The Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021

  “You think so?” Breen sounded weary, old beyond his years.

  “Of course,” Sophia said, “what other explanation can there be?”

  “I’m . . . I’m afraid for Cynthia.”

  “Superstitious nonsense!”

  “But don’t you see? She occupies the selfsame stateroom. It seems like an omen!”

  Sophia halted in her tracks. “Shhh . . . they are coming toward us.”

  She tugged his sleeve. The couple they had watched on the dance floor were approaching from the other end of the deck. They were smiling fondly at each other, as if neither of them had a care in the world.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Cynthia said. “Clearly you’re not a true gentleman.”

  Ellis Hart laughed. They were sitting beside each other on the settee of the sitting room in her suite. On the small table in front of them stood a champagne bottle in an ice bucket and two glasses, filled to the brim.

  “Say, tell me this. All that baloney about being worried that the steward would think you were a hussy. When did you ask him for the bubbly?”

  Cynthia giggled. Over dinner, attentive waiters had already plied them with drink, although she hadn’t attempted to keep pace with her companion. She handed Ellis a glass and clinked hers against it.

  “We need a toast,” she said. “Carpe diem!”

  “Carpe diem!” he echoed.

  “Like it?” she asked, indicating their surroundings.

  The Cunard Line had spared no expense in ensuring that passengers with the deepest pockets enjoyed the last word in luxury. The close carpeting was supplemented by woven rugs, while illumination came from lights concealed in troughs of molded glass. The furniture was quilted maple, the paneling light mahogany. The door to the bedroom was wide open, affording a provocative glimpse of pillows and bedspread of ivory satin, their pink and green ribbon appliqué a perfect match for the sitting room curtains.

  He savored his champagne. “Love it. How the other half live, eh?”

  “You’re no pauper, Ellis.” She brushed her fingers along his leg. “Not if you can afford to travel on the Queen Mary.”

  “I can’t complain.”

  “You certainly can’t, young man,” she said coquettishly. “Invited to the stateroom of a pretty fellow passenger. Plied with champagne. I only hope you have a good head for drink. Perhaps you shouldn’t have any more.”

  “Life is short,” he said, draining his glass in a single gulp. Deferential as a chambermaid, she refilled it.

  “Would you excuse me for a few moments?” she asked. “I just need to freshen up.”

  He laughed. “Honey, you’re the freshest thing on this whole damn ship.”

  She stood up and considered him. “I hope this doesn’t seem forward, but I may slip into my pajamas. I like to get to bed early, you know.”

  “Hey, you won’t need to wear pajamas tonight, baby.”

  She wagged a finger in admonition. “Patience, Ellis. You know what we say in London? Everything comes to he who waits.”

  “I don’t care to wait too long,” he mumbled. “I’m a . . . man of action.”

  She lifted her glass again. “Then let’s drink to action.”

  He watched with bleary admiration as Cynthia shimmied into the bedroom and, with a sly glance over her shoulder, shut the door. Hearing a key turn in the lock, he took another drink of champagne.

  “How much . . . longer?” Ellis Hart demanded, putting down his glass. His jacket and tie were on the settee. His shirt was unbuttoned, his hair rumpled.

  “I’ve been making myself beautiful for you.” From behind the bedroom door, Cynthia’s voice was muffled but seductive. “I’m coming out now.”

  The key turned again and the door swung open, revealing Cynthia in blue Chinese silk pajamas. The black trim of her jacket was embellished with scrolling embroidery; each of the cuffs had an exotic floral motif. Only two of the four closures were fastened, allowing a generous display of pale pink flesh.

  “Worth the wait, I hope?” she asked.

  For a few seconds Ellis was motionless, as if paralyzed by the sight of her. Then he gave a short whistle.

  “Sure . . . sure is.”

  He stumbled toward her, and she turned her face up to his. As their lips met, the door of the stateroom was flung open.

  “So this is what you get up to when my back is turned!”

