But still Artemis Fowl (the Second) wants him dead. Maybe it’s being stuck next to a “fabulously flatulent dwarf” or threatened with a “blue rinse” in the first Fowl book, when he should clearly have had only a cut-and-perm. Or the many other insults from fairies and centaurs, trolls, goblins and lawyers...
The real reason is much more prosaic—Artemis, doomed to be a thirteen-year-old criminal genius mastermind, pines for a different life. He has always dreamed of being a certified public accountant, carefully filling out Form 13. B. Slash. 179 and filing the same each year before the deadline. After forty years, putting away four percent of his salary at a compound interest of three point one five percent, dividends reinvested, he hoped to retire to a seaside cottage, where he would cultivate vegetable marrows and—if he ever got through puberty—grow a handlebar mustache and read books about his favorite Christie character, Miss Marple.
Eoin has kept him from his dreams, flatulently so! Is it any wonder Artemis might want to retire his creator from living?
SIMON WOOD
If you’ve met Simon Wood, murder has crossed your mind. I’ll tell you there was a lottery among his characters over who (whom?) would be allowed the chance to kill him. It raised more than three hundred grand, which will go to support education in Simon’s native England—mainly teaching them that “football” is really called “soccer”.
The winner was Aidy Westlake, coincidentally one of the few characters Wood created who would not automatically be on a terrorist watch list. Simon writes what he knows, so most of his characters are serial killers, cannibals, politicians or all three...except for Aidy, a rookie race car driver.
Aidy was pretty peeved when he realized his name was “Aidy.” What the heck kind of name is Aidy? “Aiden,” his real name, would have gotten him beaten up in school, but at least the bullies would have then forgotten him.
With “Aidy,” they stopped when their knuckles were bruised, then paused to ask “What kind of name is Aidy?” and then resumed their beating, their knuckles having recovered in that time...
It’s good Johnny Cash didn’t record “A Boy Named Aidy.” Wood had no such compunction, although thankfully he didn’t insist on singing on the CD of this book. Other than the name, Wood did an acceptable job with Aidy, giving him a kick-backside job as a race driver and a promising romance. Most characters wouldn’t think of killing their creators for the small embarrassment of “Aidy.” But Wood’s characters, as I noted, aren’t what you’d call normal.
That’s the list—wait, that’s five suspects, and I said six, didn’t I? Oh yes, the Fan Guest of Honor, Al Abramson. Easy to forget the Fan Guest of Honor, since she or he’s usually just the first person to bribe the chair with five bucks or a free drink—or both in the Long Beach example.
AL ABRAMSON
That’s the challenge here—Abramson isn’t an author. If he did create a character, it would be one remarkably like himself. Six-foot-one, six-pack abs, flaxen locks flowing gradually—while still attached—to his shoulders like some Viking warrior of old. A face to make Brad Pitt spit with envy, and a physique to make Ah-nold spit on Brad Pitt with envy.
When he’s not making millions each day with his business acumen, he’s traveling with Hunky Doctors Without Boundary Issues or bringing peace to the Middle East after he succeeds there he hopes to bring some peace to the U.S. Congress, although that will be a much more difficult task.
Abramson, if I say so myself, rocks. And so must his character—so why would a character based on such a paragon want to kill such a creator? I can’t think of a reason, which of course might make it likely that he’s the killer...you crime fiction readers really do look for the worst in people, don’t you?
IN CONCLUSION
So the real killer must be revealed. Write down your guess, and pass it, along with your bank account number and your password, to Edward Marston in the left aisle.
OPTION 1: Have you all done it? Fine, I’ll tell you the name of the killer—but first I have to grab some dinner. I’m starved.
Gosh, Holsten’s is mobbed. I don’t see an open table. And who the heck put that Journey crap on the jukebox? Hey, there’s Tony and his family. “Tony, do you mind if I join you?”
What a jerk—would it kill him to let me sit down?
OPTION 2: Have you all done it? Fine, I’ll tell you that the killer is [continued on page 433]
Or go with your suggested language in your email. Your choice!
