EQMM, Sep-Oct 2006

by Dell Magazine Authors

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  Dell Magazines

  www.dellmagazines.com

  Copyright ©2006 Dell Magazines

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  ELLERY QUEEN MYSTERY MAGAZINE

  September-October 2006

  Vol. 128 Nos. 3 & 4. Whole. Nos. 781 & 782

  Dell Magazines

  475 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10016

  Edition Copyright © 2006 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications

  Ellery Queen is a registered trademark of the Estate of Ellery Queen. All rights reserved worldwide.

  All stories in Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine are fiction. Any similarities are coincidental.

  ISSN 0013-6328 published monthly except for double-issues of March/April and September/October.

  Cover illustration by Salter ©1946. Courtesy John M. Wing Foundation, The Newberry Library, Chicago.

  FICTION

  The Black Chapel by DOUG ALLYN

  El Tramegra by MARGARET MARON

  The Problem of the Shepherd's Ring by EDWARD D. HOCH

  Lost Luggage by MICK HERRON

  Jade Skirt by SIMON LEVACK

  Charlady's Choice by NEIL SCHOFIELD

  The Book of Truth by NANCY PICKARD

  Cry Before Midnight by DONALD OLSON

  Cagebird by MARGARET LAWRENCE

  The Brick by NATASHA COOPER

  Karaoke Night by DAVID KNADLER

  False Light by MARGARET MURPHY

  The Right Call by BRENDAN DUBOIS

  Whither Columbus by GARY ALEXANDER

  Body Shop by TERRY BARBIERI

  The Last Calabresi by JEAN FEMLING

  REVIEWS

  Blog Bytes by ED GORMAN

  The Jury Box by JON L. BREEN

  POETRY

  C Seven H Fourteen O Two by WILL RYAN

  Ice Cube Trey by TERRY LERDALL-FITTERER

  DEPARTMENT OF FIRST STORIES

  There's a Girl for Me by TOM TETZLAFF

  PASSPORT TO CRIME

  The Killer Who Disappeared by RICHARD MACKER

  Click a Link for Easy Navigation

  CONTENTS

  THE BLACK CHAPEL by Doug Allyn

  BLOG BYTES by Ed Gorman

  THE JURY BOX by Jon L. Breen

  EL TRAMEGRA by Margaret Maron

  THE PROBLEM OF THE SHEPHERD'S RING by Edward D. Hoch

  LOST LUGGAGE by Mick Herron

  JADES KIRT by Simon Levack

  C SEVEN H FOURTEEN O TWO—OR—THE APOTHECARY'S LAMENT by Prof. Theophilus Amadeus Gotlieb Zeus

  CHARLADY'S CHOICE by Neil Schofield

  THE BOOK OF TRUTH by Nancy Pickard

  CRY BEFORE MIDNIGHT by Donald Olson

  CAGEBIRD by Margaret Lawrence

  THE BRICK by Natasha Cooper

  KARAOKE NIGHT by David Knadler

  FALSE LIGHT by Margaret Murphy

  THE RIGHT CALL by Brendan DuBois

  ICE CUBE TREY by Terry Lerdall-Fitterer

  WHITHER COLUMBUS by Gary Alexander

  BODY SHOP by Terry Barbieri

  THERE'S A GIRL FOR ME by Tom Tetzlaff

  THE LAST CALABRESI by Jean Femling

  THE KILLER WHO DISAPPEARED by Richard Macker

  NEXT MONTH...

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  THE BLACK CHAPEL by Doug Allyn

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  Art by Mark Evans

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  Doug Allyn's most recent novel, The Burning of Rachel Hayes, features Dr. David Westbrook, who debuted in EQMM and was the protagonist of three Readers Award-winning stories. We haven't seen Westbrook for some time, but we've had some splendid entries (like this one) in Mr. Allyn's Dan Shea series....

  Ever rehab a church before?” Shea asked. They were driving through Saginaw in his battered Ram pickup truck. Windows down in the mid-August heat, air conditioner on the fritz. The breeze metallic with the smell of molten steel and paint baking in the auto plants.

