Murder Most Conventional

by Verena Rose (ed)

Nemesis nodded as she flicked a tissue from her purse and gently dabbed at the tears.

  “Are they sure? Shouldn’t you get a second opinion?”

  “They’re sure. They say it will happen very quickly. The losses, I mean.”

  She opened her purse, took out a little plastic vial, and handed it to Nemesis. “If you decide you want to be in charge, this will end things quickly and without a trace.”

  Nemesis tried to cock an eyebrow. It wouldn’t move. She answered the unasked question. “For my mother-in-law. A nasty cancer. She asked if I would help. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I brought two, in case she fumbled it.”

  “Right. So kind,” Nemesis murmured and tucked it in her purse.

  * * * *

  Later, back in her own clothes and in the bar, she kept putting off the moment when she’d dive into that waiting martini. She decided to freshen her makeup, and came back from the ladies’ room to find Nemesis on the stool next to hers with a martini of her own. Identical. Three olives and a twist. Nemesis seemed happier than she had at lunch. Even before tasting the drink, she was waving to someone across the room and sliding off the stool for a hug good-bye. Very much her old self again. It seemed the offer of an easy end had had a positive effect.

  She slid onto the stool, set down her bag, then slipped out a vial and dumped the contents into Nemesis’s drink.

  Nemesis returned, sat on her stool, and lifted her glass. “To the future,” Nemesis said.

  And her suspicions were confirmed. Nemesis’s fakey smile was so broad she knew the contents of the vial that she had given Nemesis now resided in her own glass. The hatred went both ways with them.

  It didn’t matter, though. She’d only given Nemesis her emergency stash of gin, carried in case a martini couldn’t be had. The real stuff had been in the other vials. See, it was just like she’d thought all along. She’d made her way up by being smart and anticipating and planning, so she’d anticipated Nemesis’s move, while Nemesis had staff to do her thinking. She was just a manager.

  * * * *

  Before she left her minibar behind and headed for the airport, she grabbed a nip of gin to replace the vial she’d given to Nemesis. She opened her purse to set the gin beside her remaining vial of poison. But alas, when she slipped on her cheaters, she discovered it was gin, not poison, in that remaining vial.

  Live by the sword, die by the sword. Or in this case, refuse to wear your glasses when you’re traveling with a vain crowd, and suffer the consequences. She sighed for the columns she’d never write.

  Twenty-four hours later, the poison had done its work—twelve hours to start and twelve more hours to do the job. Members of the fashion-writing community were grieved by the sad news of the deaths of two of their most beloved members.

  AT GOES AROUND, by B.K. Stevens

  The trick was not slowing down, not hesitating. Walk quickly, make his choice before taking the last step, grab, go, don’t look back. He’d done it before, dozens of times, and it had always worked. He was that good. Still, though, he always felt the same excitement, the same small, sharp thrill of fear. Sometimes, he thought it was the fear he craved, more than whatever might be inside.

  He chose it as soon as he saw it, seconds after it started going around on the carousel—that one, the large anonymous-looking brown one, slightly battered but good quality. The person who’d bought that suitcase might not be rich, but chances were he or she could afford to vacation in the D.C. area, or to go to one of the dopey weekend conventions held here. Or maybe he or she worked for a company successful enough to send employees on business trips to pricey cities. One way or another, the person who’d bought that suitcase had probably packed things worth stealing.

  He walked up to the carousel, seized the handle, yanked it out, and strode away, pulling the suitcase behind him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two women walking toward the carousel, talking, laughing, nodding. Who knew? Maybe one of them owned the suitcase. If so, he was safe for sure, because they were too wrapped up in their conversation to notice him rolling their property away. They were casually dressed—slacks, sweaters, sensible shoes—and looked relaxed and happy. Probably not on a business trip, he decided. Tourists, then, or friends on their way to one of those dopey conventions.

  Not that it mattered—not that he cared. Already, he’d reached the door. Another three seconds, and he was outside in the soft early-May heat. Safe, he exulted. He still had to walk to the hourly parking lot, but at this point it’d be silly to worry that some security guard would come running after him and tap him on the shoulder and—

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Excuse me, sir,” the young woman said.

