AHMM, May 2012

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Shanks scowled. “Why didn't he wipe the rare books? Because they were already hidden and he wanted to get back to the dinner party before someone came looking for Rosetti.”

  He opened his eyes and saw Steinbock staring at him with interest. “Is that how you write? Seeing the scene the way it happened?”

  “On good days. Sometimes I just pile words together like bricks and hope nothing falls off.”

  Steinbock looked thoughtful. “Okay. Now tell me whose fingerprints were on the stolen books.”

  Shanks sipped coffee. “Mrs. Preese, of course, because she brought them. Rosetti, because he accepted them from her. I have no idea who else.”

  That seemed to please the lieutenant. Maybe he was afraid I was using magical powers, Shanks thought.

  “Calvin Floyd and Richard Upton.”

  “The library director and the head of the English Department. So they, along with Mrs. Preese, are your suspects.”

  “The major suspects, yes.” Steinbock smiled. “And I can tell you that my best interrogators are sitting down separately with each of them right now. We'll go over their stories until we find out what actually happened. This is how crimes are really solved, Mr. Longshanks. Not hunches. Not intuition. Just solid, one-step-at-a-time police work. You wouldn't— What are you staring at?”

  “Sorry. I was just waiting for a chance to tell you that Velma Preese is the killer.”

  Steinbock threw his notebook down on the table. “You can't possibly know that. How can you even claim to know that?”

  “Process of elimination. It wasn't Floyd because he was the library director.”

  The lieutenant scowled. “And they never commit murder?”

  “They might, from time to time. But they have keys to their own buildings. Why risk drawing Rosetti's attention by stealing his keys?”

  “Maybe so he wouldn't be the obvious suspect.”

  “All he would have had to do was leave the door unlocked when he left. Everyone would assume Rosetti had failed to lock the door. I saw Rosetti turn the key, but I couldn't swear he did it correctly. That would have even given Floyd a reason to fire him, which he would have loved.”

  Steinbock thought that one over for the length of a sip of coffee. “Okay. What about the department head?”

  “Upton's barely five feet tall. Why would he hide the books on the top shelf? Even using a kickstand or a chair he couldn't have been sure he'd gotten the books out of the sight of a taller person. Not to mention the difficulty he would have had getting them out later.”

  “But the Preese woman was donating the books. Why steal them?”

  “Now how could I know that? On the other hand—”

  Steinbock sighed.

  “The books were really a gift from her late husband, not her. Maybe she didn't know what they were worth, until Rosetti started talking about them that day. Then she had a couple of glasses of wine before the dinner party and started thinking it was more than the college deserved.”

  “Huh,” said the cop.

  “It seemed like a spur-of-the-moment crime, didn't it?”

  The cop opened his phone and hit speed dial. “Zeman? It's me. Who's interrogating the Preese woman? Good. Tell ‘em to ask her about her financials, and how much the books were worth. Yeah, she's probably it. Get back to me.”

  He shut the phone. “Damn it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Preese is another guest of the college. President Warren's going to have my head on a platter.”

  Shanks shook his head. “Warren's a complete professional. Once she sees how the wind is blowing she'll talk about the late Mr. Preese and forget his widow exists. But warn her before commencement, if you can. That way she'll owe you one.”

  “Good idea. Uh . . . I guess ought to thank you again.”

  He hadn't thanked Shanks once, but who was counting? “Think nothing of it.”

  Steinbock pushed his coffee cup around the table. “This will probably end with a press conference.”

  “I'd be grateful if you kept my name out of it.”

  “Really?” The cop was astonished. “I thought writers loved publicity.”

  “Oh, we do. If you want to tell the press that my latest book is an unforgettable page-turner, I'm all for it. But a mystery writer helping to solve a crime?” He shook his head. “That's a parlor trick. A talking dog. It would be like you becoming famous for writing novels.”

  “Uff,” said Steinbock. He changed color so dramatically that Shanks thought he might be choking. The man was actually blushing.

  And then he understood it all. The hostility. The sneers.

  “Lieutenant,” he said, “are you by any chance a writer?”

