head. I needed a conscience, he said, and he's been playing that role ever since. After nagging me through high school, he insisted I get a law degree and retrace his footsteps to the Tennessee State Legislature. And that's what I did. I now hold a seat representing roughly the same district he represented back in 1834.

I'm not entirely ungrateful. Odds are I would never have done it without him. But the thing is, I never had a chance to find out. For all I know, I could have been a rodeo champ, a country singer, or even a movie star.

Or a mule skinner, Davy said. Or a horse thief.

Being Davy, of course, he's never satisfied. He's already making noises about me trying to reclaim his seat in the U.S. House of Representatives.

A light rap sounded on the office. At Garrett's call, a blonde-haired, short-skirted vision in white sashayed in and extended a slim hand. “Delighted to meet you, Mr. Crockett. I'm Linda Carruthers.”

Feeling all knees and elbows, I lurched from the chair and took the small hand gently. Her perfume hit me like a shot of peach brandy. “Carruthers, eh? You must be the owner of this animal farm.”

Her laughter tickled my earlobes. “Owner? Hardly. My great-grandfather deeded it to a foundation before he died. I'm merely riding on his coattails.”

Hell's bells, Davy said. Who's that remind you of?

Garrett cleared his throat. “Linda is too modest. Her position as Assistant Director is due entirely to her own merit.”

She graced him with a glowing smile. “We've heard from Tom Smalley's attorney. They're running late, but should be here within half an hour.”

“In that case,” I said, offering her my arm, “perhaps you'd do me the honor of showing me the scene of the crime.”

“Charmed.” She wrapped both hands around my bicep and gave me a smile I could feel down to my socks.

One toothy grin, Davy growled, and you're already bumfuzzled.

Tsk, tsk, I replied. Jealousy is an ugly thing.

* * * *

We stared at the bear through a thick wall of glass. Until his fate could be determined—which meant until his execution order was handed down—the big fellow had been confined to his indoor quarters and spared the temptation of zookeepers’ limbs.

He sat on a huge slab of artificial rock, his front paws and long snout draped over the limb of an artificial tree. A more forlorn looking creature I have rarely seen. His eyes flashed briefly at me, then passed dully over Linda and on to Garrett, who'd insisted on tagging along. But in a classic double take, his head snapped back to stare directly at me. His eyes locked onto mine and held as he slid sideways off the rock and shambled toward us on four legs. A yard away, he reared up onto his hind legs and leaned forward, thumping his huge front paws on the glass.

Linda gasped, Garrett swore, and both jumped back. I held my ground. The bear and I stood nose to nose, mere inches away, with only the glass between us. Oddly, I felt no fear. The experience was strangely familiar, almost pleasant, as if I'd suddenly encountered an old friend.

Just to be saying something, I asked it, “Did you really attack that keeper?”

The bear's gaze seemed to bypass my eyes and brain and probe deep into my soul. After a moment, I thought I saw a slight shake of his head.

“You were framed, eh?”

And I saw the merest hint of a nod.

“Mr. Crockett! This is hardly helpful.”

Garrett was right. Feeling foolish, I tried to step back from the glass, but my limbs refused to respond. It was as if the bear held me in some sort of trance.

Grin, Davy said.

What?

Grin at him. It'll soothe his spirit.

Forget that. Linda will think I'm an idiot.

I'm afraid that horse has already left the barn.

I strained my muscles to the utmost, but couldn't budge an inch.

C'mon, boy. Grin.

What the hell. I tried a small one. Maybe I imagined it, but the bear seemed to return it. I stretched my lips and grinned for all I was worth. The animal's power over me began to fade. After a moment, he shook himself from head to toe and pushed back from the glass, landing on all fours. As he returned to his artificial rock, I stepped back, loosening my tie and sucking in several gallons of air.

Linda was back on my arm. “My god, David. What was that?”

Garrett's face was white. “Mr. Crockett, I demand that you summon your partner immediately. These negotiations are too important to trust to a . . . a . . . a bear whisperer.”

I got my breathing under control. “A loony-toon, you mean? Sorry, but Oscar's on the golf course, with his phone turned off. I'm all you've got.”

Lucky for him, Davy said, that ain't exactly true.

* * * *

Out in the morning air, the experience with the bear seemed unreal. Insane, even. But my conscience was a man who'd been dead a hundred and eighty years, so who was I to judge? The day was warm and bright, and it was still an hour before opening time, so we had the zoo to ourselves.

The outside portion of the bear habitat was a wide, semicircular enclosure, with a great many genuine rocks, two real trees, and an overhanging roof, providing the resident a shadowy cave. Ten feet from the fence, the ground sloped down twenty feet to a dry moat, providing an extra buffer between the star and his public.

While Linda pointed out the amenities, Garrett proceeded down a service sidewalk to a locked box, where he pushed a button to summon the acting keeper.

A large plaque on the fence informed me that the American black bear had once roamed free over most of Tennessee, but now generally preferred the wilds of the northwestern United States and Canada, due in no small part to the eagle eye of our state's number-one hero, Colonel David Crockett. Opposite the photo of a bear was a popular painting of old Davy in buckskins, with a long rifle and three hunting hounds. According to legend, the plaque said, Davy once claimed to have killed a hundred and five bears in a six-month period.

A bald-faced lie, Davy said. It was a hundred and fifty, or I'm a chipmunk.

I rolled my eyes. I had learned not to tangle with his ego.

One of ‘em was the great-great-several-times-great-grandpappy of the bear we met inside. That's how he knew me.

Knew you? That's impossible.

Not hardly. One of the old fellow's cubs seen me shoot him, and the memory was handed down. It ain't every bear can claim an ancestor shot by Davy Crockett.

I was too flabbergasted to respond.

Well, most of ‘em, maybe. But not all.

