by The Mysterious Bookshop Presents the Best Mystery Stories of the Year 2021
“No, I don’t. Are you kidding?”
She shook her head, her voice barely audible. “When I was in Goa the last day on shore, we took a tour of a castor bean processing plant. There’s a poison called ricin that’s made from the leftover waste. I bought some on the street.”
“Ricin? Perfect. I never heard of it.”
“I’d never heard of it either so I did a bit of research as soon as I got home. Do you remember that Bulgarian journalist who died in London after he was jabbed in the leg by an umbrella tip?”
“Sure. He turned out to be a spy, offed by the other side.”
“Ricin was what killed him. A puncture wound is just one way of delivering a fatal dose. You can also dissolve it in liquid or add it to food. If the ricin’s inhaled, it takes longer, maybe twelve hours or so before the symptoms appear. After that, it’s quick.”
He rolled his hand to hurry her along, as though she were telling a joke and he was impatient for the punch line.
“I’m sorry. Honestly. I planned on leaving the house early, but then you insisted on breakfast and I realized I’d made a mistake. If we can get to the ER, you still have a chance.”
He reared back in disbelief. “I can’t go anywhere. I’m in my robe.”
“You’re not hearing me. I’m trying to help you.”
Burt studied her, picking up the word she’d used a couple of sentences before. “What do you mean, if it’s inhaled? What’s that got to do with it?”
“Don’t you remember? Last night you asked if the pollen count was high. I said yes and you went straight to the medicine cabinet and took your inhaler out. You sniffed five or six times. I could hear you from the bedroom, even with the TV on.”
He tried to laugh, and then stopped. “Seriously. You put poison in my inhaler?”
Lucy wouldn’t meet his gaze. “How was I supposed to know you and Puckett were in cahoots? He said he’d take care of it. I was only being thorough in case he didn’t follow through.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Shit. You’re an idiot. I knew you wouldn’t take my word for it so I got on the Internet and printed out the information from the CDC.” She got up and crossed to the planning center, where she took a folded paper from her Day-Timer. She flattened it on the table and pushed it over to him.
“You’re lying. I feel fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.”
“Let’s hope. This doesn’t really specify how much poison you have to use so maybe you’re okay.”
Burt’s face began to flush as his eyes traced the lines of print. It was clear her message had sunk home as he was now short of breath. “For god’s sake, quit yammering and dial 911.”
“I can get you to the ER quicker if we take my car. You can read that on the way.”
She went to the hall closet and pulled out a coat that she handed him as she passed him. She grabbed her handbag and her car keys and opened the door to the garage.
“I hope you know what you’re talking about. I go traipsing in there when nothing’s wrong, I’ll look like an idiot.”
“Oh, believe me. There’s something wrong with you.”
She activated the garage door and slipped into her Mercedes on the driver’s side. Burt paused to close the kitchen door behind him. He’d pulled the coat on over his pajamas and he was buttoning it in haste. She started the car, revving the engine in frustration. “Jesus, would you get in!”
He let himself into the car on the passenger side, the information from the CDC in hand. Perspiration had appeared on his face like a fine mist. He lifted one shoulder, using his coat sleeve to dab at the sheen. His fingers made damp spots on the paper. He glanced down at it. “Symptom number two—excessive sweating.” His look full of pleading. “But why would you do this to me?”
Lucy eased through the traffic light at the intersection, and then hit the freeway on-ramp and floored it. “You set this in motion. It wasn’t me. Laird told me you were going to change your will. This was all I could think to do. It’s only two more exits.”
“What if I don’t make it? You’ll end up in jail. They’ll run a toxicology report. Don’t you know they test for shit like this?”
Lucy changed lanes abruptly, causing Burt to brace himself against the dashboard. He yelped as the vehicle next to them swerved just in time. “Christ! Slow down. You’re going to kill us. Not that you’d care.”
“Would you stop blaming me? I told you I didn’t meant to do it.”
“Suppose you never told me. Suppose I just died. How’d you expect to get away with it?”