Back to TOC
Honeymoon Sweet
Craig Faustus Buck
For a sweet house, right on Santa Monica Beach, it was unbelievably easy to break into. Mickey found a window he could open with a putty knife, so the double-locked doors were a joke. And Lana disabled the alarm within the forty-five-second grace period before it would have triggered. They were in and no one knew. What a great way to kick off the honeymoon.
Mickey couldn’t imagine anything else they could have hijacked to bring them any closer to heaven: salt air, pounding surf, white sand, five-million dollar love nest whose owner was en route to Europe. Lana had told him she’d always dreamed of a house on the beach and he’d delivered.
She strolled out of the alarm closet, clapping her hands to beat off the dust. Mickey’s heart soared at his good fortune to have married her. He loved the sway of her hips, the trill of her laugh, the smell of her skin, how her jet black bangs set off her turquoise eyes, the way she knew how to do things: clean a squid or repair a zipper or break down a Beretta. He’d known he wanted to marry her by their second date though he’d needed two months to muster the courage to ask.
He wrapped his arms around her and ran his tongue between her lips. She toyed with it for a moment, then yanked off his shirt. He pulled her sweater over her head. She slid her hand over his fly. He was already hard.
She stroked him through his pants as she backed him across the great room toward the wall of windows overlooking the moonlit Pacific. They knocked over a glass-shaded lamp but neither reacted when it shattered on the floor. She slammed him down on the couch and went straight for his belt buckle. He wrestled with her jeans. The heat was intense.
Their clothes were barely off but he could already feel her tremble. This was record time for her, which only excited him more. Her tremors were intensifying and he was along for the wild ride.
Then she froze.
Had he done something wrong? “What?” he said.
She put her finger to his lips, then whispered, “Didn’t you hear that?”
He had not.
But then he did. Almost lost in the ocean’s roar: scritch scratch. Like a mouse clawing at the inside of a wall. Someone was having trouble getting a key into one of the front-door locks.
They scrambled to pull on their clothes.
“I thought you said this place was going to be empty,” said Lana.
“That’s what Wally told me.”
“Wally One-nut? You trusted that inbred idiot?”
Mickey knew he should have double-checked Wally’s information. The guy was famous for blunders. But the deserted beach house had seemed so perfect that Mickey let romance cloud his judgment. Now, because of Wally’s bad data, Mickey felt like a nitwit, a feeling he was getting to know all too well. That’s what happens when you fall for a chick who’s smarter than you. But did it have to happen on the first night of their honeymoon?
Scritch scratch.
Mickey crossed to the wall by the door, to be behind it when it opened. Lana rushed into the kitchen area, grabbed a chef’s knife from the block and dropped out of sight behind the island.
The scritch scratch finally clacked as the key turned and shot the deadbolt.
As Mickey listened to the sound of the key moving to the second lock, the one in the door-handle that probably cost as much as his car, he felt the familiar rush of danger. That exhilaration was one of the main attractions of his line of work. He glanced toward the kitchen end of the great room and wished he could
see Lana to share the anticipation. At least he knew she was there for him, knife in hand, ready to spring. My wife has my back. It had a nice ring to it.
The oversized door swung open, ramping up the sound of the crashing waves. A man stood framed in the doorway, stock still, as if sensing something wrong.
Behind the door, Mickey held his breath and peered through the spyhole. The fisheye gave him a funhouse-mirror view of the profile of the man. He was wearing a tuxedo and seemed off-balance as he turned to grab the huge stainless door handle. He now faced the spyhole and Mickey could see that he wore no tie or cummerbund. The waistband of his pants hung open, apparently to relieve the pressure of his slight pot belly.
The man headed back outside. He knows we’re here, thought Mickey, he’s going for help. Mickey was about to run after him when he heard the man throw up on the pavement in front. Mickey relaxed, flexing his hands to relieve his tension without making any noise.
The man stumbled back into the house and did a face-plant on the seagrass carpet. He lay on the floor like a sandbag, bathed in the blue moonlight reflecting off the ocean.