“Your ancestor,” Linda said, “must have been quite a man.” She looked up at me appraisingly. “And you're almost the spitting image of him.” I was nodding modestly, as I always do on such occasions, when she added, “But considerably more handsome.”

I heard a strangled sound within my head, followed by a string of words I'll not repeat.

“Taller, too,” I said, just to get Davy's goat. “You know, when this is over . . .”

It ain't over yet, Davy groused. And you've done precious little to help it along.

I sighed. “Guess I'm getting ahead of myself. Could you sort of give me the play-by-play of what happened here?”

Her lips twisted into a mock pout as she turned and pointed back down the service sidewalk. “Tom—Mr. Smalley—entered the cage there by a side gate. Assuming the bear to be inside with the door locked, he proceeded to fill the food trough with the bear's dinner. Tom had barely turned his back when, to hear him tell it, six hundred pounds of hair and hell landed on his back. He somehow managed to squirm aside and escape through the outer gate, slamming it behind him. He must have fainted then, because twenty minutes later the assistant keeper Ben Daniels found him lying unconscious on the walk.”

“How badly was he hurt?”

“By some miracle, his wounds were confined to his left arm, which had been severely gashed. The doctors said he was lucky not to lose it.”

I recalled what my partner Oscar had told me of the evidence. Smalley's blood had been found on the bear's right forepaw, with flecks about his mouth. Black hair belonging to the bear was found on the back of Smalley's shirt, and clinging to his own blood around the wounds.

I now realized why Oscar had begged me to take this case. It was hopeless. Oscar, you see, knows about Davy. Why I was foolish enough to tell him I don't know, but a normal person would have figured I was joking, or just plain nuts. Not Oscar. He chose to believe me, and is now convinced old Davy is some sort of genius, on the order of Benjamin Franklin, King Solomon, or Sherlock Holmes.

A wondrously perceptive feller, that Oscar.

So every time the legislature is out of session and I'm back in the offices of Crockett & Kelly, Oscar takes on cases he normally wouldn't touch. What he fails to realize is that any miracles I happen to perform are accomplished not because of old Davy, but in spite of him.

Humph.

Hearing voices, we turned to see a young couple in white slacks and red polo shirts strolling up the walk. They were close enough to share the same toothpick, and if they saw us at all they gave no sign. As they came nearer I saw the Carruthers Zoo logo embroidered on their shirts.

“Ben Daniels,” Linda said. “Our keeper-apparent.”

Garrett marched past us, purple-faced and leaking steam, to intercept Daniels and the girl. He gave Daniels curt orders to unlock the cage door and turned his heated gaze on the girl.

“And that, I presume, is Garrett's daughter.”

Linda looked at me as if I'd done something magical. “How—?” She paused and bit her lip. “Ah, the photo on his desk. You're not as . . . You're really very good.”

I tried to appear modest. “What's her position here?”

“Summer help. She starts college in the fall.”

Garrett's voice echoed off the nearby elephant house. “First that damned Smalley, and now Daniels. I won't have it. How can I trust you away at school if you can't behave under my own nose?”

The girl's answer was a flounce of auburn hair and a stiff-necked strut past us toward the exit. I had the feeling she was done for the day.

I heard a sob, and turned to find Linda with head bent, one hand covering her eyes.

I waited, feeling useless. I have never found it fruitful to ask a woman why she cried.

After a moment she brushed her eyes with her knuckles and glanced up. She seemed embarrassed to find me looking at her. “That poor, poor bear,” she said. “He's sure to be put down for this.”

“Not if I can prove him innocent.”

“Innocent? How could you possibly do that?”

I winked at her, wishing I knew. If the bear had really been trying to communicate with me, and really believed he was framed, admittedly one enormous “if” on top of another, I appeared to have two decent suspects. The person who stood most to gain from Smalley's misfortune was his assistant, Ben Daniels. Not only would he step into Smalley's work shoes, but possibly into the arms of Garrett's daughter

Then there was Garrett himself, clearly protective of her. If he felt Smalley had dishonored her, or intended to, he had motive to stage an attack and blame the bear.

Trouble was, I could see no way such an attack could be staged, especially given the blood evidence. It appeared Mr. Bear was slated for extinction, and Mr. Smalley slated to become a millionaire.

“They're here.” Linda flicked her head toward the zoo entrance, and I turned to see two men striding purposefully toward us. The one with his left arm in a sling was obviously Mr. Smalley, but he was anything but small. He had at least three inches on me, the shoulders of a linebacker, and the chiseled features of a young John Wayne. I hated him immediately. The other man, a bald, bespectacled butterball, was apparently his mouthpiece.

Smalley marched directly toward us, threw a sneer at Linda, and thrust his manly chin at me. “Who's this bozo?”

Reviving the grin I'd used on the bear, I extended a hand. “David Crockett, representing the zoo. Sorry to hear about your injury.”

“Davy Crockett? ‘Killed him a b'ar when he was only three?’ You trying to kid me?”

I set my teeth and kept on grinning, and he eventually leaned in and shook the hand. “Whatever,” he said. “When do I get my money?”

Let's take a gander at his wound.

“Maybe never,” I said, following Davy's drift. “How do we know you're really injured?”

Linda touched my arm. “But David, I saw it. We all did.”

“I haven't. How about taking that bandage off?”

Smalley puffed up, clearly preparing some choice remarks, but his lawyer butted in. “That won't be necessary. I have the police photos.” And from his briefcase he extracted three gory eight-by-tens, showing the gouges from different angles.

I didn't know what to say. It certainly looked like a million-dollar injury. If that bear had really denied the charge, he must have been lying.

“Satisfied now, Mr. Born-on-a-Mountaintop?” Smalley shoved his chin at me again. “Let's finish this.”

A fine idea, Davy said. Tell these varmints you've solved the case.

Huh?

Are you deaf? Tell Garrett his troubles are done. With one provision. The bear goes free.