  “Trying to be.” Steinbock suddenly found his coffee cup fascinating. “Halfway through a novel. Been halfway for almost a year.”

  “I know that feeling. Is it a mystery?”

  “God, no. No offense, Mr. Longshanks, but that stuff is junk.”

  Shanks sighed. “Too bad you never met Dr. Rosetti. You two would have really hit it off.”

  “Since you asked,” Steinbock said in a rush, “my book is about a teenage boy who was supposed to be the first in his family to go to college, but his father gets injured in a car accident and there's this girl—”

  Shanks, who hadn't asked, nodded. “A coming-of-age novel.”

  The cop looked sick. “You mean there are so many books like mine that they have a name for it?”

  “There's always room for another good one.”

  “Can you tell me the names of some of the good ones?”

  “Hand me your notebook.”

  * * * *

  “They released you,” said Cora. She was applying makeup. “I was ready to start calling bail bondsmen.”

  “There isn't a jail in this town that can hold me. That's a lovely dress.” He went out on a limb. “Is it new?”

  “It is.” She spun around to show off the light blue print. “I bought it to celebrate your commencement speech. And because I didn't have anything appropriate for sitting around outside on a hot June day. You have to wear a long black dress the whole time.”

  Shanks frowned. “I'd forgotten about the academic gown. And a mortarboard, plus the hood for the honorary degree. I'll melt.”

  “That's the price of fame, I guess. What did the fuzz want?”

  “Oh. Turns out Steinbock is a would-be novelist. He asked for some advice.”

  “I hope he didn't want you to read his manuscript.”

  Shanks shook his head. “He didn't think it was my style. When is the car supposed to pick us up for the president's breakfast?”

  “In about ten minutes. That reminds me. Janice Warren called. She asked if you could work a mention of Dr. Rosetti into your speech.”

  “Please tell me you said no.”

  “I said you would be glad to.”

  “That's going to change the whole tone of the thing.” He slumped into a chair. “Besides, it means I'll have to say something nice about the man. How can I do that?

  “No problem, darling.” She kissed him on his bald spot. “You write fiction for a living.”

  Copyright © 2012 Robert Lopresti

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  * * *

  Fiction: LEWIS AND CLARK

  by John M. Floyd

  “Let's face it,” Freddie said. “We're lost.”

  Lewis Tucker took off his baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his face. “We can't be lost. We're Boy Scouts.”

  “We're Boy Scouts who don't know where we are. That makes us lost.”

  Lewis couldn't think of an argument to that. “Maybe I should use my microphone.”

  Freddie Clark stopped and looked at him. “Your what?”

  “My microphone. I'm a squad leader, Clark—I need to be heard. Mr. McKay said I'm not loud enough.”

  “I guess he's never heard you belch. Besides, we're not squad leaders anymore.”

  Lewis swallow
ed. Freddie was right. Since the little stunt they'd pulled last month they were officially suspended from the troop. A baggie full of fire ants in the scoutmaster's sleeping bag hadn't been nearly as funny to the scoutmaster as it had been to the rest of the boys.

  “And I think it's called a megaphone,” added Freddie, who always enjoyed correcting—or otherwise irritating—his best friend. But even he looked a little more grim than he had a moment ago. Both of them knew they'd screwed up on a grand scale, and the worst wasn't over. The decision to get rid of them or reinstate them would be made next week.

  Besides all that, they were lost.

  “Mega, micro, whatever,” Lewis said. He put his cap back on and pulled a small, battery-powered loudspeaker from his pocket. “Here goes nothing—”

  “Don't. I mean it. You might attract the wrong people.”

  “Who are the wrong people?”

  “The bank robbers, that's who. Don't you watch the news?”

  “I watch the news. I heard they went south, toward Summit.”

  Freddie raised his head and stared up into the trees. “Would you go south, with all these woods to the east?”

  Lewis blinked. “You mean . . . you think they're around here?"