  His spine snapped stiff, and he wheeled around to face her. No, not a security guard, just a pale, bony girl in her late teens, wearing threadbare jeans and a wrinkled orange T-shirt, her lank, dark blond hair falling halfway to her waist. His shoulders sagged in relief. “Who are you?” he demanded.

  She shrugged. “I’m Maya. I noticed your suitcase looks really heavy, and I wondered if I could help out by pulling it to your car for you and—”

  “Yeah, right,” he cut in. “What do you think I am, some kind of idiot? I let you get your hands on my suitcase, and you’ll run off with it and steal it.”

  She looked down at the pavement. “I couldn’t do that, sir.”

  No, he realized, she probably couldn’t. She looked too weak to run anywhere. Even rolling the suitcase behind her would probably take all the strength she had. “So you’ll take it to my car and then hit me up for twenty bucks,” he said. “Is that how it goes?”

  “It wouldn’t have to be twenty.” Maya didn’t look up, but he could tell she was blushing. “Five, maybe, or even one or two. I’ve made mistakes, and now I’m trying to put some money together so I can go home. I can’t ask my mom. She’s been pretty sick, and my stepfather stole her savings before he took off.”

  He chuckled. “Sure, sure. Everybody’s got a sob story. You want that money for another fix, don’t you? Or another bottle.”

  “No, sir.” Finally, she looked up, her face bright pink now, but her eyes steady. “I swear. For a bus ticket. And maybe a sandwich.”

  That made him laugh out loud. “So now you’re hungry, too. Great story, kid. I especially like the bit about the sick mother. Take an acting class, and maybe next time you can pull it off.” He took a step closer. “Or maybe it’s all true. You know what? I don’t care. I work hard for my money, and I’m not gonna hand it out to losers whining about their tough breaks. Get a job. Another five seconds, and I call the cops and have you arrested for panhandling. Go on, now. Take off.”

  She took off. He walked the rest of the way to his car, dragging the suitcase behind him, shaking his head. Pathetic, he thought. The only way she can even try to support herself is by begging. She should come up with something better. Take me, for example. Sure, my business involves some risk. And it takes initiative, it takes creativity, it takes courage. But I do it. Day after day, I get up in the morning, I go to an airport or a mall or a Metro station, and I do it. If I see something I want, I take it. I don’t beg for it. Begging? That’d be beneath me.

  * * * *

  Delores looked up from her computer screen. “Another suitcase? Really, Eddie? That’s all you brought home today?”

  “Plus dinner.” He set the still-warm brown paper bag on the table, kissed her on the forehead, straightened up. “Chinese, I think. I’m pretty sure I smell ginger. I stopped off to pick up a six-pack, spotted this dumb broad fussing over belting her brat into a car seat. She’d left the bag sitting on the hood, never noticed when I snatched it and strolled away. So. You wanna eat first, or you wanna see what’s in the suitcase?”

  “You see what’s in the suitcase. I’ll eat.” She reached into the bag, pulled out the first white cardboard carton, peered into it, made a face. “Oh, yuck. Moo
goo gai pan. You know I hate mushrooms.”

  “So eat something else. It’s a big bag. There’s gotta be something you like in there.” He heaved the suitcase onto the sofa, unzipped it, paused in anticipation. Maybe this time, he thought. Maybe, finally, this would be the payoff. He pulled the cover back. “Here goes nothing.”

  He started pawing through it. “Clothes, mostly,” he announced, feeling the usual disappointment well up again. “Mostly nothing special.”

  Delores sniffed the carton of mongolian beef. “Men’s or women’s?”

  “Women’s. So you’ll be the one hitting consignment shops this time.” He held up a pale blue blazer. “Decent quality, but I don’t see any designer labels or—wait a minute.” He reached deeper into the suitcase, took out a silky silver-gray dress, and peered at it. “Nope. Not designer. It’s classy, though. Maybe you’d like to keep this one for yourself.”

  She glanced at it. “Too small. Anything else besides clothes?”

  “Lemme see. What’s this?” He pulled out something long, fuzzy, and purple. “A feather boa? I had a great-aunt used to wear one of these, and even back then we all snickered at her. How come someone who picked out such a classy dress also picked out a ridiculous thing like that?” He lifted something else out of the suitcase. “Or a ridiculous thing like this?”