  Sophia Vialli was standing in the doorway, camera in hand. Taking a step into the room, and kicking the door shut behind her, she took a photograph. As the flashbulb popped, Cynthia screamed.

  Ellis pushed her through the open door and on to the ivory bedspread. He slumped down beside her. Cynthia wailed in dismay. Sophia followed them into the bedroom.

  Another flashbulb popped.

  “Harlot!”

  “What . . . what is happening?” Cynthia sobbed. “Ellis, talk to me!”

  He pushed a hand through his hair. “Honey, you shouldn’t have led me on the way you did. It’s not right . . . you being all but married, and all.”

  “You wanted me! You said . . .”

  “Never mind what he said,” Sophia snapped. “The camera never lies. And I have the evidence of my own eyes. You have been committing adultery with my husband.”

  “Husband?” Cynthia turned to the American. “Ellis, is this true?”

  He dropped down on the bed beside her. “Yeah, it’s . . .”

  “Slut!” Sophia hissed. “Wait till the newspapers hear about this. The supposedly respectable Cynthia Wyvern betraying her fiancé by seducing a naive young American.”

  “Please!” Cynthia cried. “I’ll do anything! Is it money you’re after?”

  Ellis gave a foggy smile. “Now you’re . . . talking, honey.”

  “My silence will not come cheaply, you understand,” Sophia said.

  “How . . . how much?”

  “You are a rich woman.” Sophia named a figure. “Where is your checkbook?”

  “It’s too much! That amount will ruin me.”

  “What is marriage to your beloved Algernon worth? What price your future happiness?” Sophia bared her teeth in a fierce grin. “Regard it as an investment.”

  Cynthia opened the drawer of the dressing room table and lifted out a checkbook and pen. She turned to face Ellis. “You tricked me, didn’t you? It was all a ploy, so that the pair of you could blackmail me.”

  He grinned stupidly. “I guess . . .”

  Sophia tried to yank him to his feet. “What’s the matter with you, Joel? Don’t tell me you’re drunk! I thought you had a harder head.”

  “It wasn’t . . .” he began.

  The door of the wardrobe swung open. Standing there, dressed in a cabin steward’s white uniform, was Feargal Breen. In his hand was a small black gun.

  “The man’s right.” The Irish accent had vanished and he sounded as if he’d just stepped off the playing fields of Eton. “It wasn’t ordinary champagne. I slipped in, if you’ll forgive a vulgar phrase, a Mickey Finn.”

  Cynthia reached under a pillow and took out a snub-nosed revolver. “Don’t move an inch, either of you.”

  Sophia blinked. “What is the meaning of this?”

  “You’ve left it too late for a show of dignity,” Breen said. “I gave you your chance as we strolled along the deck. If you’d showed a degree of contrition, things might have been different.”

  On the bed, Ellis groaned. His eyes were shut and he was holding his head.

  “What are you talking about?” Sophia demanded.

  “I told you. This concerns the murder of Letty Bohannon. My sister.” He smiled as the woman absorbed his words. “That’s right, I’m Henry, the scapegrace son with a taste for acting. Rather a ham, I’m afraid, but not to worry. I do hope you appreciated my mincing Irish gossipmonger.”

  “You tricked me!”

  “Sauce for the gander. Your lover set out to seduce Letty so that the pair of you could exploit her. You travel the high seas in search
of prey. Rich victims with a great deal to lose. On that occasion, however, you went too far. You threatened Letty with ruin and in a fit of panic, she shot herself. Yes, this stateroom was locked, but you killed her, just as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.”

  “She was neurotic.”

  “She was distraught,” Henry said. “That was clear from the note she left. Thank the Lord, the coroner didn’t make its contents public. Poor Letty had suffered enough humiliation. She didn’t know your real names, naturally. The enquiry agent I hired discovered the truth. You believed you were beyond the reach of the law. There was no independent evidence that either of you had committed a crime. The police weren’t interested in pursuing you. But we were. I loved my sister.”

  “And I am Winnie,” the girl said. “Her dearest friend.”