Free? You mean he gets to live?

Hell, son, this ain't living. He goes back to the woods, where a bear belongs.

That's crazy. But even if Garrett agreed, what's this supposed solution?

Wheel the deal. I'll guide you from there.

To kill time, I strolled over to the cage fence, hoisted my foot on the bottom rung and pretended to tie my shoe. I plumbed my brain, trying to fathom what Davy was up to.

No way, I answered at last. I think you're bluffing.

If Garrett ain't pleased as a pig in a tater patch, Davy said, I won't speak to you for a month.

A month to myself! It sounded fantastic. But still . . .

Make it two. Or no-go.

Thickheaded as a mule, and twice as ornery. All right, then. Two.

I straightened my shoulders and strode back to Linda. Looking as confident as I was able, I swept my gaze over the group and said my piece.

Linda's jaw dropped. Smalley sneered.

Garrett sputtered like a plugged faucet. “Set him free? It can't be done. That animal has been in captivity since birth. He wouldn't last two weeks in the wild.”

Davy growled.

Assistant keeper Daniels spoke up. “How about a wildlife refuge? He'd roam more or less free, with food and medical care provided.”

Garrett stroked his chin. “There are such places. But now that he's attacked a human, none would touch him.”

“They would if he was framed.” I ignored the others’ gasps and bore down on Garrett. “Promise you'll let him go?”

Garrett eyes shifted from me to Smalley and back, finding neither prospect agreeable. “This is preposterous. If, if, if. But certainly. Why not. What's this so-called solution?”

Tell them, Davy said, you're going to fetch the weapon.

What weapon?

Tell them.

I shook my head, feeling more foolish all the time. If this played out as I feared, I'd be laughed out of the state house, and likely my law practice as well. But I'd come this far. I told them.

More eyes rolled. Heads swung in various directions, as if seeking confirmation they'd heard me right.

Garrett was the first to explode. “Weapon? There was no damned weapon!”

That pathway to your right, Davy said, take it.

I peered in that direction. A paved walk led off toward the elephant house. With a shrug, I took a step toward it.

Tom Smalley leapt into my path. He balled his right fist and waived it close to my nose. “Damn you, Crockett! What are you and this Carruthers bitch trying to pull? Settle with me now or it'll be two million.”

I stepped back, removed my suit jacket and handed it to Linda. Keeping my eyes on Smalley, I loosened my tie and rolled up my shirtsleeves.

“I'd advise you to get out of my way.”

“The hell I will.” Smalley's eyes were mean and hard. “I can whip you one handed.”

Smalley reared back for a punch, but the lawyer caught his arm in both hands. “Thomas. Back off now! This yokel is trying to provoke you.”

Smalley cursed, shook free, and spun away. “I'm out of here.” Backing toward the exit, he leveled a finger at his attorney. “But you keep an eye on that bastard, or I'll sue you too.” And with that he was gone.

I swept the group with a last look. Finding no further opposition, I started off, still feeling foolish. I had no clue what Davy was up to.

Fifty feet up the walk I heard footsteps behind me. Then Linda's breathy voice. “David. Wait.”

Keep a-marchin', boy.

“Can't stop now,” I told Linda. “But you're welcome to join me.”

She fell in beside me. “I want to help. I saw something suspicious out here shortly after the attack, but didn't connect it until now. I can lead you to the spot.”

“I'd be mighty grateful,” I said, and meant it. At least one of us would know where we were going.

Side by side, we legged it past the elephant area, and the scent was still strong fifty yards later when Linda indicated a faint footpath leading off into the woods. “Right here. I saw someone leave the walk, but it was too dark to tell who. He seemed to be carrying something, though.”

“He?”

“Well, whoever. I had the impression it was a man.”

I stopped and squinted into the woods, awaiting confirmation from Davy.

Can't live with me, he said, can't live without me.

Gritting my teeth, I took Linda's hand and ducked into the cool shade of the trees. “How much farther to this spot?”

“I don't know,” she said, her voice quite loud. “It could be anywhere along here.”

Duck!

Knowing Davy, he could have spotted a duck and wanted me to chase it, but I played it safe and dropped to my knees, taking Linda with me.

She bit off a protest as a dark shape charged from the brush, slammed into my hunched shoulder and crashed into the bushes on the other side of the path. Without Davy's warning, I'd have been knocked flat.

Linda clung to my arm like it was a life preserver. I turned to make sure she was all right, and it was only Davy's shout of Look out! that saved me from another charge.

I whirled to see Tom Smalley hurtling toward me. Surging to my feet, I slipped Linda's grasp and hammered a forearm into his jaw. He staggered, nearly going down, and I would have been on him but Linda sprang onto me like a bareback rider, pinning my arms to my sides. Her legs wrapped around mine, forcing me nearly to my knees.

Finding his balance, Smalley came at me again. This time, a stray beam of sunlight glinted on something sharp and clawlike in his hand. Screaming toward my face were the three metal tines of a hand rake. I crossed my feet, spinning my weight around, and my left ear filled with a horrid scream.

Linda's grip went slack. I pivoted back, shaking her free, and delivered a roundhouse right to Smalley's Adam's apple. With a gurgling cry, he smashed into a tree and collapsed in a heap.

I stood with clenched fists, dreading what lay behind me. After a moment I heard a soft whimper, and turned. Linda Carruthers crouched on her knees, lovely as ever but for the three jagged lines the garden rake had carved into her face.

* * * *

Next morning at the office, Oscar was all smiles. “Garrett called. The old buzzard is ecstatic. He's cutting us a check for your services, plus a thousand dollar bonus, plus lifetime passes to the zoo. And he's already found a wildlife refuge eager to take the bear. How'd Davy figure out Smalley and Carruthers were in cahoots?”

“What makes you think it was Davy?”

