Edgar Allan Cozy
Page 1
EDGAR ALLAN COZY
Wicked Short Stories
Sheila Connolly
Sherry Harris
Sadie Hartwell
Edith Maxwell
Barbara Ross
Wicked Cozy Press
411A Highland Avenue, #413
Somerville, MA 02144
http://www.wickedcozyauthors.com
text composite design by Justice Riccardi
cover design by Justice Riccardi
edited by Sadie Hartwell
Edgar Allan Cozy © 2016 Wicked Cozy Press
"Raven" © 2016 Barbara Ross
"The Lighthouse" © 2016 Sherry Harris
"Found in a Bottle" © 2016 Sheila Connolly
"An Intolerable Intrusion" © 2016 Edith Maxwell
"Within These Walls" © 2016 Jane Haertel
"Anna, Belle, and Lee" © 2016 Sherry Harris
ASIN: B01AQ77TBY
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any manner, electronic or mechanical or otherwise, without the express permission of the copyright holder, except for brief quotations used in reviews.
Table of Contents
Introduction
Raven by Barbara Ross
The Lighthouse by Sherry Harris
Found in a Bottle by Sheila Connolly
An Intolerable Intrusion by Edith Maxwell
Within These Walls by Sadie Hartwell
Anna, Belle, and Lee by Sherry Harris
Introduction
In 2013, a group of intrepid writers founded the Wicked Cozy Authors blog. (www.wickedcozyauthors.com). Why Wicked? We all have mystery series set in New England, and as most people know, “Wicked!” is a New England expression indicating approbation. And Cozy, because that’s the kind of mysteries we all write—traditional mysteries that take place in small communities where the suspects, victim, and amateur sleuth are all known to one another, and where violence, sex and swearing are at a minimum.
The blog has thrived, growing steadily in readership, and so have we authors. We still all have cozy series set in New England, but we also have books set in southern Indiana, Philadelphia, even Ireland. And, in addition to cozies, we’ve published short stories, romantic suspense, and historicals.
In 2015, author Sadie Hartwell (a.k.a. Susannah Hardy, a.k.a. Jane Haertel) had an idea. Since the blog was going so swimmingly, what if we put together a book of short stories? And what if they all took place in a single Maine town, Raven Harbor, and what if each one was inspired by the work of Edgar Allan Poe?
Several of us jumped on the opportunity, and that’s how the Edgar Allan Cozy collection was born.
Poe had an unhappy relationship with New England, the region of his birth. He once said of the people, “Bostonians are well bred—as very dull persons very generally are.” In later years, he warred with the Boston poetry establishment and predicted his own work would be read long after the likes of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was forgotten.
A glance at a school or college curriculum today will tell you Poe wasn’t wrong. He is often cited as the father of two modern genres, the detective story and the horror story, and for that, we Wicked Cozies owe him big time. Boston has forgiven his insults, and erected a statue to him. It’s impossible to know if he has forgiven us New Englanders, but we revere him nonetheless.
Barbara Ross took her inspiration from “The Raven.” “We’ve all been transported by the rhythms, internal rhymes, and relentless storytelling of ‘The Raven,’” Barbara says. “But I’ve always wondered, what if the poem was moved to modern times? And what if the narrator was driven mad, not by a bird, but by the haranguing of a telemarketer? To answer these questions, I offer my updated version.”
After “Raven,” the first short story in the anthology is “The Lighthouse,” by Sherry Harris. Sherry says, “I kept sorting through Poe’s stories, looking for the right one to inspire my modern cozy, and good heavens a lot of those stories are grim! Then I came across the partially finished story of ‘The Lighthouse,’ which is a diary with only three entries. It in itself is a mystery. Why isn’t it finished? Or is it finished? No one really knows and I liked that. In my story a relative tries to find out what happened to her missing great-great-great-grandfather using his diary entries. But she has problems of her own.”
The next story is “Found in a Bottle,” by Sheila Connolly. Sheila says, “While I had read most of Poe’s short stories years ago, I wanted to find something I wasn’t familiar with, and discovered the 1833 story ‘MS. Found in a Bottle.’ The narrator is a sailor who encounters some rather extreme circumstances during a voyage on a cargo ship at sea. Or does he? Some early readers have asked if Poe meant this as a satire, or a parody of some contemporary sea stories—although they never quite agreed on which author Poe was poking fun at. Still, the editor who published the story called it ‘distinguished by a wild, vigorous and poetical imagination.’ I thought it might be interesting to see what would happen if I recast the story with the sailor telling his story to a modern audience, and whether he would be believed under different conditions.”
Next up, Edith Maxwell brings us “An Intolerable Intrusion.” “At a young age I was haunted—haunted, I tell you!—by ‘The Tell-Tale Heart,’” Edith says. “And by young I mean nine or ten. When the light went out in my room at night, I knew I could hear that heart beating under the floor. I didn't know anything about sanity or insanity. I didn't know what a rheumy eye was. But I could feel that story. I'm not sure my mother was entirely sane letting her third daughter read Poe and the tales of Sherlock Holmes in the fourth grade. Read them I did, though, over and over, and that reading started me on the path to where I have ended up: writing mystery, heart-stopping suspense, and even a bit of horror now and then. I tried to craft ‘An Intolerable Intrusion’ after the manner of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’—only with a modern twist.”