  It was a hat, broad brimmed and high crowned, made of some stiff hot pink lacy stuff, decorated with large organza daisies and long, flowing green ribbons. He stared at it, then shrugged. “I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe she’s going to a costume party,” Delores said, and chuckled. “Poor little thing. No costume now. Anything good in there? Jewelry, electronics, prescription drugs? Anything?”

  He grabbed a small wooden box, glanced in it, tossed it aside. “Earrings and stuff, but all costume—nothing that’d interest my fence. I guess everybody knows not to pack good jewelry in checked luggage now. Toothpaste, deodorant, cosmetics, perfume. Oh—here’s something electronic. A travel alarm clock.”

  Delores snorted. “Great. We only got about twenty-eight of those. Maybe we should open up a travel alarm clock store. We already got the stock. How about shoes?”

  He picked up a shoebox and pulled out a pair of silver-and-black flats. “These look nice. Not much of a heel, but they got buckles—crystal, I think. Manolo Blahnik, the label says. You ever heard of that?”

  “Oh yeah.” Delores tossed aside her eggroll and walked over to look at the shoes. “This is good, Eddie. I’ve seen these online. Upscale but comfortable, leather lining, made in Italy—new, these things sell for hundreds, sometimes over a thousand. You’re holding half a month’s rent in your hands.”

  “Fantastic,” Eddie said. “So tomorrow you’ll take these to a consignment shop and—”

  “No. They’re size six. That’s awful small. Consignment shops might not want to take them. Even if they did, it might take them months to sell. We can’t wait that long to make rent.”

  Eddie scratched his head. “So they’re no use to us?”

  “Sure they are.” Delores grabbed the shoes, carried them back to the kitchen table, took out her cell phone, snapped a picture, turned to her computer, and started typing. “You gotta get with the program, Eddie. Technology’s a wonderful thing. Somewhere in the D.C. area, there’s a woman who wears size six shoes and owns a dress that’d go perfect with these. But consignment shops aren’t the quickest way to reach her. Leave this to me. So. Anything else that looks like it’s worth anything in that suitcase?”

  “I don’t know.” Eddie raked through the suitcase again, lifted out a large fabric bag, and peered inside—something pink and soft, a ball of yarn, a pair of knitting needles. “Looks like about three-fourths of a sweater. Looks nice. Maybe, if you finished it, we could—”

  Delores snorted again. “Me? Knit? Get serious. I got no time to waste on knitting. That goes in the garbage. What else?”

  He held up something wrapped in tissue paper. “Maybe this is a present for somebody? Let’s see.” He unwrapped it and sighed. “Nope. Just a book. Looks like an old book. A used book. There’s a name written on the inside front cover. Sorta scratchy, sorta hard to read. Dorothy Somebody.” He started flipping pages. “Not a high-quality book, either. Full of misspellings—rumour, centre, colour. Guess it was put out by some fly-by-night publisher who couldn’t afford to get it edited.”

  “Worthless.” Delores scooped up some rice. “That goes in the garbage, too. Not much of a haul, but maybe you can get a pawn shop to give you a few bucks for the suitcase. You might as well come eat. Afterward, we’ll go through everything more careful, pick out anything a consignment shop might take, stuff the rest in a trash bag so you can toss it in a dumpster. No sense hanging onto junk that’ll clutter up the place and might get us in trouble with the cops if the owner files a complaint. I still got high hopes for those shoes, though. I bet I can make them pay off. And maybe you’ll have better luck tomorrow. Maybe you should try a public library again. People get feeling too comfortable, leave their purses sitting on tables while they slobber over books. You did pretty good there last time. You should go back.”

  “Great idea, Delores.” Eddie grabbed a spoon and lit into the now-tepid carton of moo goo gai pan. “First thing tomorrow, I head for a library.”

  * * * *

  “I feel awful about the sweater, Lisa,” Sharon said. “You were so close to finishing it, and it was looking so beautiful.”