Mickey closed the door. Lana slowly approached the man and knelt to feel for a pulse.
“He’s still breathing,” she said.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Mickey.
“Give me a second.”
She searched the man’s pockets. He had a wallet, some keys, some breath mints and something that stopped her cold.
“Hello,” she said and held up a glassine envelope filled with white powder.
“What is it?” he said.
Lana squeezed the sides of the envelope to pop it open. Dipping her little finger inside, she scooped a bit of the powder under her nail and touched it to her tongue. Her face scrunched up from the taste.
“Bitter,” she said. “Not numbing like coke. I’m guessing smack.”
She closed the packet, then grabbed a Kleenex from a nearby dispenser and wiped the glassine clean.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Hedging our bets.”
Mickey had no idea what she was planning, but this honeymoon was clearly taking a sharp turn in a new direction.
Holding the envelope by its edges, she pressed the unconscious man’s fingers onto the glassine. Then she wrapped the packet in the tissue and set it aside. Mickey was pleased that she hadn’t pocketed the dope. He didn’t think she did hard drugs but this was the first time he’d seen her face the temptation.
She returned to her search. Mickey felt his anxiety building.
“It’s time to go,” he said. “If he comes around while we’re here, we’re talking felonies.”
“Hang tight. This guy could be our ticket.”
“You don’t want to do hard time. Look what State prison did to your mother. You want to end up like her?”
Lana looked up empathetically. Mickey had met her mother soon after they’d gotten engaged. They’d picked the woman up at her halfway house and taken her to Denny’s. When Lana went to the ladies’ room, her mother offered to sell Mickey a happy ending after lunch. It had been an unpleasant afternoon for all.
“Babe,” said Lana, “I promise you I’ll never be like my mother.”
She shuffled through the man’s credit cards.
“Just take his wallet and let’s blow.”
She found a business card. “Avery Blain,” she read. “Esquire. Beverly Hills law firm with six names and he’s one of ’em.” She held up another card. “Member of the Jonathan Club. This is looking more and more like a cash cow. And we, my blushing husband, are going to suckle the teats.”
“Are you talking about selling that dope on the street?” he said.
“Please,” she said contemptuously. He knew it was a put-down, but he didn’t get it.
She fanned the contents of Avery’s wallet like a poker hand, enticing him to pick a card. He reached out and plucked a photograph from the array.
It was a snapshot of a red-haired woman with an infectious smile posing beside a carousel horse. She was tall and well-padded but shapely, about Lana’s age, maybe ten years younger than Avery Blain.
“You think this is his wife?” He flipped the photo for Lana to see.
They were startled by a loud belch and looked down at Avery, still lying with his face on the floor, his visible eye an amalgam of sky blue and rummy red. He stared at Lana’s feet but his expression implied no comprehension of what, much less whose, they were.
“You in or out?” asked Lana.
Mickey felt a fresh flush of excitement. He answered her question by stripping off his belt and binding Avery’s hands behind his back. Their flirtation with felony had become a full-blown orgy. Life with this woman was going to be a kick.
Lana grabbed a dishtowel and tied it around Avery’s eyes.
“Talk to him,” said Mickey.
That was her job. Whenever they ran a scam, Lana did the talking. She was the one with the people skills.
She bent down and spoke softly in Avery’s ear. “Can you hear me?”
He struggled against the restraint on his wrists.
“Relax, Avery,” she said. “We’re not going to hurt you. We just want to make sure you’re calm before we talk. Okay?”
She patted his knee encouragingly.
“I just need to drop something off. I can’t miss my flight.”
She shot Mickey a glance then turned back to Avery.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“My hands are stuck.” He was still too groggy to grasp his situation.
“Doctor’s orders. You’ve had too much to drink.”
Mickey turned a chair around to watch Lana work. He straddled and crossed his arms over the back for a chin rest.
“I can’t see,” said Avery.
“If you want to make your flight you’ll have to trust me,” said Lana. “Where are you flying?”