  "Not a church, exactly,” Puck said. “Rewired a barn for a big revival one time. Pentecostals, as I recall, outside of Menominee. Threw up a sixteen-by-eight-foot stage in front of a dairy barn. Ran in extra power lines for the P.A. and spotlights, trucked in a dozen Porta-Johns. Quite a show."

  "A barn?” Shea snorted. “Considering the size of this contract, better keep the barn story to yourself."

  "Don't knock barns, you young pup,” Puck shot back. “Fella that started up most of these churches was born in a manger. Which is a kind of barn, in case you're wonderin'."

  "From the looks of things, this town could use a few barns. Or maybe a miracle. All I see are bars and empty storefronts. What happened to it?"

  "Auto plants moved to Mexico, took the good jobs with ‘em. White folks moved to the suburbs, businesses chased after ‘em,” Puck said. “Buck up, sonny, compared to where we're headed, this is prime real estate."

  The old man wasn't kidding. As they crossed the Rust Street four-lane, the neighborhoods slid rapidly from poverty-strick-en into outright slums. Abandoned cars, spavined sofas on tumbledown porches. Crews of hard brown teenagers idling on the corners in baggy jeans, NBA tees, and gang tats, watching them pass with wary eyes. Feral as leopards.

  Turning onto Johnstone Avenue, Shea slowed down. A sign said Dead End. It was dead-on.

  An abandoned church towered over the entire block. Its massive belfry looming three-and-a-half stories above the sidewalk, eyeless windows staring out over the desolate houses in the surrounding ‘hood.

  A black church. Or it had been once. From the stones of its foundation to the tip of its twisted spire, the building had been painted a flat, lifeless ebony, a color so dead it seemed to drain the very light from the air.

  Its paint was peeling now, strips of it hanging from the bricks like rotting skin, giving the edifice a leprous look.

  At street level, the rows of stained-glass windows had been shattered, gaping like mouths with broken teeth. Its brick walls were a psychedelic riot of spray-painted obscenities and gang graffiti.

  "Whew,” Puck whistled. “Looks like a ten-year rehab project, at least."

  "Or a job we don't want at all,” Shea said darkly.

  As they approached, the church seemed to shape-shift. The imposing three-story front was only a facade facing the street side. The main body of the building was only two stories tall, extendending the width of the block. On its left, a parking lot was guarded by crude stack-stone walls stretched between the church and a square brick school building, also painted flat black, top to bottom.

  The school was in better shape than the church. It had new windows, shielded now by heavy steel mesh. The graffiti had been painted over, too, though it was already being replaced by a fresh crop.

  Across the parking lot, a handful of teenage toughs were playing basketball on the blacktop, jostling and cursing each other. A lone lookout glanced up at the rumble of Shea's truck, checked him out, then turned back to the game.

  Only a few cars in the lot. A gleaming white Benz limo sitting by itself and a half-dozen rattletraps. Shea parked his Dodge beside the beaters. It blended right in.

  He and Puck climbed out, North Country working men in faded jeans, baseball caps, steel-toed boots. Shea wore a sport coat over his flannel shirt, Puck a Carhartt vest. Faces weathered from the wind, they lo
oked like a matched set, a before-and-after picture, forty years apart.

  An oversized gentleman eased his bulk out of the Benz limo. Latin, six and a half feet tall, three hundred-plus pounds in an impeccably tailored cream-colored suit.

  "I know that guy from someplace,” Puck said.

  "Late-night TV,” Shea said. “He's a preacher. Be nice."

  "I'm always nice,” Puck protested, following Shea to the limo.

  "Mr. Shea? I'm Reverend Vincent Arroyo. Thanks for coming.” They shook hands, checking each other out. A contrast in styles. At fifty, Arroyo looked sleek, slick, and ready for prime time, his razor-cut pompadour in perfect order, glasses lightly tinted, manicured nails buffed to a subtle gloss.

  Shea was fifteen years younger with a lot more miles on him, two-day stubble, sandy hair cropped boot-camp short, knuckles scarred from construction mishaps and labor disputes.

  Before Shea could introduce Puck, a red BMW convertible roared into the lot, squeaking to a halt beside the Benz. A woman about ten years older than Shea stepped out, mid-fortyish, blond, with square shoulders and a square face, dressed sensibly in a Martha Stewart smock, slacks, laced boots.

