MURDER OLD AND NEW
A Better Days Mystery
By Laurie & Chet Williamson
A Gordian Knot Production
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2020 Laurie & Chet Williamson
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This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Meet the Authors
Chet Williamson has written in the field of horror, science fiction, and suspense since 1981. Among his many novels are Second Chance, Hunters, Defenders of the Faith, Ash Wednesday, Reign, and Psycho: Sanitarium, the authorized sequel to Robert Bloch’s classic Psycho. Two novels co-written with his wife, Laurie (Murder Old & New and A Step Across) will be published later this year.
Over a hundred of his short stories have appeared in such magazines as The New Yorker, Playboy, Esquire, The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, and many other magazines and anthologies. He has won the International Horror Guild Award, and has been shortlisted for the World Fantasy Award, the HWA’s Stoker Award, and the MWA’s Edgar Award. Nearly all of his works are available in eBook format at the Kindle and Nook stores.
A stage and film actor, he has recorded over 50 unabridged audiobooks, both of his own work and that of many other writers, available at www.audible.com. Follow him on Twitter (@chetwill) or at www.chetwilliamson.com.
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Truth will come to light; murder cannot be hid long…
Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice
Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend.
Agatha Christie, The Mysterious Affair at Styles
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 1
I can’t begin to tell you how disturbing it is to open an envelope in one of your father’s old books and find photos of a hanged man. Then again, I just did, didn’t I?
It was the last thing I expected. From the obvious thirties vintage of the yellow drugstore envelope, I thought maybe I’d find shots of Daddy and his chums as teenagers back in the thirties. Or maybe he and his brother Ralph hunting in the woods behind their house, holding up a poor dead rabbit and grossing out my Aunt Jane. Or even, I hoped, some shots of Mother and him on one of their first dates.
So, when I slid out of the envelope a black and white picture of a man with squinting eyes, a fat dark tongue poking through his lips, and a rope around his neck, it was as shocking as if I’d found photos of Mother in the nude.
All right, not quite that, but almost.
When the buzzer went off, I nearly shot through the ceiling, and Fudge jumped off my lap with a guttural meow of annoyance. I waited until my heart stopped pounding, stuffed the photos back in the envelope, pushed the console button, and said, “Yes, Ted?” as calmly as possible.
Maybe a little too calmly, for I heard Ted’s buttery-smooth voice say, “Livy?” as though he’d gotten the wrong number, which was impossible since we were the only two people on the intercom. “Um, I have a lady down here with some 78s you might want to look at.”
For a moment I let the never-ending thrill of the hunt wash over me. “Be right down,” I said, and clicked off. Most 78 RPM records that people brought in were just so much garbanzo beans, no better than landfill. But Ted could spot junk easily enough, and wouldn’t have buzzed me for a pile of scratchy Sinatra Columbias.
I stood up, looked at the faded yellow envelope with the creepy photo, and rubbed behind Fudge’s ears until he started purring again. There was no way I was going downstairs without looking at the other pictures, so I gritted my teeth and took out the small pile.
There were seven 3x4s and two 4x6s, enlargements of two of the smaller shots. They were all of the same man, who looked to be in his late forties or fifties. He was wearing a cloth cap, a white shirt, dark pants with suspenders, and round, wire-rimmed glasses. Two of the small shots showed his full figure, his feet on the ground, his knees bent.
The enlargements were the nastiest. One was a close-up of his face, and the other was a close-up taken from behind. I could see the deep groove the rope had made in his neck behind his ear.
They were ugly pictures. I’d seen photos of dead people before, but these were different. Personal. My father had taken them, for his name, Bradley Crowe, was on the envelope, along with another name I didn’t recognize, and the printed information about “Why We Recommend Kodak Verichrome Film…”
It was a weird and disquieting combination of the mundane and the awful, and I didn’t like it one bit. I stuffed the photos back in the envelope, gave Fudge a few more quick strokes, and headed downstairs.
As I came from the relative darkness of the storage and work area into the public area of the second floor, I saw a few browsers. I greeted the ones I knew by name and smiled at the others. Keep the customers happy.
Ted was sitting at the front work desk, talking to a woman in her seventies. She looked familiar, though I couldn’t recall seeing her in the store before. I tried to forget the hanged man and slapped a chirpy smile on my face. Ted started to say something, but the old lady beat him to the punch with a breathless string of words.
“Miss Crowe, hello! I’m Dorothy Bonner, we met at the Gates Home, I was visiting my friend Esther and you were playing those old records for the folks and I said that I had some good old ones and you told me if I was ever interested in selling them to see you and you told me about your place here?”