  “I don't know where they are, Tucker, but if they are here, I'd rather they not know we're here.” After a moment's study, Freddie pointed to a tall pine several yards away, at the edge of a clearing. “I'm going to climb that tree and look around.” He unshouldered and unzipped his pack and rummaged around inside it. “You go find us some firewood.”

  “Firewood?”

  “Even if I see a way out of here, it'll be dark soon. We should make camp.”

  “All night?” Lewis looked around him, as if for the first time. “Our folks will come looking for us.” Maybe that actually wouldn't be such a bad thing, he thought.

  “No they won't. They'll think we're staying the night with Uncle Ned, over on Bee Mountain.”

  “But your uncle doesn't even have a phone.”

  “Exactly.” Freddie took out a heavy pair of binoculars and ducked his head through the strap.

  “You're going to climb a tree with that around your neck?”

  “I may see something I need to see closer. And don't look so worried—I didn't steal them, I borrowed them. They're my cousin's.” Freddie walked to the tree, dropped his open pack beside it, slapped the trunk as if it were a fine new horse, and grinned. “Don't get even more lost while I'm gone.”

  As Freddie Clark started up the tree, climbing the first ten feet like a bear with his arms and legs gripping the sides, Lewis began gathering sticks and limbs. Freddie was right, Lewis realized. The clearing would be a good campsite: high ground, good drainage, no poison ivy. But he wished it had been his idea.

  He also wished they'd brought a cell phone along. His parents couldn't afford one for him, and Freddie's parents had taken his away as punishment after their ill-fated prank. Lewis couldn't help wishing they had borrowed a phone from someone rather than a stupid pair of binoculars. Two teenagers in the twenty-first century without a cell phone? They should be be in Ripley's Believe It or Not!

  After five minutes or so he dumped his collected firewood and dug a book of matches from his pocket. He had brushed an area clear of pine straw and squatted down to stack kindling when he noticed something red in the bushes nearby. He squinted at it, then rose and went over to investigate.

  It was a bandanna. Wrapped inside it he found a handful of blackberries, and underneath it some food and a canvas bag that said, in big blue letters—Lewis's mouth went dry—first citizens bank.

  “What you looking at, boy?” cracked a voice behind him.

  Lewis almost fainted. When he turned he saw two men in denim jackets, one wearing a cowboy hat and the other a mane of long red hair. The cowboy was carrying a rifle and an armload of wood.

  The redhead's cold gaze shifted from Lewis's face to the bank bag, then back again.

  “Watch him,” Red said. He took out an ugly black pistol and vanished into the forest. Moments later he returned. “Okay. Looks like he's alone.”

  “What do we do with him?”

  “Good question.” The redhaired man plucked the baseball cap from Lewis's head and poured the blackberries from the bandanna into it. “Over there, you,” he said, pointing. “Sit against that tree.”

  Trembling, Lewis staggered over to Freddie Clark's pine tree and sat with his back pressed against the trunk. He watched Red rip the bandanna into long strips, which were then used to bind Lewis's wrists together, then his ankles. Neither outlaw seemed to notice the extra backpack three feet away.

  “We'll deal with you in the morning,” Red growled. He rose to his feet, picked up the cap with the berries inside, stomped over to the clearing, and sat down. The cowboy was already building a fire.

  Lewis's mind was churning. What must Freddie be thinking right now? Would they see him, if they looked up? Probably not; the higher branches were thick, and Freddie had on gray coveralls. Besides, it was almost dark now. The question was, how long could he stay up there, and stay quiet?

  The evening wore on. The two partners roasted hotdogs for their supper. Neither offered any food to Lewis. Afterward, the cowboy soon fell sleep, but Red sat and stared at Lewis in the moonlight.

  As long as the redhead was awake, Lewis knew, Freddie had to stay put. Even if both the robbers went to sleep, his chances of getting down undetected were slim. The woods were eerily quiet, and scrambling down the pine's trunk would be noisy.

  What if Red stayed awake all night?

  The big question was, what would the robbers do to Lewis, whether Freddie stayed in his perch or not? And these two were reported to be heading south, so that's where the search would be focused. The cops were looking in the wrong place. And the thieves wouldn't want anyone around who could pass their true location along to their pursuers.