He arched his eyebrows and smirked. “Who else could turn a sow's ear into a silk purse in forty-five minutes flat?”

I rubbed my shoulder. I was still sore from where Smalley had plowed into me. And Oscar was making me sorer. I opened the newspaper to the comics and turned away.

“C'mon, Dave. Give. How did he know? Some old bear hunter's trick?”

“He heard it from a squirrel.”

Oscar laughed. “I should have guessed. Well, tell the old coot it was a job well done. I'm off to Starbucks. What can I bring you?”

“Mexican mocha,” I said, just to annoy Davy. “With extra cinnamon.” To him, anything beyond black is extravagant.

With Oscar gone, I dropped the paper and sulked.

So how did you figure it?

Well, first off, there was the bear. He knew Smalley was a scoundrel, but was too smart to attack the jasper who brought him food.

He told you that, eh?

You goin’ wiggy on me, boy? You think bears can talk?

Humph.

And those pictures the shyster showed you. Pshaw, no bear in all creation could make a wound that neat.

I couldn't stand it. I went back to the funnies.

Then there was that Carruthers female. Durn near fainted when she heard Smalley had been sniffing around Garrett's daughter. Didn't you catch that?

I massaged my temples, wishing he would stop.

And that peachy perfume of hers. It was all over Smalley too. Ye Gods, what do think your smeller's for?

I flipped on the radio, hoping the music would drown him out.

And when you spouted off about the weapon, both of ‘em gawked up that walk past the elephants. Had to be up there somewheres.

For a moment he was quiet, allowing me to do some thinking on my own. Are you telling me you had no idea where that garden rake was hidden?

Well, I knew they knew.

So you sent me there as bait, knowing Smalley and Linda would try to kill me.

I'll be hanged, son. There may be hope for you yet.

Copyright © 2012 Evan Lewis

[Back to Table of Contents]

Fiction: CARRY-ON
by Wayne J. Gardiner

Pick up the wrong bag at the airport, accidentally (not always a given in this day and age), and you can understand a certain level of annoyance, aggravation, even downright hostility from those left “holding the bag” so to speak. In this case, someone else's, not their own. It's also reasonable to understand that the discontent of the aggrieved party might be even greater if this were to occur in the middle of the night and the other party (Jerry, in this case) had already left the airport with the bag in tow.

Jerry would probably understand all this if he knew he'd taken the wrong bag. He's not an unreasonable man.

What he wouldn't expect is getting involved with a mob enforcer as a result.

None of this would have happened if the flight hadn't been late, Jerry in a big hurry to get home.

Or if the eagle-eyed woman scrutinizing the carry-on luggage in the Jetway hadn't been such a tight ass, telling him he'd have to check his bag.

Jerry giving her his best smile, looking helpless, looking for some sympathy. Jerry's a big man, former linebacker at Iowa State and just as trim these fifteen years later. Prone to be a smart ass, Jerry doesn't lack for confidence, but his instincts are telling him a humble approach will serve him better in this situation.

“I'm pretty sure I can get it in the overhead.” A meek smile, wouldn't want to put you out, but . . .

“You'll have to check it.”

A bag he's carried on board at least twenty times.

“I've carried this bag on board at least fifty times,” Jerry says, the smile strained now.

“You've had a pretty good run then,” she retorts. “Next.” Taking his bag and tagging it, giving him the stub before he can think of a comeback that would be moderately insulting without getting him kicked off the plane.

He thinks about it while they're in the air, him in coach, the bag in cargo, but still nothing comes to him. He puts his head back on the seat and listens to the drone of the engines and lets it go. He's asleep inside a minute.

And before you know it, they've arrived in Chicago, the shuffling disgorgement down the Jetway and into the terminal.

Then the race to the baggage claim. Then twenty minute wait for the first bag to be spit up by the underground conveyor.

There it is, finally. Jerry snatches the small black bag that looks just like a hundred others that will eventually pass in review before the now impatient assemblage.

There's a sign right there, reminding those who may not have had occasion to consider it, that many bags look alike. Asking that you be certain to claim the right one. Respectfully suggesting that you check the ID tag.

Instead, Jerry checks his watch, hoping to get home before three o'clock, thinking he doesn't get paid enough to have to go through aggravations like this.

The bag, Jerry notices, seems to roll easier than he remembered. Probably that locked up left wheel, finally loosening up.

It's late, almost two in the morning, but Jerry decides to stop at the office to drop off the file he has in his briefcase (at least the Nazi in the Jetway let him carry that onboard). Bert will want to see it first thing in the morning and Jerry intends to sleep in. He leaves the bag at the office too. The only things in there are a few papers, his workout gear, a clean shirt and his extra shaving kit. He'll have it right there in the morning, take it to the gym, save hauling it back and forth. Turning the lights out and heading for home.

* * * *

At O'Hare Airport there is only one irritated man left at the baggage carousel, a big man named Ed (just as big as Jerry, but tougher and a lot meaner) in a gray Brooks Brothers suit that fits perfectly across his broad shoulders. He watches the lone bag on the carousel go around once more. Finally resigned to the fact that more bags will not be forthcoming, he snatches it up and looks at the ID. Jerry Dunning . . . lives in Crystal Lake.

Damn tight-assed broad at the Jetway had made him check the bag. He hadn't said anything when she'd made him check it. What could he say? I'm sorry, Ma'am, I can't check a bag that happens to contain five hundred thousand dollars in stolen property.

She grabbed it, tagged it, gave him the claim check, and was on to the next person as he was being carried with the flow down the Jetway thinking about what he could have said.

Calming down as he took his seat in first class, no big deal, how often does the airlines actually lose a bag?

He looks at the claim ticket again, then at the name on the bag, and though he wishes there were some other course of action, he knows he has to take a trip, right now, out to Crystal Lake, another forty miles northwest of O'Hare. Say hello to this guy Jerry Dunning, ask him did he accidentally pick up the wrong bag.