The rising inflection at the end made everything that had come before a question. Now I recalled her, and I deepened my grin, disregarding the lines and pouch
es that also deepened as a result. “Sure I remember,” I said, and we chatted for a few minutes about the Gates Retirement Home. Twice a week I read to the residents and do an amateur kind of music therapy. They love to listen to old records, so I bring in an old portable 78 player and play big band, ballads, crooners, anything that I think will jog some memories and get the quiet ones talking.
Finally, Mrs. Bonner showed me her records, all in their original paper sleeves. “There are only about a dozen here,” she said in a rush, “because they’re so heavy, you know, I can’t carry that many, even from the car, I’m parked right outside, you can see my car from here, see?”
The records were primo. The unscratched shellac surfaces still had a lovely black luster, a gleam that nearly equaled the rainbow beams of CDs. And the titles were great—two Okeh Bix Beiderbeckes, a Gennett Jelly Roll Morton, and four of the scarcer Victor Fats Wallers. I’d have no trouble moving them in that condition, and I made her an offer that actually quieted her down for a moment. It was the usual, forty per cent of retail on what I was pretty sure I could turn quickly, and twenty-five on what I wasn’t so sure of.
It struck Mrs. Bonner as more than fair. “I have more, you know, oh, a lot more at home, my husband, rest his soul, loved all that jazzy stuff, maybe you could come over and look at them?”
I told her I’d love to, and while Ted cut her a check we settled on a date and time.
“Would you like to have tea, maybe you could come a little early and we could have a cup of tea?”
“That would be lovely,” I said. I really didn’t have the time, but I’m helpless when it comes to seniors. I know how lonely they can be, and how little time it takes to make them happy. Besides, from a less altruistic point of view, a half hour of listening to Mrs. Bonner ramble was more than worth it to gain access to the kind of collectibles she might have.
Ted handed her the check and I walked her to the door. “Have you seen Esther lately?” I asked when I had the chance to slip in the question.
“Oh yes, I was just over this morning, she’s doing just fine.” Her round face sagged a bit. “But do you know, that nice Mrs. Shaw—Esther’s roommate?—died last night?”
I felt a sudden chilly sense of loss. “Enid Shaw?”
Mrs. Bonner nodded. “Just died in her sleep, Esther woke up in the morning, got up to go to the bathroom, talks to her on the way back, she doesn’t say a thing, now Esther’s hearing’s not all that good, but she’d hear her say hello and she doesn’t, so she looks and there she is dead. It gave Esther quite a shock, quite a shock.”
“I…can imagine,” I said, thinking that the world was a little less bright now. Enid Shaw was one of my special ladies, bright, alert, and in full control of her faculties. She also appreciated my visits and always thanked me so much that I got embarrassed.
As I closed the door behind Mrs. Bonner, I thought that today was quickly becoming a real downer. Aside from the windfall of good records, a friend died and I found pictures of a dead guy my late father had squirreled away. Still, the death of Enid Shaw shouldn’t have come as a shock. After all she was very old, and though she seemed in good health you can’t see inside someone’s heart. At least I can’t. If I could’ve, maybe I’d still be married.
What bothered me most were the photos, and I didn’t say a word to Ted as he looked at me with those puppy dog eyes, begging for a pat. I didn’t give him one, or even thank him for buzzing me. Instead I just went back upstairs, wondering as I frequently did why the hell he had an itch for an older gal like me.
He was my employee, so I knew he was thirty, but he didn’t know I was fifteen years his senior, old enough to be his mom if I’d gotten to work early. Oh well, it was nice to be worshipped, even if I had no intention of letting my acolyte come sniffing around behind my altar.
Fudge looked up when I came back into the workroom. I could see that he was considering going for my lap again, but his laziness chained him to the overstuffed, tattered chair that he shared with a stack of pulp magazines that needed to be processed. I was hoping that maybe the envelope of photos would be gone, that maybe I’d fallen asleep and dreamed it all before Ted buzzed me. No such luck. There it was waiting for me.
I didn’t look at them again. But I did continue to wonder why my dad, my sweet, big, gentle father, had these terribly ugly and not at all nice photos hidden in his 1936 first edition of Upland Hunting. My imagination started tap dancing. Were they shots he had taken of a lynching and never turned over to the police? Or were they gag shots that a bunch of bored, Depression-era kids had set up?