  But would they kill him, or just leave him tied? Then Lewis remembered the look in Red's eyes. It sent chills up his back. Being lost suddenly didn't seem frightening at all.

  Somehow, he had to get free.

  What they needed was a diversion. Something to distract the redhaired outlaw just long enough for Freddie to get down and untie Lewis's hands and feet. Either that, or they had to mount some kind of offensive. But how could that work, when they had no weapons?

  Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and sent a silent message to his friend. What can we do?

  The answer came from the sky, when Red turned for an instant to look into the dying fire, and it came in the form of a pine cone with a note rubberbanded around it. It dropped softly into Lewis's lap.

  The note, when he fumbled it open with his bound hands, said, in Freddie's rough printing: call him over.

  Lewis understood. How many times had he and Freddie sat together in front of the Clarks's TV and watched a western hero leap from a tree onto an unsuspecting bandit? The trouble was, Freddie was thirteen years old and barely weighed a hundred pounds, and this was real life.

  But what else was there to try? If Freddie cramped up or slipped or just got tired and fell, where would they be then?

  Lewis tucked the note underneath his leg and murmured a prayer. The dumb and unfortunate trick they'd played on their scoutmaster had given him an idea. When he raised his eyes, the redhead was watching him again. Now or never, Lewis decided.

  “Hey, mister,” he hissed. Whatever he did, he didn't want to wake the other one. “Come here, quick.”

  Red's eyes narrowed, but after a pause he rose and approached the tree. “What is it?”

  “Fire ants.” Lewis nodded toward the ground beside him. “They're everywhere.”

  Scowling, Red leaned over and looked.

  NOW, Lewis thought.

  But nothing happened. No teenaged rescuers leaped from the sky.

  Red stayed still a moment, then stood, staring down at the hogtied boy. “I don't see no ants. What're you trying to pull?”

  Lewis's
mind went blank. Then, without thinking, he flicked his eyes up past the man's looming figure, up into the tree above them. It was only a quick glance—

  But Red saw it. Lewis watched in horror as the outlaw tensed, drew his pistol, and snapped his head back to look up.

  The five-pound pair of binoculars landed in the exact center of Red's forehead, with a sound like someone kicking a brick wall. His body went limp; he sank to his knees and toppled forward, out cold.

  Lewis gaped at him. Somewhere far above, Lewis heard the sound of boot leather and cloth scraping against bark—and then Freddie Clark was there beside him, a Swiss Army knife open and cutting him free.

  For a moment the boys lay still in the pine straw. Both were breathing hard. The only other sound was a soft snoring from the direction of the fading campfire. Lewis's right hand brushed something. Red's fallen pistol. Lewis picked it up.

  “We did it,” Freddie whispered. “Let's get outta here.” Together, they stood and backed away.

  But it was not to be. Freddie's second step snagged the strap of the open backpack, and he tripped. The pans and utensils in his mess kit spilled out, making a sound that would've raised the dead.

  It certainly raised the cowboy. He grunted and staggered to his feet, rifle in hand, as the boys flattened themselves on the ground.

  Only one thing saved them: The moon picked that instant to go behind a cloud. The entire scene, so bright seconds earlier, was plunged into darkness except for a few tiny embers of firelight.

  Lewis's limbs were rigid with fear. His breath rasped in his throat; his heart pounded. The moon would come out again in a moment. They were done for now. He could hear the newscaster's voice in his head: “Two discredited Scouts were found murdered today in the hills of Polk County . . .”

  “Lester?” the cowboy said. “What's goin’ on? Where are you?”

  Silence. The night was pitch black.

  “Lester!”

  And then a metallic voice blared, “DROP YOUR WEAPON. HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN.”

  “Who's there?” the outlaw yelled.

  “DROP IT, I SAID.”

  A long pause. Then: “You can't shoot me! You can't see me!”

  “EVER HEAR OF INFRARED GLASSES?” Two pistol shots rang out. “I SAID HOLD YOUR FIRE, MEN!”