  “I should never have put it in the suitcase.” Lisa clipped the tags off the pajamas she’d bought less than an hour ago. “But I couldn’t fit everything in a carry-on, and I didn’t want to take both. Anyway, the TSA people might’ve given me a hard time about the knitting needles, and—oh, I shouldn’t have brought it at all. It’s just that I enjoy knitting during the panels, and I wanted to get it finished before my aunt’s birthday. I should’ve known better.”

  “You’re being too rough on yourself,” Sharon said. “Who could foresee something like this? I fly all the time, and I never think twice about whether the airline might lose my luggage.”

  “Or about whether someone might steal it.” Lisa sorted through the shopping bag of toiletries—toothpaste, deodorant, cosmetics, perfume. “I bet that’s what happened—I bet someone snatched it before we made it to baggage claim. That’s why I filed a police report. The officer was sympathetic, but he didn’t seem optimistic about my chances of ever seeing my stuff again. Honestly, I don’t know why airlines still bother with claim checks and luggage tags. It’s been years since I’ve seen anyone stationed at a baggage claim to make sure the checks and the tags match up.”

  “I read an article about that,” Sharon said. “Apparently, before September eleventh, lots of airports hired private security guards to police the baggage claims. After September eleventh, the TSA took over airport security, and making sure people left the airport with the right luggage wasn’t a priority. The TSA focuses on what people take onto planes. After you get off, you’re on your own.”

  Lisa sighed. “I guess that makes sense. Anyway, it helps that everyone’s being so nice. Wasn’t it sweet of Barb to spend the dinner break driving us around to stores so I could buy toiletries and so on? And I’m so glad that Diane packed an extra outfit, and that she lent it to me for the banquet. It’s adorable!”

  “It is,” Sharon agreed. “It’s too bad you won’t have a boa for the breakfast, though, or a hat for the tea.”

  “That’s okay. Most people don’t wear hats to the tea anymore, now that we’ve stopped having the contests. And it was time to retire the boa—it shed feathers every time I sneezed. I’ll get a sturdier one for next year. But I dread telling Don about the shoes. He insisted I buy them. They were a once-in-a-lifetime indulgence, for our twenty-fifth anniversary. He’ll be so sad to hear they’re gone.”

  Sharon nodded slowly. “Those shoes are so valuable. If your su
itcase was stolen, do you think the thief might fence them? Do you think the police might be able to trace them? Or wouldn’t a fence be interested in size six designer shoes?”

  “Probably not.” Lisa walked over to the laptop set up on the desk. “But maybe the thief would be tempted to try a more direct approach. It’d be risky—it’d be stupid—but he or she might try anyway. We love reading mysteries about clever criminals, but in real life, most criminals aren’t all that smart. I’ll check Craigslist.”

  Sharon glanced at her watch and stood up. “Better check it later. We should go. It’s almost seven thirty.”

  “You go. I can’t stand to go to the auction this year. I’m too sick at heart about the book.”

  “I know.” Sharon sat back down on the bed. “It’s so terrible. A first edition Murder on the Orient Express—Dorothy Sayers’s personal copy, with her name written on the inside front cover. I remember how touched you were when your mother left that to you, and I thought you were incredibly generous to donate it to the auction. I can’t imagine how devastated you must feel about losing it. Look, I don’t have to go to the auction, either. I’ll stay here and keep you company.”

  “Thanks, but you should go. Maybe there will be something you want to bid on, and it’s for a good cause. I’m going to play around on Craigslist for a while—not that I seriously expect to find anything, not that I seriously think even a thief could be stupid enough to advertise there. Then I’ll join you at the welcome reception. Quarter of nine, right?”

  “Right.” Sharon looked at her doubtfully. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure. Honestly, I’ll feel better if you go, if I can brood by myself for a while and work my way into a better mood. Then we’ll eat all the chocolate in sight at the reception, and by tomorrow morning I’ll be feeling great, ready to enjoy every minute of the conference.”

  Sharon smiled at her. “Okay. And who knows? Maybe you’ll spot your shoes on Craigslist.”

  “Maybe,” Lisa said, smiling back as Sharon left. But she didn’t feel hopeful as she turned to the computer screen. Thieves couldn’t really be foolish enough to advertise stolen goods on Craigslist, could they?