They don't pay me enough for this kind of aggravation, thinks Ed.

* * * *

Jerry's not crazy about his job. If he hadn't blown out his knee against Nebraska, he'd probably be playing for the Packers or Bears right now. He's rooted fiercely against the Cornhuskers in every single game since that fateful injury. Still, they manage to kick Iowa State's butt every year.

Instead of basking in the NFL limelight, Jerry is a gofer for the law firm of Brackman & Sons, LLC.

That's Jerry's interpretation of his duties at Brackman, not the official job description.

He's a private investigator for the company. Trails wayward housewives and unfaithful husbands mostly. He's just coming back from a successful surveillance in Omaha. Got the guy dead to rights, including a photo of the two of them entering room twenty-two in a local hot-sheet motel, then a tape recording of the rather animated encounter as heard through the paper-thin walls of the next unit. Jerry thinking if he had more time, he wouldn't mind looking up this energetic woman himself.

When he finally drops the bag in his office in Park Ridge, it's already two-thirty. Julie lives in Palatine. Why not just stop there, spend the night, give her a big surprise.

* * * *

It doesn't take Ed long to see that there's no security at this Jerry Dunning's place, a ticky-tack condo across from a strip mall. He'd expected to find better here in Crystal Lake.

The lock is no challenge, he's inside the place in a half minute . . . quietly . . . it looks like a typical two bedroom. The first one he comes to has been made into an office of sorts. The master bedroom must be in the back.

Ed is extremely cautious . . . careful. He's done this before. He's good at it.

The bedroom is empty.

Ed checks his watch. Three in the morning.

Maybe the guy had to stop somewhere. Ed eases himself into the chair in the bedroom, lights still off, but the light falling through the window from the corner street lamp letting him see everything he needs to.

He'll give the guy another two hours.

* * * *

At five, Ed decides Jerry is a no-show, turns on the lights, goes through the place. Finds Jerry's work address at Brackman & Sons, down in Park Ridge, only fifteen minutes from O'Hare, where he'd been four hours ago.

Oh, well.

The only thing he can do now is go to Park Ridge, see if Jerry stopped in the office and left a bag there.

Ed is not a man easily deterred.

* * * *

It's slightly more challenging getting into the law offices of Brackman & Sons, but Ed has a knack for this kind of thing.

He's in there, just beginning to check things out, when he hears the office door rattle, and instinctively he jumps into the closet, leaving the door ajar, just an inch or so.

The cleaning lady.

Ed hopes she's not efficient enough to do the closets every night.

He settles against the back wall of the closet, feet stretched out comfortably. The hum of the vacuum almost pleasant in the background.

It's been a long, trying day for Ed.

He's never been a nervous type.

He's asleep in two minutes.

* * * *

It's the smell of coffee that finally rouses Ed, now sprawled full length on the closet floor, surprised to find himself there, taking a moment to get his bearings before the unfortunate sequence of last night's events comes washing back over him. Even more surprised to look at his watch and discover that it's ten-fifteen in the morning.

The sound of office noises in the background . . . phones ringing, Xerox machine clicking out copies, a hum of conversation, the occasional laugh.

Ed pulling himself back into a sitting position, thinking the situation over, then deciding, what the hell, opening the door and stepping out into the office.

A nice office, good sized, well furnished, the muted sounds he'd heard from outside the office muffled by the closed door.

There's a sink in one corner. Ed splashes water on his face, blots it with paper towels, runs a comb through his hair, checking himself out in the mirror.

Easing into one of the big chairs in front of the desk, considering what to do next, when he sees the bag, right there on the right side of the desk where the man must have left it, in plain sight, snuggled up against the side of the desk so that you didn't notice it at first glance.

Ed picking it up, bringing it back to the chair.

It's his bag all right. There's the ID tag right there in plain sight, obvious to anyone who'd bother to look.

Jerry Dunning hadn't bothered.

Ed goes back to the closet and retrieves the bag he'd brought in with him last night—Jerry Dunning's bag—brings it out, sets it by the other.

Like two peas in a pod.

Ed sighing, is about to open his bag, see if everything's still there, when the door opens abruptly and in walks a guy who looks like this is his office, heading over to the closet, hanging up an overcoat, not even noticing Ed in the big leather chair until he closes the closet door and turns around.

Startled by this unexpected encounter.

* * * *

A big guy, sitting right there in the chair facing his desk, nice suit . . . a little rumpled.

“What— Who are you?” Jerry sputters. “And what are you doing here?”

Ed looks at his watch.

“I'm your ten thirty appointment,” the big guy says, not a bad looking man, but there's a menace in his eyes that reminds Jerry of someone who might be with the World Wrestling Federation.

“I don't have a ten thirty appointment,” Jerry says.

“How can you say that?” says the big guy. “You see me sitting here at your desk. The wall clock behind you says ten thirty. What else could it be?”

It sounds so logical that Jerry almost nods, but he's getting his composure back now. He was thrown off by the unexpected visitor, but Jerry's a man who handles things as they come up. He's working at getting his swagger back.

“Who might you be?” he asks.

“I might be anyone . . . the Pope . . . the President . . . the Good Humor Man . . . but who I really am is the guy who's name is on this bag.”

The big guy points to the bag on his lap. Jerry can make out the word “Ed” on the ID tag.

“I've got one just like it,” Jerry says.

“So I've noticed,” the big guy says. “In fact—” And here he points to the other bag on the floor beside the chair. “—there it is.”

This sequence of events is not making sense to Jerry, he's puzzling it, still wondering who this Ed is.

“Let me rephrase my question,” Jerry says. “What are you doing here in my office?”

“I've come to get my bag.”

“Your bag.”

“Right.”

Jerry's still not getting it.

“And why would you come here . . . to my office . . . someone you've never met before . . . to get your bag?”