Lucy’s tone was reluctant. “Ricin’s unusual. I knew it wouldn’t show up on a routine screening panel. Anyway, why would it even occur to them? With your history of hypertension, I figured it would look like a heart attack.”
“Jesus, Luce. What else do I have to look forward to?” His gaze dropped back to the page. “After the heavy sweating and the respiratory distress, the victim develops a blue cast to the skin.” He tilted the rearview mirror so he could see himself. “I’m not blue. Do I look blue to you?”
She glanced at him quickly. “Not that much, really. You’re not in pain?”
“No.”
“Good. That’s a good sign. I think we’re okay. When we get there, I’ll tell them . . . well, I don’t know what I’ll tell them, but I’ll make sure you get the antidote.”
“What a pal.” He placed a hand against his shoulder and massaged his arm. His breathing was heavy and had a raspy sound. “I don’t know how to say this but something’s going on. Feels like I got an elephant sitting on my chest.”
“Burt, I’m so sorry. I know it was horrible, but you really gave me no choice.” She looked at him. Sweat trickled down his face, soaking his shirt collar. Two wide half-moons of dampness had appeared underneath his arms.
He began to pat his pockets. “Where’s my cell phone? I’ll call and tell ’em that we’re on our way.”
“Your cell phone? Puckett said I should put it on vibrate and throw it in the trash.”
He was gasping. He swallowed hard, his gaze turning inward as he struggled with the urge to heave. He used his handkerchief to mop his face. He leaned heavily against the car door, his breathing labored. “Pull over here, I’m going to be sick.”
“Hang on. Just hang on. We’re almost there.”
“Open the window . . .”
She fumbled for the window control on her side and lowered the window, as grateful as he was for the chilly stream of fresh air.
“Luce . . .” He held out his left hand.
She reached across the front seat, grabbed his hand, and then quickly released it. “You’re all clammy,” she said with distaste. Burt was fading before her very eyes.
By the time she pulled into the receiving area at the ER, he was breathing his last. She parked under the ER overhang, prepared, in a moment, to honk her horn, summoning help.
Burt was slumped against the car door. Lucy watched the light drain out of his face.
“Burt?”
Burt was beyond hearing. He gasped once in agony, and then ceased to breathe.
She glanced up as the doors swung open, and a doctor and two orderlies emerged at a dead run. She leaned closer. “Hey, Burt? Talk about gullible—try this on for size. You can’t buy ricin in Goa or anywhere else. You did it to yourself, you freakin’ hypochondriac.”
By the time the orderlies snatched open the car door, she was sobbing inconsolably.
*When the Mystery Writers of America wanted to celebrate its 75th anniversary with a commemorative anthology, Deadly Anniversaries, editors Marcia Muller and Bill Pronzini were able to unearth an unexpected treasure, a previously unpublished story by Sue Grafton. Why it was never published before remains a mystery that would need Kinsey Millhone herself to solve.
Paul Kemprecos says he owes his writing career to pirate Samuel Bellamy, whose treasure ship Whydah broke apart off a storm-beaten Cape Cod shore in 1717. Paul was writing newspaper artic
les about attempts to salvage the wreck and thought at first that the story might make a good nonfiction book. Instead, he used the shipwreck saga as the inspiration for a novel entitled Cool Blue Tomb. Drawing on his experience as the son of immigrants, Paul created a philosophical fisherman, diver, and part-time private detective named Aristotle “Soc” Socarides. The Private Eye Writers of America chose the book for a Shamus award. Paul wrote five more Socarides books before being asked by Grandmaster of Adventure Clive Cussler to collaborate on the new NUMA Files series. He coauthored eight bestselling novels, and then wrote two adventure books on his own. The Minoan Cipher was nominated for a Thriller award by the International Thriller Writers. After a fifteen-year hiatus, he revived the Socarides series with the release of Grey Lady, a novel of madness and murder on the island of Nantucket, and Shark Bait, nominated for a Shamus award by the PWA. His first stand-alone novel, a mystery-thriller that pairs famed artist Edward Hopper with a festering World War II secret, will be released in 2021 by Suspense Publishing. He and his wife Christi live on Cape Cod.