That I doubted. The deep groove in the man’s neck looked all too real. Maybe a suicide then? Sure, that Daddy had just happened to stumble across in the woods behind his parents’ house. And who on earth was Elmer Bingley, which was the other name on the envelope? The dead man?
Too many questions and no answers. But the biggest question of all was what should I do about it? The person who knew Daddy best was Mother, but there was no way I was going to lay these pictures on her. She’d been in the Gates home herself for only two weeks, and even though Daddy had died nearly two years earlier, every time I mentioned him lately, she got all teary eyed and weepy. Knowing that her husband had secretly kept photos of a dead guy would hardly raise her spirits.
Then it hit me. My Uncle Ralph might know something about the pictures. He and Daddy had been thick as thieves—or brothers—when they were kids. Ralph was three years younger than Daddy, and Daddy had played his big brother role to perfection. Once he even carried Ralph on his back after Ralph slipped and sprained an ankle while they were pushing over outhouses. The owner chased them, as I would have if it had been my outhouse, but they got away. Good thing too, or I might not even be here.
So, if Daddy had taken these shots when he was still living at home—and I suspected he had—Uncle Ralph ought to know about it. As luck would have it, in a few days I was heading north to an auction near Uncle Ralph’s neck of the woods. I’m not exaggerating either. Uncle Ralph and Aunt Sue are modern Daniel Boones. When they can see the smoke from a neighbor’s gas grill it’s time to move deeper into the forest. All I had to do was remember what sylvan trail led back to their current cabin.
I shoved the envelope full of horrible photos into a cubbyhole in my massive desk, then looked at the clock. Just barely time for a quick lunch before I had to go over to the Gates Home. I buzzed down to Ted and told him that I was going upstairs for a bite, then climbed the back stairs to my apartment. Fudge followed closely, hoping to lick my dish clean.
He was disappointed. No soup, only yogurt, and mint chocolate cream pie flavor left him cold. It left me nearly as empty as before I ate it. The self-denial to which we go to keep weight off is amazing, especially when there isn’t even a man in our lives. I guess I just figure I’ll look good if the right one comes along again.
Wait, cut again. If the right one comes along, period.
Again. I did it again. I proved to myself that I could. I wasn’t sure at first, but when I knew that we were alone, that I could do it and not be found out, I went ahead.
It took surprisingly little time. She just snuffed out like a candle, like she was falling into a dream. I don’t think they’ll suspect anything.
It was glorious. I felt that strong sense of purpose again, like I was delivering her, and delivering myself as well.
It’s a good feeling. Warm. Like breath.
Chapter 2
After my less than robust repast, it was over to the Gates Home, books and records and ex-public school record player clutched firmly in hand. My scheduled time in the social hall was 1:00, leaving me a half hour to poke in my head and chat with Karen and then listen to my mother cry for a while.
The Gates Retirement Home is a relatively new facility that was built with its purpose in mind, so it was cheerier and more codger-friendly than a lot of nursing homes that had originally been something else, like a mansion or a funeral home. Buchanan has one of th
ose over on Prince Street, and I always have to wonder about the new residents who walk in through the doors that they recall their parents or grandparents being carried out of. That can’t be too reassuring.
But the Gates Home is as bright and spacious and congenial as any nursing home I’ve seen—not that I’ve seen that many. I spotted Karen rounding a corner when I walked in. “Hey, skinny!” I called. We kid each other about diets even more than about men.
When she turned around, her face was solemn. Then she smiled, but not as much as usual. “Hey, fats,” she said, giving the expected response no matter which of us began the exchange, and beckoned me into her little office, where I was glad to drop the heavy phonograph and records.
Karen’s ten years younger than I am, but we get along great. I first met her when she came into the store to buy a present for her second husband. She told me all about him, and we settled on a Davy Crockett pencil box with Fess Parker on it. It still had the crayons and pencils and protractor it came with back in 1955, and Karen said later that he loved it. But maybe he didn’t love it that much, since they got divorced a year later.
“What are you playing today?” she asked.
“More Glenn Miller,” I said, and Karen nodded. Last week, old Mrs. Ogden, who never says a word and whose one emotion is irritation, actually beat a rhythm and smiled when I played “Little Brown Jug.”
“Hear the sad news?” Karen said.
I sighed and gave a little nod. “Enid. Died in her sleep?”
“Looks that way. I was just coming in when I heard Esther shouting. Two of the nurses and I got there at the same time.” There was a distance in her voice that told me she wanted to say more.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, something’s bothering you. More than Enid’s death?”
She shrugged. “No, it’s her death all right, but…I don’t know. Something seemed…funny.”
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