“Do I look stupid?” Ed asks. There's a challenge in his tone. “I'm here—” Ed pauses, hoping the reason might still occur to Jerry without further prompting. “—because you—” And here the volume of his voice rises noticeably. “—picked up my bag last night at the airport!”

Jerry looks at the two bags, now sitting side by side on the floor.

Two peas in a pod.

“You mean . . . ?”

"Yes!" Ed says. “You took my bag off the carousel at O'Hare.”

Jerry thinking fast, “Well, I guess you picked up my bag too.”

Ed nods in acknowledgement.

“So maybe,” Jerry says, “it was you who picked up my bag.”

Ed's eyes narrow and Jerry realizes his humor isn't being appreciated.

“I was the last guy at American's baggage claim area last night. Nobody else was in the whole damn baggage claim area. You picked up the wrong bag. I did the only thing I could.”

Jerry's picturing it . . . this big guy at O'Hare . . . the revolving carousel . . . one bag on it.

“I picked up your bag. Read your ID tag.” Ed spreads his hands, another big smile. “And here I am.”

Jerry's moving around the desk now, taking a seat, easing the middle drawer open on the right side.

There's a .38 he keeps there in case of emergency.

He's never had one occur in the office before, but this little scenario has all the earmarks.

Jerry thinking through what Ed is saying . . . processing it.

“But how would you get here? The address on my baggage ID is my home address.”

“Well,” Ed says, “I stopped there first, found out where you worked. Not too complicated.”

“How could you find out where I worked by stopping at my condo? I live alone.”

“Well . . . you have some records.”

“You went inside?” Jerry's voice rising.

“How else would I know how to find you?”

“You broke into my house to find out where I worked?”

“No . . . no . . . I broke into your house to wait for you. It was only after I realized you weren't coming home that I looked around. Found your old pay stubs from Brackman & Sons.”

“You looked at my pay stubs?”

Jerry not certain why this bothered him so much.

“Just to find out where you worked,” Ed explains, but not really sounding apologetic. “Of course, at the same time, I couldn't help but notice what they pay you. Not too bad,” Ed says. He gestures about him. “Nice office too.”

Jerry's perturbed that Ed is so casual, sitting in his office without an appointment, knowing how much money Jerry makes.

“Well,” Jerry says, anxious to send him on his way, “let's just each guy take his own bag and let it go at that.”

“I'll have to look through mine first,” says Ed.

“What? You think I looked in your bag?”

“That's not such a strange concern,” Ed says. “You find out you got a bag that isn't yours, you automatically open it up, see what's in it.”

“Is that what you did?” Jerry says.

“Sure.”

“You looked in my bag?”

“Of course. You looked in mine, didn't you?”

“I didn't know it was your bag. I thought it was mine. Why would I open my own bag to look through it?”

Ed is watching Jerry as he explains this, making a judgment on whether he's telling the truth.

“And by the way,” Jerry says, “I don't appreciate your looking through my bag. The contents of that bag are confidential.”

“I promise not to tell anyone,” Ed says.

“Those are legal papers . . . this is a law firm.” Jerry searching for other reasons to protest this audacity.

“And of course,” Ed reminds him, “none of this would have happened if you hadn't picked up my bag.”

Damn! He's back to that again.

“But,” Ed goes on, “why bicker about it? Let's just each take his own bag, look through it, make sure everything's in order, then we shake hands and I'm on my way.”

There's something there, in Ed's manner that has Jerry wondering. It's not blatant. This big guy is cool. But there's a touch of anxiety there. He's a little nervous about something.

Jerry's suddenly very interested to know what's in Ed's bag.

Ed doesn't look like a man who'd go out of his way to track down dirty laundry and shaving gear.

“I did look in your bag,” Jerry says. “Last night.”

Fishing.

Not much expression on Ed's face to indicate how he feels about that.

“I thought you told me you hadn't opened it.” A little edge in his tone.

“Well,” Jerry says, lowering his head, “I wasn't sure how you'd feel about it.”

“And what were you planning on doing with it . . . my bag?”

“I planned to give you a call this morning. Let you know we'd accidentally taken each other's bags at the airport.”

“My phone's not on the name tag,” Ed says. “Address either. How did you plan to get in touch?”

“I thought we could get hold of you by your name.”

“By my name.”

“We are a law firm,” Jerry says. “I am a private investigator.

Ed nods. “So you have some resources.”

“Sure,” Jerry says.

They sit for a moment, each unsure of the next step.

“Or I thought you might contact me," Jerry says.

“I might contact you.”

This big guy had an annoying habit of repeating everything Jerry said.

“Yeah . . . my name and number's on my bag. That's why you're sitting here right now.”

“So you thought I might show up.”

Jerry spreads his hands in a gesture that says, and here you are, then pushes it out there a little further. “Considering what was in the bag and how important it might be to you.” He searches Ed's face for a clue.

“Did you have any idea what you had there when you looked in the bag?”

“Well, sure,” Jerry says, trying to pick an appropriate reaction, hoping Ed will drop some hint that will help him out.

“I'm not asking whether you recognized the contents. Anybody who looked in the bag would know there were a substantial amount of bearer bonds inside.”

Bearer bonds. So Jerry now knows what's in the bag.

“What I meant, did you have any idea of the value of what was in this bag?” Pointing to it now to be sure Jerry knows he is referring to the bag that he'd mistakenly picked up at the baggage claim at O'Hare.

“Not exactly,” Jerry says. “I knew it was valuable—obviously—but I couldn't be certain of what the exact amount might be.”

“Didn't you look through more carefully after you got back here to the office?”

“You know, it had been such a long day. I had a little run-in with a woman in the Jetway.”

Ed's nodding, he can relate to that.

“I was beat. So I left it here . . . planned to look into it this morning.”

“So you just decided to leave a half mil in bearer bonds here in a suitcase in your office.”