THE SIXTH DECOY
Paul Kemprecos
Elmer Crowell had a sharp eye and a sharper blade. He could take a block of wood and cut away everything that didn’t look like a bird, creating a masterpiece that looked as if it could quack, waddle, or take flight. Some people say he was the best bird carver in the world.
Ol’ Elmer was an authentic American genius, no doubt about it. He was also a humble man from what I’ve heard. He would have dropped his whittling knife if someone told him the carvings he turned out in his ramshackle shed would bring millions of dollars at auction. And his gentle soul would have been burdened if he knew the desire to possess the things of beauty that sprang from his mind and his hands could lead to bloodshed.
Crowell had been dead more than a half century before the golden, late fall day when I crossed paths with his ghost.
I had spent the morning scrubbing down the deck and cleaning out the galley of my charter fishing boat Thalassa. The rods and reels were stowed in the back of my pickup truck. I’d scheduled a forklift to raise the boat out of the water and lower it onto a wooden cradle to be tucked under a plastic blanket for a long winter’s nap.
The fishing season had been as good as it gets. Nantucket Sound teemed with schools of hungry striped bass, and every one of them had a death wish. The skies were sunny, the seas gentle, and the tips generous.
Hooking fish wasn’t something I thought I’d be doing for a living, but as the ancient poet Homer once said, our destiny lies on the knees of the gods.
The Immortal in charge of my fate must have had restless leg syndrome, because I fell off his knee, cutting short my college education in philosophy for a lesson in life, and death, paid for by the US Government in Vietnam.
After mustering out of the Marines, I became a cop and worked my way up to detective in the Boston Police Department. I was engaged to be married to a beautiful and intelligent woman whose only blemish was her judgment in men.
I might have weathered a corruption scandal at the BPD if I kept true to the code of silence, but I lost my will when my fiancée died in a car accident.
After the funeral I got in my car and headed south from Boston with a bottle of vodka, driving until the road ended at a deserted Cape Cod beach. After a few slugs from the bottle, I fell asleep in the lee of a dune. I woke up to the cries of hovering gulls and the rustle of breaking waves. I staggered off the beach and was sobering up in a coffee shop when I met an old fisherman named Sam. He was looking for a crewman. I said I might be interested in the job.
Either Sam had been desperate, or he’d seen the desperation in my face, because he simply nodded and said, “Finestkind, Cap.”
Fishing was tough, but cheaper than stretching out on a headshrinker’s couch. More effective too. Rolling out of bed at three in the morning to catch the tide, commuting twenty miles into the Atlantic Ocean, and working a twelve-hour day forces your mind to ignore the little demons of regret tap-dancing in a corner of your brain.
The wind, and sun reflecting off the glassy sea, had burned most of the sadness from my face and darkened my skin, hiding the lines of bitterness lurking at the corners of my mouth, even though they were still there. Sam accused me of going native when I went for the pirate look, with a gold earring, and a droopy mustache that decorated my upper lip.
More often than not my mouth was set in a grin as Sam gossiped about townspeople, fish, and the cooking prowess of his wife Mildred. When Sam retired I took over his boat, but couldn’t cut it on my own. I cleaned up my act, mostly, and bought a charter fishing boat with a loan from my family.
Every day was an adventure. I had to make sure my clients didn’t fall overboard or hook themselves instead of a fish—a state of alertness that had called for a higher degree of sobriety than I was used to. I’d been busy from sunup to sundown, subsisting on Mountain Dew and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
In the off-season I’ll earn a few bucks with an occasional commercial diving job. There’s not much demand to go underwater during the winter. I’ve held on to the private detective license I got after leaving the Boston PD, but there’s even less call for a PI.