  “So what do you want?” Sophia was defiant. “We have no money to pay you back. The Bohannon girl’s check was useless, her death made sure of that.”

  “We have plenty of money,” Henry said. “These staterooms don’t come cheap.”

  “What, then?”

  “We want justice.”

  For a few seconds, Sophia was silent. Her brow furrowed. Henry had spent long enough at racecourses to know she was calculating odds. The woman was another gambler. In a tight corner, she’d risk everything if she thought she could get away with it. She couldn’t hope for help from the American. He’d lost consciousness while sprawled across the bed.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We want you to write a confession,” Henry said. “Admit to what the two of you did to Letty. You must tell the world everything. And don’t try blaming it all on Joel Dyson here, alias Ellis Hart. You’re the brains behind the partnership, aren’t you, Sophia? Or should I call you Maria Mancini?”

  “Words written under duress,” she said with a dismissive gesture. “They are worthless in a court of law.”

  Her voice was curiously flat, as if her mind was elsewhere.

  “Watch her!” Winnie shouted.

  At that moment, Maria Mancini sprang forward. Her sharp fingers became talons clawing at Henry’s eyes. As he fell back, she leapt upon him, trying to wrench the revolver from his hand.

  “Let him go, or I’ll shoot,” Winnie hissed.

  “You won’t dare,” Maria spat. “You’ll hit him, not me.”

  She was strong and sinewy and Henry fought to keep hold of his gun. Winnie jumped forward.

  In the confines of the bedroom, the noise of the shot seemed deafening.

  Maria screamed in horror. In the struggle, her lover had been shot in the chest. Blood oozed over his shirt. Henry seized hold of her wrist, only for the gun to fire again.

  The second bullet hit the side of Maria’s head at point blank range.

  Winnie sobbed as Henry checked the blackmailers’ pulses and found no sign of life. He laid a hand on her shoulder.

  “You must keep calm. There’s work to be done.”

  Still wearing the steward’s uniform he’d bought in London, he strode out into the corridor and headed for the laundry room. It was in darkness, as he’d expected. Hinting that he planned a surreptitious liaison with a fellow passenger, he’d given the steward a lavish tip to make himself scarce.

  The wicker basket he’d spotted the previous day stood in an alcove. He lifted the lid to make sure it was still empty before dragging it back to Winnie’s suite. She was drying her tears.

  “Give me a sheet to keep the blood off the basket,” he said.

  “What . . . what will you do?”

  He pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket. “I’m taking these bodies back where they belong.”

  “You can’t throw them overboard!”

  “I could, but I won’t. Tidy up and make a bundle of the bloodstained bedclothes. Chuck it over the side of the ship while I shift the corpses. Thankfully their cabin is only down one flight of stairs and pretty much underneath us. But I’ll need two journeys. This wretched basket isn’t big enough for both of them.”

  “Are you sure people won’t suspect?” Winnie was breathless. The past hour had been a frenzy.

  “There’s a sporting chance,” Henry said. “If we hold our nerve.”

  “But the angle of the second shot . . .”

  “Is consistent with a self-inflicted wound,” he said. “Just about. When their steward finally opens the cabin, he’ll discover a macabre tableau. What happened will be obvious. A violent quarrel got out of hand; these Latin women are tempestuous types.”

  “People have seen me in his company,” she said.

  “Hence the quarrel.”

  “They’ve also seen you talking to her. If the authorities ask the right questions . . .”

  “We have answers.” Henry clasped her hand. “After you left the lounge with him, I noticed her following. There was a confrontation in the passageway. Raised voices. You made your excuses and left them to it. Meanwhile I did my best to cheer you up and refused to let you out of my sight. A perfect alibi.”

  “Only if they take our word for it.”

  “Who can contradict us? Thank your lucky stars for good old British reserve. The only two people on board who thought of us as Miss Wyvern and Mr. Breen rather than Henry and his pal Winnie will never utter another word.”

  A thought struck her. “What if someone heard the shots?”