A half mil! But Jerry manages to keep a stoic expression on his face.

“It is a secure office.”

“I got in without too much trouble.”

He had Jerry there.

“And of course, I thought about calling the police,” Jerry said.

Ed's eyes narrowed reflexively. “The police.”

Jerry nodded. He was getting a reaction now.

“It's my bag. That matter is not disputable. Why would you consider calling the police?”

“It's such a large amount,” Jerry said. “I just considered bringing it to the attention of the police . . . such a large sum and all.”

“Even though the bonds are mine.”

“Well, of course, if they're yours, the police would confirm that. No problem, right? I'm just trying to be a good citizen, reporting the discovery of an unusually valuable amount of financial papers I found in a suitcase.”

“Just trying to be a good citizen.”

Damn. He's doing it again.

Ed smiling now, snapping his bag closed, moving in the chair, getting ready to leave.

“I still might decide to do that,” says Jerry. “Call the police.”

“Not a good idea,” says Ed.

“Not a good idea?” Jerry repeats. See how he likes it.

“You have any idea who those bonds belong to?”

Jerry shrugs. “I thought you said they belonged to you.”

“In this case,” Ed says, “I'm acting as a courier . . . for an organization I'm affiliated with.”

“What organization might that be?” asks Jerry.

“Well . . . it might be a financial institution . . . or a government office . . . or Warren Buffett's company . . . or . . . it could be another prestigious organization, handles a lot of high finance in a great variety of areas. An organization that wouldn't be happy to have the police come in and examine their assets. Are you getting an idea who this organization might be?”

“I think I have an idea,” says Jerry.

“Then I'm sure you can understand how upset they might be if you were to call the police.”

Jerry is thinking the situation over. Ed is getting fidgety, he's going to get up and walk out any minute, no matter how engaging Jerry's repartee.

“I've got a business proposition to suggest to you,” Jerry says.

No expression from Ed, but he doesn't say anything and Jerry takes this as an indication that he's curious.

“I'm sure you're well compensated for what you do for the . . . for your employer. You dress well, you're obviously a competent man. You've got a good situation.”

Ed nods. “They take good care of me.”

“Got anything put away for a rainy day . . . for retirement?”

“That's getting a little personal.”

Jerry holds up a hand. “I don't mean to insult you. I'm just saying, guys like us—middle management so to speak—we have to do more than our share of the work while the muckety-mucks on the top floor take most of the credit, and most of the money.”

Jerry searching Ed's eyes for any evidence that he may be buying into this.

Still no reaction, but at least the man is listening.

“What's your point?” Ed says.

“Well,” says Jerry, “there's a half mil in that bag. Pointing at it as if Ed may not know which bag he's referring to.

“And?”

Jerry decides to cut to the chase. “What if we . . . you and I . . . decided to split it?”

Ed chuckles at the suggestion. “I thought you understood who this belongs to,” he said, hefting the bag for emphasis. “It's not an organization that would overlook an amount like that gone missing.”

But Ed's still situated in the leather chair opposite Jerry's desk, looking comfortable, not shocked by Jerry's suggestion, just skeptical.

“Did you report your bag lost . . . to Lost and Found at the airport?”

Ed shakes his head. He's not the kind of guy who would bother with something like that.

“Run out to the airport right now, report your missing bag. It was so late last night when you got in you couldn't find anybody there to report it to.”

“And I do this, why?”

“In case your organization checks into it. Like you said, they're not likely to feel warm and fuzzy about this. They'll want to check it out.

“Would put me in a tough spot,” says Ed.

“Well, maybe it won't work. Depends how much they trust you. I just thought for a quarter mil . . . “

“It's a half million.”

“Well, of course, we'd be splitting it.”

“Because . . . ?”

“Because if we didn't, I'd need to make that call to the police . . . right away . . . tell them about this bag I accidentally picked up at the airport.” Jerry makes a gesture with his hand. “You know the rest of the story.”

This isn't the first time Ed has thought of something like this but it is the first time he's talked with anyone about it. He's always liked Harry, his boss. He knows the feeling is mutual. Ed has handled a lot of tough assignments over the years. Harry's been grateful.

But a little tight on the remuneration, no denying that.

Jerry attempting to read Ed's mind, encouraging him. “Put it away in some Caribbean bank . . . or over in Switzerland, if you like Europe. Ever been there?”

Ed's never been there.

“You could go there or just about anywhere else with that kind of dough.”

Jerry doesn't know it, but Ed's decided to do this. There are just two details running through his mind that he needs to sort out.

First, should he try to go through the charade with Harry? A lot of risk in that option. Harry likes Ed, but he's going to have to explain to his bosses how one of his most trusted associates lost a half-million bucks. There's a good chance Ed wouldn't survive the examination that was sure to take place.

So . . . just take off. It's a big world. There has to be places where a man can lose himself. Oh, there are risks in this option too. His organization will spare no effort or expense to track him down. But Ed's chances are still probably better with this option.

Okay, that's settled.

Jerry's in his chair behind his desk, watching Ed ruminate on this, wondering if there's any way he, Jerry, might be able to pull a fast one . . . end up with all the money for himself.

The other detail Ed's considering (and it's not really a tough decision) is why bother ot share anything with this mope Jerry. Take the whole half mil and be on his way to Timbuktu or someplace like that, Ed not certain whether it would be warm enough to satisfy him in Timbuktu.

And finally Ed breaks his silence.

“Well . . . I've decided,” Ed says. “And I want you to know I'm grateful for your suggestion.”

A big smile on Jerry's face. “So we're going ahead with it?”

Ed nods. “But not exactly like you imagined it.”

And he reaches inside his jacket and pulls out the silenced revolver.

The hopeful look vanishes from Jerry's face.

It only takes a minute for Ed to stuff Jerry's body under the big desk. It might be tomorrow before anyone finds him.