With my boat coming out of the water, and no jobs in the works, money would soon be tight. I set a course across the marina parking lot for a waterfront bistro named Trader Ed’s. I was thinking that a frosty beer might help me come up with an idea how to keep the boat loan payments to my family flowing during the lean months. I was about halfway to my barstool when a silver Mercedes convertible pulled up beside me and braked to a stop. A woman wearing a dark gray pinstripe suit got out from behind the steering wheel.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I’m looking for a boat captain named Aristotle Socarides. The harbor master pointed you out.”
“That’s me,” I said. “How can I help you?”
“I’d like to retain your services.”
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m done fishing for the year. My boat will be out of the water in the next day or so.”
“That’s not a problem.” She removed her sunglasses to reveal coral-colored eyes under arching brows. “My name is Bridget Callahan. I’m an attorney. I know that you’re a retired police officer and that in addition to running a charter boat, you sometimes take on cases as a private detective.”
“Word gets around.”
“Thanks to modern communications technology.”
She held up a cell phone. On the small screen was the face I see in the mirror during the morning shave. The earring and mustache of my pirate days were gone. I was now a serious businessman. The photo of me at the wheel of the Thalassa was from the business section of the Cape Cod Times. The headline was: “Former Cop, Charter Captain Moonlights as Private Eye.”
“I mentioned the private eye thing to the reporter as an aside,” I said. “I don’t have a lot of clients.”
“All the better. You’ll have time to take a case for a client of mine.”
“Depends, Ms. Callahan. I don’t do divorce investigations. They’re too dangerous.”
“Nothing like that. My client would like to recover some valuable property.”
She tucked the phone in her pocketbook and handed me a business card. The words embossed on the card in gold told me that Bridget Callahan was a partner in a Boston law firm that had more ethnic names than the United Nations.
“Big legal powerhouse, as I recall,” I said. “Making partner couldn’t have been easy.”
“It wasn’t. It took talent, hard work, and a willingness to deal with difficult clients.”
“Congratulations. Does this case involve one of those difficult clients?”
She nodded.
“Why come to me? My last big case had to do with oyster poachers. Your firm must have staff investigators.”
“We do. One of them gave us your name. He said you’d be perfect for this job. That you take unusual cases.”
She mentioned
a retired detective I knew from the BPD.
“He’s a good cop,” I said. “What makes this so unusual he can’t handle it?”
“The client is a bit eccentric.”
“In what way?”
“He’s a collector,” she said, as if that explained everything.
“Does this eccentric collector have a name?”
“His name is Merriwhether Ruskin the Third. He wants to meet you.”
“Send him over. I’ll be here for at least another hour.”
She brushed a curl of silver and auburn hair back from her face as she collected her thoughts. “Mr. Ruskin doesn’t get out much. He has, um, peculiar health issues. It’s hard to describe. He’d like to talk to you in person.”
I glanced up at the clear blue autumn sky. The raw north winds and slag gray clouds of winter seemed far away, but it would be spring before I earned another paycheck. Meanwhile, the boat loan statements would arrive with the regularity of waves breaking on the shore. A job for a rich client would get me through a few months, maybe longer.
Trader Ed’s would have to wait. “I’m ready when you are,” I said.
“Wonderful,” she said. “Let’s go for a ride.”
Bridget’s client lived twenty minutes from the marina on the shores of Nantucket Sound, in a gated community of sprawling silver-shingled houses hidden behind tall hedges that protected their owners’ privacy as effectively as castle ramparts. The only things missing were moats and drawbridges. A long gravel driveway led to a two-story mansion surrounded by manicured lawns of impossible green. A white-trimmed porch bordered with hydrangeas ran along the full length of the house.
On the drive over, Bridget talked about growing up in the gritty working-class enclave of South Boston, making her Harvard law degree even more impressive. I talked about my roots in the former factory city of Lowell and my stint in the Marines. We were chatting like old friends by the time we got to the house. She snapped the switch into business mode as soon as she parked behind a black Cadillac sedan in the circular driveway.