Sadie Hartwell weighs in next with “Within These Walls.” Sadie says, “My story about a Shriner clown's wife who inherits a brooding mansion set high on a bluff in Raven Harbor, Maine, is based on Poe's ‘Cask of Amontillado.’ While I love all the Poe stories and poems, this is the one that sticks with me. Our narrator gets his friend Fortunato drunk on amontillado, a rare wine, then proceeds to wall him up—alive!—in his ancient house. I'm not in the least claustrophobic, but whenever I think of poor Fortunato dying, alone and desperate, in his dank, dark, sealed-up prison, I feel a little short of breath. A little palpitate-y. And it's always driven me a bit mad that we never find out exactly what Fortunato did to his frenemy Montresor that motivated Montresor to get his revenge in this dreadful way. We'll never know. But not to worry. I gave the characters in my tribute story some specific motivations, so you won't have to spend a lot of years wondering.”
The capstone to the collection is another poem, “Anna, Belle and Lee,” also by Sherry Harris. Sherry says, “A strange thing happened on the way to picking a Poe story for the anthology—I stopped to read the poem ‘Annabel Lee’ because I hadn’t read it in years. And as soon as I finished reading it the story of Anna, Belle, and Lee popped into my head. It was one of those glorious moments in writing when something really flows.” You can see the results on our final pages.
We hope you enjoy the rhymes and stories in Edgar Allan Cozy.
Raven
by Barbara Ross
with deepest admiration for Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a weeknight dreary, while I watched, alone and bleary
Leonard on the “Big Bang Theory,” courting Penny from next door,
Suddenly I felt a tingle, then my nether regions jingled.
A cell phone call? I’d let it ringle, echoing across the floor.
“It’s som
eone selling knives,” I muttered. “Or surveying. Or a nutter.
Only this and nothing more.”
But then I thought that I should mingle. Because I was completely single.
Hadn’t hung back out my shingle, since I’d lost the great Lenore.
She had said I was a sad sack. And she wanted her CDs back.
She threw her things into a backpack, then she headed out the door.
I pleaded, begged and I implored, “Please come back my sweet Lenore.”
“Don’t call,” she said, “forever more.”
So when again I felt vibrating, I picked up without debating
Waiting with my breath abating, though I should have pressed Ignore.
“Hello,” she said in tones most dulcet. “My name is Raven. Raven Russett.
I’m here to sell you fun and that’s it. Fun and sun that you’ll adore.
Fun, sun and mo-ji-tos galore.
Only this and nothing more.”
I know I should have disconnected, before my brain became infected,
But there I was alone, dejected, so I said, “Please tell me more.”
“I want to sell you time,” said Raven. “Time to get all you’ve been cravin’.
Swimming, tanning, misbehavin’. Tie one on and go out ravin’.
Time to fall in love once more.
Only this and nothing more.”
Now I knew she was a scammer, and a flimmer and a flammer.
She cut me to the quick, God damn her, when she mentioned love once more.
“There’s one thing,” I said, “I’m sure of. Time’s the thing you can’t buy more of.
Even rich men have no cure of death when he comes through the door.
What you’re selling is manure.
We get our time and nothing more.”
“No, no,” she said, “You have misheard me. Not time like that. Don’t be absurd. Puhleese
I don’t sell seconds, minutes, hours. I sell beaches, bars and flowers,
Sunny days and carefree hours, at our timeshare, Elsinore.
You live in a cold and dark land. I’m offering you a sunny park land.
Don’t you think you’re due a lark, man, from months of being stuck indoors?
Time off from your cares and chores
At our timeshare, Elsinore.”
Suddenly I heard a clacking, on my cell phone, tap, tap, tapping.
“What’s that?” I asked. “Is someone rapping, rapping at your chamber door?”
“No, no,” sweet Raven reassured me. “For quality, they must record me.
They listen in, so they can score me, and be absolutely sure
I speak the truth and nothing more
When I speak of Elsinore.”
And then as if a mighty dam broke, in a voice more like a frog’s croak
I told the tale of how my heart broke, stomped on by my sweet Lenore.
All the pent-up feelings poured out. I felt as if my heart was torn out.
When I finished, I was worn out, from talking of the lost Lenore
“Raven, dear, I need a respite, from the ceaseless, grueling, desperate
yearning for my love, Lenore.
Will I find that at Elsinore?”
She giggled, a sound so appealing, it sent my very senses reeling.
My heart swelled with long buried feelings, ones that I had felt before.
“At Elsinore you’ll shed your long johns, grease yourself and put a thong on,
Honestly, what can go wrong, mon? You’ll keep coming back for more.
You’ll be buying dry martinis for all the hotties in bikinis,
You’ll get all the time you’re needing
To forget that bitch, Lenore.
“Tonight,” said Raven, “I can proffer a most exclusive, one-time offer.