Ed, grabbing the bag and walking out the door of Jerry's office, the receptionist giving him a quizzical look.

“Jerry's ten-thirty appointment,” Ed says. “He asked me to tell you to hold his calls, he'll be indisposed the rest of the day.”

* * * *

Ed is sitting at the airport an hour later, a ticket to London, he's decided there may be more options in Europe than the Caribbean, using an assumed name and an extra passport he carries for emergency situations.

Just sitting there in the waiting area of British Airways. Start in London and play it by ear, maybe Morocco, or whatever the name is of that place where Grace Kelly went.

Watching people walk by. Others sitting, reading, chatting. Some fine looking women, the kind of women that would be accessible to a man with a half-million dollars.

The big smile on Ed's face suddenly disappearing as he looks down at the bag . . . really looks at it for the first time since he'd left Jerry's office.

And sees the name tag.

Jerry Dunning . . . Crystal Lake.

Copyright © 2012 Wayne J. Gardiner

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: THE STORY THAT WON

* * * *

Copyright (C) 2011 Myrna Yancey

* * * *

The November Mysterious Photograph contest was won by Ben Adams of Lahaina, Hawaii. Honorable mentions go to Richard Moriarty of Storrs, Connecticut; Michael Dougherty of New York, New York; Melinda Taliancich Falgoust of Metairie, Louisiana; Holly L. LeRoy of Pebble Beach, California; Michael Haynes of Canal Winchester, Ohio; Lowell Bergeron of Iowa, Louisiana; John M. Duffy of Burbank, California; Henry N. Schulman of San Diego, California; C. D. Patton of Orlando, Florida; and Art Cosing of Fairfax, Virginia.

* * * *

LET'S FACE IT . . .

BEN ADAMS

“What are you doing out here?” demanded the ranger, shining his light on the boy with the spray cans. “Hey, put that down! Get away from there! Bank robbers and hoodlums,” he muttered under his breath.

Meanwhile, Jesse simply silently obeyed. He had just put the finishing touches on it anyway. He stepped back, admiring the monster he had painted on the rock, which he had chosen for its contours—two neatly matching depressions for large reptilian eyes and the space for a sprawling, cavernous mouth with teeth as big as stalagmites.

“This park is a national landmark. You can't just stroll through a place like this and start painting things willy-nilly. That's defacement of federal property.

“I don't think that's quite the right word, sir,” said Jesse. “This rock never had a face to begin with. Really, you should thank me.”

“That's enough!” snapped the ranger, gathering up the spray cans and the miniature camping shovel. “And what were you doing with this shovel?” But Jesse simply smiled and considered the events of the day. For he was the hooded figure who had escaped Oasis bank with a satchel of money, a satchel now safely guarded by a monster.

And so, as Jesse marched, he grinned an extravagant grin and felt as fearsome as the creature on the rock. Because he had gotten away with it. And when all this dust had settled, he would finally have the funds to go to art school.

© 2011 Myrna Yancey

[Back to Table of Contents]

Department: COMING IN JUNE 2012

LAST SUPPER by Jane C. Cleland

THE SELLOUT by Mike Cooper

THEA'S FIRST HUSBAND by B. K. Stevens

CUPS AND VARLETS by Kenneth Wishnia

[Back to Table of Contents]

Linda Landrigan: Editor

Jackie Sherbow: Editorial Assistant

Susan Mangan: Vice President, Design and Production

Victoria Green: Senior Art Director

Cindy Tiberi: Production Artist

Laura Tulley: Senior Production Manager

Jennifer Cone: Production Associate

Jayne Keiser: Typesetting Director

Suzanne Lemke: Assistant Typesetting Manager

Kevin Doris: Senior Typesetting Coordinator

Abigail Browning: Director of Marketing, Brand Licensing and E-Commerce

Terri Poly: Digital Publishing Manager

Bruce W. Sherbow: Senior Vice President, Sales, Marketing and Information Technology

Sandy Marlowe: Subscriber Services

Robin DiMeglio: Advertising Sales Manager

Peter Kanter: Publisher

* * * *

www.themysteryplace.com

[Back to Table of Contents]

DIRECTORY OF SERVICES

Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine

* * * *

EDITORIAL OFFICES

267 Broadway, 4th Floor

New York, NY 10007-2352

* * * *

SUBSCRIPTION SERVICES

(800) 220-7443

www.themysteryplace.com

* * * *

CHANGE OF ADDRESS & SUBSCRIPTION INQUIRIES

www.themysteryplace.com

Send your current mailing label and new address to:

AHMM

6 Prowitt Street

Norwalk, CT 06855-1220

Or e-mail us at:

customerservice@pennypublicatons.com

* * * *

BACK ISSUES

Send check for $6.50 per single issue, or $9.50 per double issue (Add and additional $1.50 for delivery outside the U.S.) to AHMM at:

6 Prowitt Street, Suite 100

Norwalk, CT 06855-1220

Please specify which issue you are ordering.

* * * *

SUBRIGHTS & PERMISSIONS

licensing@dellmagazines.com

Or fax inquiries to (203) 854-5962

* * * *

NEWSSTAND SALES

Dell Magazines, Department NS

6 Prowitt Street

Norwalk, CT 06855-1220

(203) 866-6688

retailsellers@pennypublications.com

* * * *

ADVERTISING REPRESENTATIVE

Robin DiMeglio, Advertising Sales Manager

6 Prowitt Street

Norwalk, CT 06855

Tel: (203) 866-6688 x180 * Fax: (203) 854-5962

rdimeglio@dellmagazines.com

(Display & Classified Advertising)

* * * *

Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 57, No. 5, May 2012. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. (C) 2012 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: Quad/Graphics Joncas, 4380 Garand, Saint-Laurent, Quebec H4R 2A3. GST #R123054108.

Visit www.dellmagazines.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.