  “There’s no better-built ship than the Queen Mary on the seven seas, remember. The stateroom walls are solid and I’m your next-door neighbor. Everyone else on A Deck is still waltzing the night away. The band is loud and if anyone did hear shots, they might easily suppose they came from our friends’ cabin. It’s almost exactly below us, don’t forget.”

  “Whatever the ship’s officers may think, the police . . .”

  “Are likely to take the easy way out,” he interrupted. “Legal jurisdiction on the high seas is as clear as sea mist. Or so I recall from my tedious year in chambers.”

  “You’re sure everyone will believe . . . ?”

  “That just like Letty’s death, it’s a tragedy rather than a mystery?” He gave a dark smile. “People believe what they want to believe. Just as Mancini and Dyson were only too happy to believe in Cynthia Wyvern and the mischief-making Irishman.”

  She remained quiet for a few moments. “Am I stupid to believe that you intended them to die all along?”

  “You could never be stupid, my dear.” He paused. “Blackmail was their sport. They reveled in it.”

  “You planned all this, didn’t you?” she murmured. “You love playing for high stakes, whether you’re burgling or . . . that’s why you took an impression of his cabin key before I put it back in his door, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t worry. Ten minutes ago I threw my copy of the key into the waves.”

  “You never meant to use it simply to snoop around for evidence of their crimes.”

  “Call it poetic justice,” he said softly. “The authorities will realize it’s impossible that anyone else was involved. A plain case of murder and suicide. Maria shot her faithless lover and then turned the gun on herself. Their bodies were found inside a locked cabin. And to prove it, the key is lying on the floor for all to see.”

  *In 2019, I was invited to give a series of lectures to American crime fans on the Queen Mary 2. As we crossed from New York to Southampton, I wandered around the ship, reading the wall panels which recounted events in the history of the original Queen Mary in the 1930s. One fascinating snippet suggested the raw material for a short story, but a further spark was needed to give it life. A few months later, I undertook a second Atlantic crossing. At the time, I was toying with the possibility of writing some form of locked-room mystery. Rather than contrive a puzzle for purists, I wanted to take a familiar trope and play a game with it. But what sort of game? As I took another look at the story on the wall panel, the two elements, historic anecdote and locked room, coalesced in my mind. The result was “The Locked Cabin.” And as a tip of the hat to Antho
ny Boucher, an American novelist and critic who loved locked-room puzzles, I gave one of my characters a name that recalls a detective who features in three of Boucher’s impossible crime stories.

  John M. Floyd’s work has appeared in more than three hundred different publications, including Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine, The Strand Magazine, The Saturday Evening Post, and three editions of The Best American Mystery Stories. A former Air Force captain and IBM systems engineer, John is also an Edgar nominee, a four-time Derringer Award winner, the 2018 recipient of the Edward D. Hoch Memorial Golden Derringer Award for lifetime achievement in mystery fiction, and the author of nine books.

  BILOXI BOUND

  John Floyd

  “You’re right,” Mitchell White said. “We should move.”

  He swiveled on the stool behind the cash register and looked through the rectangular serving window into the kitchen. His brother Danny, two years older than Mitch and twenty pounds heavier, was sweating like a racehorse as he slapped a burger and a handful of sliced onions onto the grill.

  Without looking up, Danny said, “I thought you were set on staying.”

  Mitch shrugged. “I was. But I’ve been thinking.”

  “And?”

  “And I figured someday you’d come up with at least one good idea. Maybe this is it.”

  “Yeah, I’m just a cook. Thank God we’ve got you to sit out front and think and put on a pretty face for the customers.”

  “And talk to ’em. Don’t forget that. I engage them in meaningful conversation.”

  Danny nodded. “That’s probably the reason they’re leaving and not coming back.” He glanced past his brother at the tables. Mitch turned to look also. Only two were occupied, one by a single man in a gray business suit and the other by an older couple, all of them almost finished with their meals. Seven thirty at night, the place ought to be bustling with diners.