  "Sorry I'm late, Pastor."

  "No problem, we're just getting started. Daniel Shea, this is Lydia Ford, the consulting engineer for the project. The structural decisions are yours. Mrs. Ford will offer input on style and design."

  "Ma'am.” Shea nodded. “This is my foreman, Dolph Paquette, Puck to his friends, and everybody else."

  "Ford?” Puck asked. “One of the car-plant Fords, are ya?"

  "Actually, I was for a time. By marriage. Not anymore."

  "Sorry, ma'am, I was just—I mean—"

  "It's all right, Mr. Paquette, I get it all the time. So, gentlemen, shall we take a look at this unholy mess of a project?"

  She headed for the church without waiting for an answer. A woman used to being obeyed. Ducking through the shattered side door, she led them up a short flight of stairs to the central entrance. Straight into hell.

  "Sweet mother of God,” Puck said softly.

  Arroyo frowned at him, but let it pass. Couldn't blame the old man. The great nave looked like Nagasaki after the bomb. Pews scattered and smashed, some stacked to form crude shelters, drapes hanging in shreds from the walls. The carpeting may have been red once, hard to tell. Mottled with filth now, scorched by campfires, littered with empty wine bottles, hypodermics, and human waste.

  "Welcome to St. Denis's Cathedral, guys,” she said. “Originally funded and built by the Saginaw Catholic Diocese in eighteen ninety-six, closed in nineteen thirty. After serving as Temple Beth-El for a Jewish congregation for a few years, it was taken over by the Midwestern Synod in nineteen thirty-nine and renamed John Wesley Methodist, closing again in ‘fifty-one. Its most recent tenants took over in ‘fifty three, a sect called the Brethren of the End Days. Among other things, they painted both buildings flat black, and for the past forty years or so, it's simply been called the Black Chapel."

  "What happened to it?” Shea asked.

  "If you're referring specifically to the building's current condition, its problems began in—nineteen seventy-one?” Lydia arched an eyebrow at Arroyo, who nodded. “After the untimely death of its pastor, the Black Chapel was abandoned by its congregation. A Detroit bank seized the property for nonpayment of construction loans. They were unable to sell it, and over time, vandals and street people moved in, and the results are ... as you see."

  "A godawful mess,” Shea said, stepping warily through the litter, examining the walls. “You said this would be a restoration project, Reverend Arroyo. That was one whopper of an understatement."

  "With faith, all things are possible,” Arroyo said calmly. “Originally, I was going to bring the building up to code and install state-of-the-art electronics to expand my television ministry. Mrs. Ford convinced me that the greater good for the community would be served if we could restore the building to its original condition. She even helped find grant money to pay for it. Truly a blessing."

  "Dynamite might be more of a blessing,” Puck grunted.

  "I'll grant you it looks grim,” Lydia said, “but even amidst all this dreck there's one thing you don't see. Do you know what that is, Mr. Shea?"

  "Water damage,” Shea said, scanning the ceiling. “There are drip marks below the broken windows where rain blows in, but there aren't any water stains or bulges in the plaster above, no blotches on the ceiling tiles. That indicates the roof is still intact, and since the walls look true, I'd guess the basic structure is probably sound."

  "Very observant.” She nodded. “In fact, the roof is made of leaded stone tiles and tight as a steel drum. I checked it myself."

  "You checked it?"

  "What, you think I'm too old to climb a ladder?"

  "No, ma'am, it's just—never mind. Is the rest of the building like this?"

  "Worse. But the only structural problem is below the baptistery. It looks like someone broke the water pipes and simply let them run for a time, undermining part of a bearing wall. Easy to repair. Aside from that, the damage is all cosmetic, trash and smash. But this building's only half of our project, the other half's across the parking lot. Anything else you'd like to check out before we go?"

  "Not me,” Shea said, “I've seen enough."

  "I got a question,” Puck said. “I've been a few places, Laos, Vietnam, and the Alpena County fair, but I've never seen a church painted black before."