“Aix en Province” said Avery, pronouncing it “aches.”
Mickey didn’t know what the correct pronunciation was but he was pretty sure this wasn’t it. He asked, “Are you going alone?”
“Huh?” Avery turned toward the voice as if aware, for the first time, that a third person was in the room.
“He wants to know if you’re meeting up with anyone in Aix en Province?” said Lana, pronouncing it “ex.” Mickey suspected she knew. He felt a small burst of pride.
“What?” said Avery, struggling to shake off the booze.
“Maybe the woman whose picture you’ve got in your wallet?” she asked.
“She’s divorcing me.”
He let out a sob.
“Great,” said Mickey. “A fucking basket case.”
The disapproval in her glance irritated him.
“Why don’t you do something helpful?” she said to Mickey. “Maybe find something we can use to get him upright.”
She turned back to Avery and tenderly wiped his brow, chanting “It’s okay” in a soothing voice, as if calming a child. A tear escaped the blindfold and dripped into Avery’s ear.
As Lana tried to soothe Avery, she watched Mickey look through drawers and cabinets in the kitchen area. She felt bad about dismissing him like an underling, but he seemed unusually slow on the uptake and it annoyed her. Could it be that she’d never noticed how dense he was? Or was he folding under pressure? Apparently, she didn’t know him as well as she’d thought.
They’d been together only six months, so his marriage proposal had come as a surprise. She’d been ambivalent. She couldn’t decide if he was hopelessly romantic or deluded by lust. Joyfully spontaneous or dangerously impetuous. To his credit, the man’s tongue was like a witching stick for her erogenous zones, discovering nerves she never knew existed, triggering feelings that turned her to jelly. And she was a sucker for the way his dark five-o’clock shadow set off his sweet baby face. Granted, he was no Rhodes Scholar, but he made her laugh and he seemed sharp enough to avoid jobs that were likely to land
him in jail.
Mickey pulled a roll of duct tape out of a catchall drawer and gave her a victory grin.
“Let’s get old Avery off the floor,” he said.
Mickey made Avery close his eyes, then swapped the dishtowel for duct tape wrapped around his head.
“Hey!” said Avery. “Watch the hair.”
“I avoided your ears, didn’t I?” said Mickey.
Typical male response, thought Lana. But Mickey was still better than most. For one thing, she felt certain he would never hit her. That just wasn’t his style. And taking the fear out of love was nine tenths of the battle.
Mickey dragged an armchair over from the dining room table and helped Avery up and in. Then Mickey started taping.
“What the hell is going on here?” said Avery. He tried to kick but found his ankles strapped to the chair legs. He finally fathomed his predicament as Mickey wrapped the last strip around his calf.
“Who are you?” said Avery. “What do you want?”
“We want money, asshole,” said Mickey. People skills be damned.
“Just take what you want and get out.” said Avery. “All my cash is in my wallet.”
“We don’t want your petty cash,” said Lana. “We want a payday.”
“A big one,” said Mickey.
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Avery sounded confident, as if he was used to dealing with thugs. Lana suspected he might practice criminal law.
“Well we don’t take crap from junkies,” said Mickey and slapped Avery’s head hard enough to send him tumbling over in his chair. His head hit the mat carpeting with a sickening thud. It happened so fast it was over before Lana could react. Mickey shifted his weight to deliver a follow-up kick.
“That’s enough!” she said, stepping between the two men. When she put her hand on Mickey’s chest to hold him back, her fingers were trembling.
Mickey gave Avery a last look of contempt, then walked across the room to stare out the window. Lana watched him brood at the roiling black Pacific. She and Mickey had run plenty of cons together, and a few had gotten physical. The worst was the time they’d been caught by a rent-a-cop in a Brentwood mansion and Mickey had been forced to knock the guy down to get away. But that had been self-defense. This was the first time she’d seen him get aggressive. She felt something like indigestion in the pit of her stomach.
Murder at the Beach: Bouchercon 2014 Anthology Page 11