No need to dip into your coffers, for your week at Elsinore.
You can buy a week then trade it. Go somewhere else, or change your dates. It’s—subject to availability, comparable value, blackout dates and other applicable conditions—crazy just how truly great its value is. You won’t get more.
Just say the word, next week is yours
At sunny, happy Elsinore.”
I listened to dear Raven’s tones, and felt great joy deep in my bones,
Yet, I couldn’t bring it home. I still needed one thing more.
“Raven, dear, I’ll come tomorrow. Even if I have to borrow,
I’m convinced I’ll lose my sorrow, and forget about Lenore.
But there’s one thing more that I must know, dear, before I leave the ice and snow here
When I arrive, will I find you there?
Do you live in Elsinore?”
“I am here,” Raven proclaimed. “Come find me when you’re off the plane.
I’ll be on the little lane that leads up to Elsinore.
Now, have your questions been addressed? It’s time to get you all processed.
You can charge to your Amex. Or Visa or Mastercard,
Ten easy payments, it’s not hard. Can I write you up now, pard?
To buy next week at Elsinore.”
And so, dear reader, I went and did it, though you must think me a total idjit
Or some kind of mental midget, because I bought it all and more.
Then, before my ardor ebbed, I went searching through the Web
To find the best of all the fares, to take me on an airplane there.
Orbitz, Hotwire and Kayak. “Please,” I begged, “Get me there and back.
To find love in Elsinore.”
As soon as I jumped off the airplane, I went running to that lane.
She wasn’t there! I searched in vain—the beach, the golf course and the shore.
I asked all whom I could find, “Please, please, please would you be so kind.
Tell me before I lose my mind, where Raven lives in Elsinore?”
They said to me, “You are mistaken. There’s no one here by name of Raven.
There’s other fun you can partake in. Goof off, party, go explore.
You’ll have great fun at Elsinore.”
I searched and searched and searched and searched, for the place where Raven perched
Until at last, alone, I lurched, back to a timeshare I abhorred.
I knew then that I was defeated, and for certain, I’d been cheated,
The trouble with Lenore, repeated, here in shabby Elsinore.
I fell into an awful funk. Every night I got blind drunk,
until at last toward home I slunk, frustrated to my very core.
God, I hated Elsinore.
I know of course that I was taken, by the lovely tones of Raven,
But nonetheless, I keep on waitin’, for my phone to ring once more.
And every time it starts vibrating, I grab it, desperate, hoping, waiting
To speak to Raven, though I’m sure
I’ll hear from Raven, nevermore.
Barbara Ross is the author of the Maine Clambake Mysteries, Clammed Up, Boiled Over, Musseled Out and Fogged Inn. Clammed Up was nominated for an Agatha Award for Best Contemporary Novel and was a finalist for the Maine Literary Award for Crime Fiction.
Barbara blogs with a wonderful group of Maine mystery authors at Maine Crime Writers and with a group of writers of New England-based cozy mysteries at Wicked Cozy Authors.
Barbara and her husband own the former Seafarer Inn at the head of the harbor in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. When they aren’t in Boothbay, she and her husband live in Somerville, MA. www.maineclambakemysteries.com/
The Lighthouse
by Sherry Harris
I only had four more days to solve the mystery of my great-great-great-grandfather Barnabas’s disappearance over a century ago. And all I had to go on was three pages from his diary and a belief that the good people of Raven Harbor would share their secrets with me. But I’d been here three days and so far no one was talking. I drove across the causeway that linked the spit of rock the ligh
thouse stood on to the mainland of Maine.
The reality of staying in a lighthouse wasn’t as nice as what I’d envisioned. It creaked and moved in the wind which made it kind of creepy. There weren't any clues to be found even though I’d nosed around the place. I might have given up if it hadn’t been for that troll on Twitter who had called me out. He said if I was so great why couldn’t I solve the mystery of Barnabas’s disappearance? I should have shaken it off but he touched my deepest fears, that even though I’d sold millions of books in my long running Tell-Tale Heart romantic mystery series, I was a fake and a fraud. Besides, solving the family mystery had appealed to me since I first read the diary when I was twelve.
I thought over Barnabas’s diary for the gazillionth time. Had I missed a clue? The first day Barnabas had arrived he talked about being alone with his dog Neptune and his fear of something going wrong. Day Two he was very happy with his solitude. “My passion for solitude could scarcely have been more thoroughly gratified,” he’d written. Day three he explored the lighthouse.
I pulled up to the small brick library to search their antiquated system once again for old newspapers, looking for anything that would point me in the right direction. I waved at Robin Nevermore, the one and only employee. I knew her name because of a nameplate on the front counter, not because she’d actually spoken to me. She wore a bright orange shirt, with a brown cardigan and skirt. Robin pointed to one of the three tables that made up the research section of library. This was progress, as up to now she’d only made eye contact when forced. A stack of old newspapers and microfiche sat on top of one of the tables. I quickly looked through what Robin had laid out for me. Interesting. These newspapers and microfiche had been missing when I’d searched for them earlier. I glanced over at Robin but she had her back to me so I settled in to read.