  "The parishioners repainted it to honor their minister,” Arroyo said. “His name was Lucullus Black. He was pastor here from the mid fifties until his death."

  "You mentioned his death was untimely? What happened to him?"

  "He was murdered,” Arroyo said calmly. “Shot to death right over there, on that altar. By the Chapel caretaker, in fact, who took his own life after killing his pastor. Quite a scandal at the time. His suicide note claimed Pastor Black was having an affair with his wife. The poor woman discovered the bodies, a just punishment, perhaps. God rest their souls."

  "Amen to that,” Puck said. “On that cheerful note, can we adjourn to the other building?"

  Stepping out of the Black Chapel was like surfacing after a deep dive into murky waters. But the relief was temporary. The summer heat was already settling over the city like the lid on a broiler, raising the temperature. And pressure.

  Across the parking lot, the ballplayers had stripped off their shirts, baring their muscles and tattoos, hard brown bodies scuffling in the sun glare. Hard brown eyes keeping watch on the white folks, temporarily stopping play as a police car rumbled up behind Arroyo's limousine.

  Two cops climbed out, sliding nightsticks into their gun belts. One white, one black. Big and bigger.

  "Good afternoon, folks. Do you have business here?” the white cop asked.

  "We're looking over a remodeling project,” Arroyo said. “Why?"

  "Your ride's a little rich for this neighborhood, is all. In the Chapel district an expensive car usually means a new pusher in town. Or a pimp. Is this project the one the Downtown Development Authority freed up funds for? The same week the Council laid off eight police officers?"

  "I think you know the answer to that, Sergeant Boyko."

  "Can't imagine why they laid you boys off,” Puck said. “Looks like you been doin’ a crackerjack job of protectin’ this here church."

  "It's just another empty building in a town full of ‘em, mister. You'd know that if you lived here. Where are you fellas from, anyway?"

  "Up north. Valhalla."

  "Things must be thin if you're this far south looking for work. No local contractor would even touch this job."

  "Why not?” Shea asked.

  "See all that graffiti on the walls?” the black cop said. “It ain't just for pretty. They're gang tags, pal. You're trespassing on turf claimed by at least three crews. The Latin Kings, Bloods, and Johnstone Gangstas. Bloods are the worst. They're national, connections in Chicago an
d L.A. They've been crowding the other two out. Lot of hijackings, drive-bys."

  "We're aware it's a troubled neighborhood,” Arroyo said. “It's one reason we chose the site. We hope to have a positive impact."

  "A few more cops on the street would have a lot more impact, Reverend,” Boyko said. “And maybe the city could afford more cops if they quit funding boondoggles like this."

  "Sounds like a political problem,” Shea said. “I'm not much on politics, myself. Prefer to tend to my own business. Which I'd like to get back to if it's all the same to you. Officer."

  "No problem,” Boyko said. “Checking things out is part of our job. But since you're from out of town, pal, here's some friendly advice. The Chapel district's a tough neighborhood and thanks to the city council we're spread pretty thin. Category-one crimes like armed robbery, drive-bys, and domestic violence get priority so if somebody steals a shovel from your site, our response might not be real prompt. You fellas might want to take precautions. Like nailing things down or locking ‘em up real tight. Or better yet, turn your truck around and hightail it for home."

  "These days my home pretty much is the back of a truck,” Puck said. “Don't worry about us. Up north we're used to the law being a long ways off. We can deal with our own trouble."

  "Pops, if y'all are dumb enough to take on this job, you're liable to find out what real trouble is."

  "I know all about trouble, sonny,” Puck said evenly, stepping up to the cop. “It's what happens when you call people you don't know names they don't like. Like ‘Pops,’ for instance."

  "Whoa up,” Shea said, easing between Puck and the sergeant. “No need for any problems. Thanks for the heads-up, guys. Have a nice day, okay?"

  "Yeah, go scribble some tickets,” Puck added. “No donut shops around here anyway."

  Shaking their heads, the two policemen climbed back into their prowl car and drove off.

  "My, that went well,” Lydia said briskly. “Establishing friendly relations with the local authorities is always a wise move."

  "Couldn't agree more,” Shea said. “Let's see the other building."